Broke down in the vet's office discussing the way forward for Mocco, a white cat for whom I've been caring. Progress has been achingly slow and his kidneys have essentially shut down. I wanted to discuss specifics, but the line was, repeatedly, "He's old. His body is just giving up."
Yeah, he's quite old, and his early years were rough. When he was rescued, he had been traumatised from an abusive, careless owner, and took a long time to begin to trust humans. But his new family loved him dearly and spoiled him endlessly; that trust came and his latter years have been happy (if still marked by constant fear of strangers).
Frankly, I don't care all that much about him. Spoiled as he was, he was incredibly entitled, and treated disproportionately well. (As with humans, I believe all cats, cute or ugly, ought to be treated equally.)
Truth is, however, I care deeply about the dignity of life. When I began to process how I'd manage the final stage of his life, I wept openly. (Not for the first nor last time in that office, I'm afraid.) What killed me wasn't thoughts of his happy life, or losing a battle I'd been fighting for a while. It was merely the wish for a painless death. I can handle death, swift or slow, but the idea of a last breath spent in agony is intolerable. For the darkness that awaits, aren't we at least owed just one moment of peace?
He's old, I'm told. He's had a good life. Sure. Yet, Mocco is still alive, his body weak, his breathing heavy. I'm consumed by ensuring that when his final breath comes, whenever that is, he will have his peace.
Morosoph’s Odyssey, Part Four
The following was written in situ, during the event or shortly after. In some cases (specifically, parts of the final chapter), there was enough time between the event and my recollection of it that I stray into rambling territory. (My apologies.) All changes are grammatical or completions where I used shorthand. All conversations and observations are made from memory and perception. These are the events of two days in winter, as I lived them.
♬♩♩
Part Four
End
It’s not overly cold. But the warmth of the afternoon has been sucked up by a creeping wind. The bands’ van, now parked in front of the venue, sits with its trailer agape as sensitive and valuable instruments are loaded into its bowels.
Morosoph’s Odyssey, Part Three
The following was written in situ, during the event or shortly after. In some cases (specifically, parts of the final chapter), there was enough time between the event and my recollection of it that I stray into rambling territory. (My apologies.) All changes are grammatical or completions where I used shorthand. All conversations and observations are made from memory and perception. These are the events of two days in winter, as I lived them.
♪♩♩♪
Part Three
\newif\ifisreview
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\ifisreview
describe set
\else
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\fi
To an audience chomping for more, the sliding, deep grooves of “The Literal Black Cloud” draw the evening to a close, the end severely punctuated by Danny (Walker)’s final, resonating hit of the ride. Intronaut opt against an encore, leaving everyone’s—mine included—desire to see more to go unsatiated2. As always, the severing of instrument and listener has left me physically and emotionally drained, and all I can do is take the remaining silence, or what would pass for it, to compose a torrent of thoughts, all of which comprise a variation of elation over what I’d just witnessed and slow cascade of depression that it has to be over so soon. Were I in a slightly difference place and time, I would most assuredly be stretching myself yet thinner to do this tomorrow all over again.
Coming out of my daze reveals the band members to be dismantling and unplugging their instruments, in between the odd chat with a fan. Touring brings with it a long series of structural creation and destruction; frames being painstakingly built to preference and near-perfection (unless perfection is, indeed, achieved), only to have their bolts loosened and shapes disintegrated hours later, just to restart the process all over again the next day. Sweaty, tired hands remove the cymbals and drums, coil metre upon metre of cable. Thus begins the second half of mundanity that one can only hope has just been justified in a miniscule timeframe measured in minutes.
Farewell to Version 11.3, onto 11.4 and beyond
When you consider the age of No. 0, having turned eight in February, the fact that there have been 11 visual redesigns doesn't speak well of my aesthetic consistency. That's over one redesign per year (technically 1.375), and before 2012, when version 11 was introduced, the rate was an abysmal 2.2. Well, in retrospect, some themes were just plain bad, and were deservedly scrapped as soon as I realised it. Others were better, but failed to achieve any longevity or lacked the versatility I needed of them.
Twenty one thousand six hundred
The room shakes. Curtains flutter. A nurse shuts the windows to block out the noise, a compounding whirr. On the phone, a doctor wearing scrubs urges colleagues to act as the helicopter nears.
I accidentally tore the nail almost off my big toe. Well, it was accidental, all right. The imagery is stomach-churning. Your nail is ripped off your toe and hangs open like a welcoming door, as blood pours from your revealed inner flesh. You don’t want to do that purposefully. And it was almost, all right. Because like that door, the side of my nail was firmly hinged to the wall that would be the side of my toe.
