Clint Adams: Volta, ick
There's this Brit named Steve. Steve loves strip clubs. Now, being
a Londoner, he has the requisite interest in talk of sex, boozing,
and sport, three topics that bore me numb, but I have only ever seen
Steve get truly excited about two things in life. The first is the
culture of strip clubs, best exemplified by a sex act Steve calls
(complete with pantomime) feeding the pony . The other has to do
with Ali G. Steve (remember Steve?) is tickled pink that people
wanted to sue Sacha Baron Cohen for racism but could not, for since
he is a Jew, he is incapable of bigotry. This made no sense to me,
but after witnessing the insanity of the UK legal system, I see no
reason to doubt it.
I am standing up to my nipples in salt water.
I saw someone who looked remarkably like Steve yelling
with a mildly impressive accent but poor grammar.
I knew it wasn't Steve because he wasn't being tailed by
an Eastender shouting blimey .
I am standing up to my neck in salt water.
J rg points out the reasoning for why normal peon developers
don't have access to NEW. This makes perfect sense once you
realize that each member of the ftp team is both a citizen
and resident of the United States of America.
The sea is rough. It is difficult to keep the laptop dry, and,
well, the Piers Anthony book in my other hand is going to smell
like ocean for weeks. That's precisely why I brought it, though;
it would take extreme effort to keep it from getting wet.
As it stands, or as I stand, there are three options available
to me. I can retreat to the beach, where I will be mostly safe
from the water. You could call this turning tail and running,
or you could call it mastering my environment. It's all in the
marketing. I'm going to succumb to this option anyway, and now
is not the time for it. So I could also keep doing what I'm
doing, keeping my head and laptop and book above water by
expending near-constant effort. It's a little easier than
in Puerto Rico at the place some random passerby kindly
informed me that i was going to die a horrible death just like
the 12 other people who had died in that spot that year.
In essence though, it's like the futility of continuing living
when you're surrounded by INTPs. Then there's the most appealing
option: to be as the reed in some Taoist metaphor. I can just let
go, and let the tides have their way with me, coolly caressing my
face, washing over me, drenching my book, short-circuiting my
keyboard, and filling my lungs with plant matter and some kind of
0.479M NaCl solution. My lungs see a problem with this
otherwise-logically-sound philosophy.
There's an old Middle Eastern proverb that goes something like
Be as the date palm, above the spites. When she is hit with
a rock, she strikes back with her sweetest fruits. Disthrust!
Dilute! Disthrust!
There may have been some corruption in the intermediate
language.