So, I looked down and I saw the open door and I speechlessly shut it. Then I patiently waited for the clerk to ring up my bottle of water and nine packets of chewable vitamin C tablets. She took her time ringing up those nine packets. She counted them. Satu. Dua. Tiga. Empat. Lima. Enam. Tujuh. Delapan. Sembilan. Nine packets. And I looked down at my red toe, red sandals (in fairness, they were already red, but they were redder now, I tell you), red fingers, and then I wiped those fingers together to disperse the blood, lest I startle the clerk with a scarlet sight. Nine packets. She asked me if I wanted to donate a portion of the cost to charity, or I assume that’s what she asked, because I just said yes so she’d get to the next phase of the transaction.
More rumbling, but this is just a rather heavy person walking around.
As I was saying, I said yes. Then I paid, and she, who expressed concern to the extent that she thought I’d innocently bumped my foot and oofed more in surprise than pain, was none the wiser to my predicament. Good for her, she doesn’t need that stress, she’s just a kid. But the man I passed on the way out was not so fortunate. He saw me stumbling ever so subtly on the surface of my sandal, made slippery by the flow of blood, and involuntarily had his face drop. There went his day, for five minutes, anyway. After that, it might have been a funny story of the bule who—
I accidentally tore the nail almost off my big toe. Well, it was accidental, all right. The imagery is stomach-churning. Your nail is ripped off your toe and hangs open like a welcoming door, as blood pours from your revealed inner flesh. You don’t want to do that purposefully. And it was almost, all right. Because like that door, the side of my nail was firmly hinged to the wall that would be the side of my toe.
So, I looked down and I saw the open door and I speechlessly shut it. Then I patiently waited for the clerk to ring up my bottle of water and nine packets of chewable vitamin C tablets. She took her time ringing up those nine packets. She counted them. Satu. Dua. Tiga. Empat. Lima. Enam. Tujuh. Delapan. Sembilan. Nine packets. And I looked down at my red toe, red sandals (in fairness, they were already red, but they were redder now, I tell you), red fingers, and then I wiped those fingers together to disperse the blood, lest I startle the clerk with a scarlet sight. Nine packets. She asked me if I wanted to donate a portion of the cost to charity, or I assume that’s what she asked, because I just said yes so she’d get to the next phase of the transaction.
More rumbling, but this is just a rather heavy person walking around.
As I was saying, I said yes. Then I paid, and she, who expressed concern to the extent that she thought I’d innocently bumped my foot and oofed more in surprise than pain, was none the wiser to my predicament. Good for her, she doesn’t need that stress, she’s just a kid. But the man I passed on the way out was not so fortunate. He saw me stumbling ever so subtly on the surface of my sandal, made slippery by the flow of blood, and involuntarily had his face drop. There went his day, for five minutes, anyway. After that, it might have been a funny story of the bule who—
Morosoph’s Odyssey, Part Two
The following was written in situ, during the event or shortly after. In some cases (specifically, parts of the final chapter), there was enough time between the event and my recollection of it that I stray into rambling territory. (My apologies.) All changes are grammatical or completions where I used shorthand. All conversations and observations are made from memory and perception. These are the events of two days in winter, as I lived them.
♪♬
Part Two
Waiting
The openers arrive and start setting up. Upstairs, the headliners go through various stages of waiting for the show to start. I sit in the corner. There’s not much to say now. After a brief raucous at the hands of the ever-cheerful Dave (Timnick), a calmness settles on the room. Were I more acquainted with it, I might have said this is the sound of professional musicians. As I’m not, I can only presume so. It continues into the opening set, then the following act.
Dave, as implied previously, appears to be the only one revelling in the freedom afforded visiting artists, taking in the complimentary libations and starting the night’s running joke when we hear the band who’ll be performing on the larger stage preparing. The noise is not to my liking, but Dave’s distaste exceeds the borders of hatred of the genre being played. He insists on investigating. When he returns, he describes a band with whom I’m not familiar—nor particularly care to discover—comprising two people, one a drummer-slash-singer and the other manning a “brown keyboard”. (That may sound like Dresden Dolls in this description, only.) The drummer, to Dave’s anger and dismay, insists that the sound of the bass drum be fixed, for it is too loud and “violent”. That violence is a foundational part of the sound crafted by metal practitioners, as Dave points out, suggests clearly enough why no one’s interest here will extend beyond mere curiosity. But this incident, not to mention their music, is enough to serve as the focus of future mockeries.
Halfway through the night, I make a meagre sandwich from the assortment of food put out for the band (and, unintentionally, one fortunate guest) and start talking to Joe (Lester) about his bass guitar. From 1999 to 2013, Joe had used a Pedulla, before switching to a Zon that was custom-made for him. He is happy with it, both because he can finally use the pickups supplied by EMG without having to disfigure his Pedulla, and feels it produces a more satisfying low end. In the end, it seems to be a win-win for both Joe and Zon, whose stable of talented endorsees continues to grow along with the inherent goodwill towards the tiny Buffalonian company.
Eventually, the conversation peters down as the final band in which I have no interest (to be frank) breakdowns toward the end of its set. I wish good luck to those who haven’t yet headed down, and try to remember the way to the basement with the original path now blocked to prevent attendees from heading into the bands’ rooms.
The new route is frustratingly inefficient. After meandering down stairs, you’re forced to exit the building and re-enter farther down its side, and then meander down a further set of stairs; a bouncer controls entry at both doors, one keeping fans out of the now artist-only entrance, and the other supposedly checking tickets. I say “supposedly” because none checks mine, the only indication that they care being my verbal altercation with the disinterested bouncer controlling the artist entrance when I mistakenly show him my ticket and he concludes that, as someone with the temerity to pay for this concert, I must not be authorized to use this entrance. Thankfully, my tenacity trumps his evident fatigue, but successfully negotiating my way back in doesn’t leave me with anything more than consciousness of my own idiocy. Had I not been too proud to allow the perception that I was attending for free, I would not have felt the compulsion to show my ticket to someone who didn’t request it and who, furthermore, found himself embroiled in a needless argument with Your Right Honourable Nincompoop. When I next see him, I apologise for the fuss I caused, he explains why he started it—and further why he’s obliged to stop ne’erdowells without a pass—it’s all cordially sorted, but only cordially. At some point, I’m supposed to grow out of this inability to handle mundane human interaction. I’m also supposed to stop derailing narratives with my obsessions over irrelevant encounters with incidental characters. Today is not that day.
A mass of sweaty teens hang around the basement’s entrance. Donning overly-thin T-shirts, they cool off away from the heated, humid stage, and from the overwhelming lack of adults in the crowd, I’m only guessing that they must be here either for the previous bands, which were themselves composed of teenagers (or close to it), or Scale the Summit, with whose fanbase I’m unfamiliar. Failing these two possibilities, this will be the first time I’ve seen an Intronaut show devoid of an audience that traditionally comprises an overabundance of facial hair.
Dave, as implied previously, appears to be the only one revelling in the freedom afforded visiting artists, taking in the complimentary libations and starting the night’s running joke when we hear the band who’ll be performing on the larger stage preparing. The noise is not to my liking, but Dave’s distaste exceeds the borders of hatred of the genre being played. He insists on investigating. When he returns, he describes a band with whom I’m not familiar—nor particularly care to discover—comprising two people, one a drummer-slash-singer and the other manning a “brown keyboard”. (That may sound like Dresden Dolls in this description, only.) The drummer, to Dave’s anger and dismay, insists that the sound of the bass drum be fixed, for it is too loud and “violent”. That violence is a foundational part of the sound crafted by metal practitioners, as Dave points out, suggests clearly enough why no one’s interest here will extend beyond mere curiosity. But this incident, not to mention their music, is enough to serve as the focus of future mockeries.
Halfway through the night, I make a meagre sandwich from the assortment of food put out for the band (and, unintentionally, one fortunate guest) and start talking to Joe (Lester) about his bass guitar. From 1999 to 2013, Joe had used a Pedulla, before switching to a Zon that was custom-made for him. He is happy with it, both because he can finally use the pickups supplied by EMG without having to disfigure his Pedulla, and feels it produces a more satisfying low end. In the end, it seems to be a win-win for both Joe and Zon, whose stable of talented endorsees continues to grow along with the inherent goodwill towards the tiny Buffalonian company.
Eventually, the conversation peters down as the final band in which I have no interest (to be frank) breakdowns toward the end of its set. I wish good luck to those who haven’t yet headed down, and try to remember the way to the basement with the original path now blocked to prevent attendees from heading into the bands’ rooms.
The new route is frustratingly inefficient. After meandering down stairs, you’re forced to exit the building and re-enter farther down its side, and then meander down a further set of stairs; a bouncer controls entry at both doors, one keeping fans out of the now artist-only entrance, and the other supposedly checking tickets. I say “supposedly” because none checks mine, the only indication that they care being my verbal altercation with the disinterested bouncer controlling the artist entrance when I mistakenly show him my ticket and he concludes that, as someone with the temerity to pay for this concert, I must not be authorized to use this entrance. Thankfully, my tenacity trumps his evident fatigue, but successfully negotiating my way back in doesn’t leave me with anything more than consciousness of my own idiocy. Had I not been too proud to allow the perception that I was attending for free, I would not have felt the compulsion to show my ticket to someone who didn’t request it and who, furthermore, found himself embroiled in a needless argument with Your Right Honourable Nincompoop. When I next see him, I apologise for the fuss I caused, he explains why he started it—and further why he’s obliged to stop ne’erdowells without a pass—it’s all cordially sorted, but only cordially. At some point, I’m supposed to grow out of this inability to handle mundane human interaction. I’m also supposed to stop derailing narratives with my obsessions over irrelevant encounters with incidental characters. Today is not that day.
A mass of sweaty teens hang around the basement’s entrance. Donning overly-thin T-shirts, they cool off away from the heated, humid stage, and from the overwhelming lack of adults in the crowd, I’m only guessing that they must be here either for the previous bands, which were themselves composed of teenagers (or close to it), or Scale the Summit, with whose fanbase I’m unfamiliar. Failing these two possibilities, this will be the first time I’ve seen an Intronaut show devoid of an audience that traditionally comprises an overabundance of facial hair.
Murphy's Law
After positioning myself in front of the stage, I notice the audience steadily go through an age transfusion. (Turns out my first hypothesis was correct.) As the members of Scale the Summit start to trickle in with their instruments, boys are replaced by men… and the occasional woman. Drummer Pat Skeffington hits every drum with a monotone rhythm; the monitor beside me blows a gust of air with every beat, most forcefully when he reaches the bass drum. Everything goes smoothly enough until Mark Michell, the bassist, reports that he can’t get any sound out of his bass, and Brett has to push through the waiting horde to investigate. Is it a cable or amp issue? All we can do is wait.
Eventually, the problem is identified and fixed, and the band is allowed to briefly finish setting up. And after a curt introduction, the show begins.
Eventually, the problem is identified and fixed, and the band is allowed to briefly finish setting up. And after a curt introduction, the show begins.
End of Part Two.
Next time: this isn't a review, it's a narcissistic journey, so we decide to skip the show and discuss what I see and hear, and what methods I use to next embarrass myself.
Morosoph’s Odyssey, Part One
The following was written in situ, during the event or shortly after. In some cases (specifically, parts of the final chapter), there was enough time between the event and my recollection of it that I stray into rambling territory. (My apologies.) All changes are grammatical or completions where I used shorthand. All conversations and observations are made from memory and perception. These are the events of two days in winter, as I lived them.
♩♬
Part One
The sea swells and bashes into barriers, threatening to flood their wards—and in some cases, succeeding. Gale force winds pour into cities. They whip vast waves of rubbish into a frenzy. Rain not so much falls as it is swept into your face. Transportation services are cancelled, and for those who are lucky, only delayed. Newspapers report of the worst weather in three decades.
Well, it’s England, all right. And this will be Intronaut and Scale the Summit’s backdrop.
Right now, my rear end is sore. I’ve been travelling in some form for the past four hours, and will evidently do so for some time more. I’m one of the lucky travellers whose train was merely delayed, you see, and whose hopes of sitting on the bands’ soundcheck may very well have been dashed. (As ever, it is a train that will rob me of the elusive meaningful time with Intronaut.1).
The sky is a deceptive blue, hovering over foreboding clouds on the horizon that seem to angrily stifle meek rays of sunlight. It’s a welcome patch of calm, but we know it won’t last: it’s that foreboding horizon into which we ride.
Well, it’s England, all right. And this will be Intronaut and Scale the Summit’s backdrop.
Right now, my rear end is sore. I’ve been travelling in some form for the past four hours, and will evidently do so for some time more. I’m one of the lucky travellers whose train was merely delayed, you see, and whose hopes of sitting on the bands’ soundcheck may very well have been dashed. (As ever, it is a train that will rob me of the elusive meaningful time with Intronaut.1).
The sky is a deceptive blue, hovering over foreboding clouds on the horizon that seem to angrily stifle meek rays of sunlight. It’s a welcome patch of calm, but we know it won’t last: it’s that foreboding horizon into which we ride.
A Little Bit of What We Know about Semyon Varlamov's Domestic Abuse Case
A
while ago, I wrote a rather long post on Reddit regarding Colorado Avalanche goaltender Semyon Varlamov's domestic abuse case. It appeared in the thread, "Stolen from r/soccer: Persuade r/hockey that a popular opinion held here is wrong." Recently, Dario Ronzone expressed a desire to use that post to educate ignorant hockey fans, so it occurred to me that it would be better to move what I said on Reddit to a slightly more permanent location. Although the world's foremost expert on anything to do with Varlamov is vtcapsfan99, what I've pasted below still provides some truth on the matter. Presently, most people believe he got away with domestic abuse because he's a rich athlete.
In cooperation with Mile High Hockey's Cheryl Bradley, vtcapsfan99 is taking on the arduous task of presenting all the evidence she has accumulated on the case, which will do better than I have here to serve as a starting point for people looking to understand the true story.
What I wrote is pasted verbatim.
Film: Awkward Hockey Players: Danny Brière and Alex Tanguay
It was mentioned on Mile High Hockey during training camp that Danny Brière was a bit of a loner on the team. Being a new member, he hadn't yet become familiar enough with his teammates to socialise on the level of, say, Marc-André Cliche, who is by various accounts quite popular in the dressing room. That isn't to imply anything about Brière, but merely point out his apparently quiet demeanour. So, while rewatching the Avs/Bruins game, I found this great moment on the bench. With everyone around him animatedly discussing a possible goal, Brière just sat there, dead still and silent. The length of that silence continued for 30 seconds, with Alex Tanguay joining his stoned pose midway through.
I love these little moments. So, of course I had to create a comedic narrative mocking it.
Below is the above scene without any of my additions. Enjoy that peace.
The Sunsets are Orange, and I Still Don't Care
I
stopped supporting the Denver Broncos when Josh McDaniels was fired, supported the St. Louis Rams when he coached for them, and now support the New England Patriots. I also wished for professional success for certain players (e.g. Kyle Orton, Knowshon Moreno, Brandon Lloyd), but only wished for team success when they went to new teams. My NFL philosophy, now, is more about rooting for individuals instead of teams. Consequently, I have the contradictory task of rooting for the Pats (McDaniels), Miami Dolphins (Moreno), and Buffalo Bills (Orton). (In other words, everyone but the Jets.)
I realise admitting I'm a McDaniels supporter makes me look crazy to many Broncos fans, or those who perceive him as a sleeper agent sent by Bill Belichick to destroy the Broncos. In the first year after his firing, I got into a fair amount of arguments with them, but then, I've resisted responding to thoughtless jabs at the former. Today, though, I was spurred into thinking about the events that led up to why I quit on the team I loved so much, and realised I've never written (in detail, anyway) about one of the catalysts. I thought today, with the 2014 NFL season officially underway, would be a good one to revisit the day I quit on the Broncos.
I realise admitting I'm a McDaniels supporter makes me look crazy to many Broncos fans, or those who perceive him as a sleeper agent sent by Bill Belichick to destroy the Broncos. In the first year after his firing, I got into a fair amount of arguments with them, but then, I've resisted responding to thoughtless jabs at the former. Today, though, I was spurred into thinking about the events that led up to why I quit on the team I loved so much, and realised I've never written (in detail, anyway) about one of the catalysts. I thought today, with the 2014 NFL season officially underway, would be a good one to revisit the day I quit on the Broncos.
Jake Plummer
Jake Plummer was my favourite Bronco by far when he was their QB, and even though they lost the AFC Championship game in the 2005 season, I always felt that was a magical season. Not only was Champ Bailey the best defender in the world that year, but Jake the Snake epitomised the creativity and excitement that I loved about football. He was the opposite of the sterile Peyton Manning of the world, and lacked spoilt persona NFL QBs tend to have.
Following that 2005 season, however, Jay Cutler was drafted, and the inevitability of Plummer's departure was all but written in stone. When the 2006 season started with Cutler on the bench and Plummer still starter, I convinced myself that maybe things would be okay. As it should be, the rookie would learn under the veteran, and Jake the Snake would once again get to lead the Broncos to the playoffs. That wasn't meant to be.
Broncos fans have always had a weird relationship with QBs. When you have John Elway for two decades, it becomes hard to see any successor without Elway colouring your view. Plummer couldn't escape Elway's shadow. When Cutler was drafted (he with the arm stronger than Elway's... or so they say), Plummer had Elway hanging over him, and a cannon-armed rookie tugging at his jersey. And then, with every game—and most crucially after two games in a row were lost—Broncos fans and media started clutching that jersey harder and harder. People didn't want Plummer anymore. Mike Shanahan, for all his power in Denver, couldn't resist. He benched Plummer, and the season died with Jake the Snake's career.
Following that 2005 season, however, Jay Cutler was drafted, and the inevitability of Plummer's departure was all but written in stone. When the 2006 season started with Cutler on the bench and Plummer still starter, I convinced myself that maybe things would be okay. As it should be, the rookie would learn under the veteran, and Jake the Snake would once again get to lead the Broncos to the playoffs. That wasn't meant to be.
Broncos fans have always had a weird relationship with QBs. When you have John Elway for two decades, it becomes hard to see any successor without Elway colouring your view. Plummer couldn't escape Elway's shadow. When Cutler was drafted (he with the arm stronger than Elway's... or so they say), Plummer had Elway hanging over him, and a cannon-armed rookie tugging at his jersey. And then, with every game—and most crucially after two games in a row were lost—Broncos fans and media started clutching that jersey harder and harder. People didn't want Plummer anymore. Mike Shanahan, for all his power in Denver, couldn't resist. He benched Plummer, and the season died with Jake the Snake's career.
Robin Williams
To be honest, I'm not sure what I'm doing here. When I first started No. 0, the traditional function of a blog, to use it as an online diary, was the function I thought it would play. That didn't happen. Over time, it developed into what it is now—whatever it is. Anyway, I haven't used No. 0 as an outlet to vent on a truly personal level in a long time. I haven't really exposed my vulnerability since "Quit", I want to say, although if I were being truthful, it would be since "New Editor's Note". So, I don't know why I'm reshaping No. 0 to make it do something it hasn't done in years. I don't know why I feel this compulsion, other than because I just feel the need to say something, even though I'm not yet sure what it is I want to say or how I'm supposed to make those words presentable in this mental state.
I am in tears. Because Robin Williams is dead. And I hate it.
I try to be cynical and detached about death. I consider, that is the way of this anthropocentric TV show called Life. Characters are killed off. Replacements are hired. Sometimes the actors want too much out of this show. Sometimes they're just bad at it and get fired. And for the most part, I succeed at not beating myself up over the characters who had a good run. It's the ones who don't get a fair shot that are the true tragedies, not those who decide to spoil theirs or those who decide to quit after a successful stint. But then, there are characters whom we truly love. Funny, thoughtful, and brilliant individuals, whom we dread to lose, no matter how long they've been around.
I don't want him to be gone. I don't want to believe it. I want this to be a joke.
But just as I am selfishly writing about how this affects me rather than how it impacts the man who died and the people he loved, I will eventually—inevitably—come to terms with this and reflect on the life and works of a genius. Right now, I can only feel empty and mourn and wish it wasn't so and regret what could have been and cry.
But I can also come to understand, so many words later, why I feel the compulsion to write this. The truth is, only a special person would affect me in this way.
Robin played the profound role in my life of teaching me it was okay to be crazy. In this space, I can only thank him for that, and hope that he rests in peace.
I am in tears. Because Robin Williams is dead. And I hate it.
I try to be cynical and detached about death. I consider, that is the way of this anthropocentric TV show called Life. Characters are killed off. Replacements are hired. Sometimes the actors want too much out of this show. Sometimes they're just bad at it and get fired. And for the most part, I succeed at not beating myself up over the characters who had a good run. It's the ones who don't get a fair shot that are the true tragedies, not those who decide to spoil theirs or those who decide to quit after a successful stint. But then, there are characters whom we truly love. Funny, thoughtful, and brilliant individuals, whom we dread to lose, no matter how long they've been around.
I don't want him to be gone. I don't want to believe it. I want this to be a joke.
But just as I am selfishly writing about how this affects me rather than how it impacts the man who died and the people he loved, I will eventually—inevitably—come to terms with this and reflect on the life and works of a genius. Right now, I can only feel empty and mourn and wish it wasn't so and regret what could have been and cry.
But I can also come to understand, so many words later, why I feel the compulsion to write this. The truth is, only a special person would affect me in this way.
Robin played the profound role in my life of teaching me it was okay to be crazy. In this space, I can only thank him for that, and hope that he rests in peace.
End.
Joining Patreon and an Odyssey
O
ver the coming weeks, you'll get to suffer through my next project, lovingly titled Morosoph's Odyssey. Remember "Intronaut Live, One"? How about that colossal failure that was "Intronaut Live, Two"? I'm fairly certain you missed "Intronaut Live, Three" because it was never posted. Yeah, I'm a terrible human being because I never finished writing it. No, really. I am. Because I believe you have to finish something you start. And it was the brilliant producer, Max Bialystock, after all, who once said, "That's it, baby, when you you've got it, flaunt it! Flaunt it!"
So, you'll get "Three" one day, along with all the other misshapen, incomplete creations, just because they have to come out eventually. Eventually doesn't mean today, however. Instead you'll be getting "Intronaut Live, Four" in all but name. Why the name-change? Simply, writing about my fourth journey to watch Intronaut perform live took on a life of its own - to the point that the final result is longer than all previous "reviews" combined (including the unpublished "Three"). In fact, I'll be breaking it up into four parts, it's that long. And why is it so long, when previous "reviews" only cracked a thousand words? Well, you'll have to wait for that answer, but you can be assured that discovering it will require more patience than you've ever had reading my tales.
Are you ready for that?
◷◺
A second (and slightly more important) thing I want to discuss is my Patreon page. Up until now I've had a donation button hidden in the About page, because I don't want to be one of those people who use guilt or appeal to emotion to fund a creative addiction, but still appreciate anyone who wants to contribute more albums or films. Predictably, I had exactly zero donations. That donation button is gone, now, and I'm trying Patreon's model.
A No-install Solution to Enabling/Disabling the Titlebar in Xfce
Tested OS: Xubuntu 14.04–15.04; Xfce version: 4.12; xfwm4 version: 4.12.1-1ubuntu1; theme: Zukitwo; icon theme: Evolvere Blue Folders Dark fallback. Download as pdf here or here.
Update, 2015-05-20: As of Xfce 4.12, this solution works without the need for plugins. It also works out of the box in Xubuntu 15.04, but may not in older versions unless you’ve updated to Xfce 4.12.
I found a little quirk when I upgraded to Xubuntu 14.04: the titlebar no longer appeared when I maximised a window. Because I habitually exploit the titlebar, this was a cumbersome change (or bug). Fortunately, I found out how to reverse it quickly enough.
Initially, I thought the solution was obvious enough to go without a mention. A recent article by Andrew on WebUpd81, though, introduced the intriguing xfce4-windowck-plugin2 by Alessio Piccoli and Cédric Leporcq. It's a set of two plugins enabling you to place a maximised window's title in the panel, along with the window's buttons. If you install xfce4-windowck-plugin, you likely want to disable the titlebar to avoid redundancy. Andrew and xfce4-windowck-plugin's developers suggest installing the external program Maximus or a patch for xfwm43.
My solution is simpler and doesn't require you to download or install anything.
The Video that Duped the News World
I
t was fixed just half an hour later, but one still finds it remarkable that no news outlet, however reputable, was free of the deception of a video whose footage was taken over a year ago. If you check the original article, you'll find it no longer exists, because the Telegraph already deleted it. The article was a posting of this video, claiming it was taken during the search for flight MH370 in the Indian Ocean:
It's a harrowing piece of footage, to be sure, but in its haste to share it, the Telegraph neglected to look at its title: "LPG/C Venere, Hurricane, 19/jan/2013". How vague. Perhaps they could have taken a second step to confirm its veracity, by looking at when it was published: "Jan 28, 2013". Instead, this video was miscast, first by one source (intentionally or otherwise), and then by dozens of other penguins looking to jump in:
How to... Fix HP printer “filter failed” error in (Ubuntu) Linux
Printer: HP LaserJet M1132 MFP; operating systems tested: Xubuntu 13.10, 14.04, 14.10; theme: Numix. Download as pdf here or here.
Update, 2015-02-06: As of a recent upgrade to Xubuntu 14.10, jumping straight to the third solution still fixes the issue.
My printer suffered a paper jam. After releasing the paper, I found that the printer was unwilling to print anything. The specific error was “filter failed”.
The first step is to open CUPS. In your browser's urlbar, type “localhost:631”. If at any point, CUPS asks for your password, enter it as you would in the terminal. To confirm this error, click on the Jobs tab.
As you can see under State, I'm getting the “filter failed” error.
Update, 2015-02-06: As of a recent upgrade to Xubuntu 14.10, jumping straight to the third solution still fixes the issue.
My printer suffered a paper jam. After releasing the paper, I found that the printer was unwilling to print anything. The specific error was “filter failed”.
Diagnosing
The first step is to open CUPS. In your browser's urlbar, type “localhost:631”. If at any point, CUPS asks for your password, enter it as you would in the terminal. To confirm this error, click on the Jobs tab.
As you can see under State, I'm getting the “filter failed” error.
The Post that Got Me Hellbanned on Hacker News
A Preface
Two mornings ago on Hacker News (HN), tokenadult linked to an article on the Wall Street Journal website by Bill and Melinda Gates, titled, "Three Myths on the World's Poor". Although I respect what the Gateses are trying to achieve, and agree with them that poverty reduction is not a lost cause, I felt the arguments stated in their article had a number of flaws. After reading it, I promptly spent around two hours writing a response. I didn't intend to writing something akin to a full-blown article; present circumstances merely elicited me to say more than I usually do on HN1. On the case of poverty, I felt like I had something more substantive to add, if largely anecdotal (and therefore perhaps of little scientific value).
As stated in the post, I'm in southeast Asia. I'm visiting with friends and former clients (note the previously-mentioned editing detours), and with the help of local guidance, have managed to see more of this region than i would have cooped up in an expensive hotel in the city centre. I haven't seen the worst, to be sure, but I haven't had a blanket draped over my eyes, either. That's all I'll say on this.
I returned to HN in the evening to check whether there were any replies. To a combination of horror and dismay, the first comment was another user, aptwebapps, telling me, "[Y]ou've been hell-banned for over 500 days, apparently." Simply, I fell victim, without warning, to HN's policy of shunning unwanted users by making their posts go unread. Discovering this fact was a jolt to my senses.
What got me hellbanned follows.
As stated in the post, I'm in southeast Asia. I'm visiting with friends and former clients (note the previously-mentioned editing detours), and with the help of local guidance, have managed to see more of this region than i would have cooped up in an expensive hotel in the city centre. I haven't seen the worst, to be sure, but I haven't had a blanket draped over my eyes, either. That's all I'll say on this.
I returned to HN in the evening to check whether there were any replies. To a combination of horror and dismay, the first comment was another user, aptwebapps, telling me, "[Y]ou've been hell-banned for over 500 days, apparently." Simply, I fell victim, without warning, to HN's policy of shunning unwanted users by making their posts go unread. Discovering this fact was a jolt to my senses.
What got me hellbanned follows.
Medium Cappuccino and a Butter Croissant
This is the cliché: you sit in a coffee shop, the laptop lid is pointed toward an empty seat, beyond which is the mass of mocca- or coco- or latte- or smoothie- or kopi- or whatever-drinking blatherers. You observe for a second, an eye steals a glance at the wavy-haired, diminutive figure in the corner, you embed your head in the screen.
It’s a cliché, all right. I should have dipped my laptop in a vat of purple goop so I may at least have deviated from the mental image of this here lappie being white with a nice, silvery logo. Well, at least it’s not an Apple computer. Anyway, that’s the cliché, and that’s where I am and have been for three hours every day this week. Living the life of a writer in a sitcom. Typing on scissor switches with a mouthful of cold croissant, in between sips from an obscenely large mug.
It will be over tomorrow, so today I wonder if all this is worthy of reflection, and what value is supposed to be gained here.
This is such a transitory place. Density swells at a predictable level and pace. If I arrive at 11 AM, I will not find this corner unoccupied. Ninety minutes later, one may wonder whether they’re closing for lunch. Noise will correlate positively with density. Fifteen minutes ago, I would not have been able to hear myself think had my ears not trained themselves to transform the incoherent cacophony of voices into an ignorable drone. Now, the silence feels alien, punctuated by a few lonely voices and inescapable 80s pop music. I didn’t notice the soundtrack. I had grown so used to the noise that it painted the walls of my brief existence here.
That’s moot now. Two people arrive. Then a group of five. A man with a packaged sandwich sits down beside the window, a quiet lunch in mind. The cacophony returns. Unease joins it.
A Dose of Parody to Celebrate the 2013/14 NHL Season
This short piece was originally written for Mile High Hockey to commemorate the start of the 2013/14 NHL season. Read it with tongue firmly embedded in cheek.
| New Colorado Avalanche head coach remedies a bout of cupearitis. |
The worst team in the history of hockey, the Colorado Avalanche, are set to open their season against the Anaheim Ducks tonight. The unfortunate event will take place at the Pepsi Center, at 19:30 MT (21:30 ET, 02:30 BST), and be the regular season debut of new rookie head coach Patrick "Wah" Roy, who replaces “No Emotion” Joe Sacco, as well as the debut of first overall bust Nathan “Soon To Be Waived” MacKinnon. Roy, who requires treatment for cupearitis, enters the league with experience in the QMJHL, a hockey league so devoid of talent, it needs to compensate by adding extra letters to its name. His record in the league was impressive, but who cares. MacKinnon, meanwhile, succeeds Sidney “Kobasew” Crosby as the most-hyped player to enter the NHL as a first overall pick. MacKinnon grew up in the same town as Crosby and played in the same junior league, which has led to speculation that he is merely Crosby in a blonde wig.
A Hacking in Ottawa
S
henanigans? Shenanigans. This is an odd story that harkens back to the days when the NHL was the only sports league in which the owners went to prison more often than the players, starring a writer for the famed unreliable hockey blog, HockeyBuzz, known as Travis Yost, and the owner of a poverty-stricken hockey team, known as Eugene Melnyk.
It all started on the 2nd of July, when, in response to news that the Ottawa Senators are "operating on a self-imposed $50 million salary cap", Yost wrote, "The reason for Ottawa's lack of spending obviously stems from owner Eugene Melnyk's either unwillingness or reluctance to open up the checkbook." Yost followed it up with a second article looking more closely at Melnyk's finances in an attempt to answer why Melnyk has been so reluctant to spend money on his team now, when just four years ago he emphasised spending to the cap as essential to competing for the Stanley Cup. Not done there, Yost added another six articles digging into Melnyk's financial rabbit hole (found here, here, here, here, here, and here), before the story culminated in Yost reporting that Melnyk is under NHL observation (that is, placed the team in a "watch-list") for the very reasons covered in his articles. According to his source:
It was this year when things really escalated with the NHL keeping a careful eye of ownership and the dollars-in, dollars-out. The team was expensing anything and everything to the league. And the league bit the bullet, stepped in and paid into it, because they're really worried about any missed payments. And they couldn't deal with another immediate disaster with Phoenix and New Jersey cooking. |