You Can't Make Mistakes.

First Annual.

Tomorrow, or more accurately, tonight is my birthday. I usually let these things pass me by. The last few years have found me on planes or by myself in a strange city or somewhere. This year, my friends in Cairo have quietly insisted on a party, and I am going to indulge them.

I don’t like birthday parties, particularly for people who are in their late twenties and early thirties. These events tend toward the externally happy/internally maudlin, and who has time for that? I don’t lament getting older, though I recognize that it is happening more rapidly than any of us is comfortable with. I like it. I typically like to “celebrate” this aspect of life with a quiet drink in a dark bar and a good long self-reflection followed by fitful sleep. This, however, does not exactly make a good environment for whatever is the opposite of depression. On thinking about it this morning as I washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen floor waiting for my coffee to kick in, I realized that this might be another aspect of a childhood loathing that I carry with me even until today.

I hate kids. Hate them. I have since I was a kid, probably even moreso then. When I was a child, other children were mean, stupid, intentionally and willfully ignorant. They pretended not to know things and they were never interested in anything other than whatever everyone else was interested in. I didn’t get this. I don’t get it now. The kids I like are weird, peculiar little people. They say adult words in a tiny human voice. They ask questions that perplex the adults around them. They are also surrounded by adults, and tend to like it that way.

I wish I had known these kids when I was a kid. Alas, they tended not to be very visible, preferring adults. They hid away. They did not invite other weirdos around very often, and neither did I. What I never realized was that the others—the kids who didn’t spend all their time in their own heads—were actually interested in knowing me. I just didn’t let them for some reason.

When I was a child, I would have much rather spent time with my grandparents or my aunts and uncles than with other children. I even preferred to spend time with my parents, especially my parents, though I never let them know that. They all had stories, interesting stories. They had lived in places, jumped out of airplanes, gone to college, not gone to college, worked, built whole houses with their hands, cultivated plants, sewn clothing for their children, made bread, played softball, gotten in fights, swam in the south Pacific, flown on planes that had carried nuclear bombs, had cancer, and so many other things that my brain staggers to try to think of all the stories that they have told me.

Kids don’t have any stories, at least not those that I had to choose from as a kid. They liked video games, they liked playing soccer. I hated those things, and I hated them. I didn’t give them a fair chance. I didn’t realize that they probably found me as strange and upsetting—or as exotic and fascinating—as I found them.

As I got older, I think I realized this. I did things with people my own age. It took a while, but by that point we were becoming adults, whether we liked it or not. I could finally almost relate to my peer group. They read books now, and some of them even wanted to talk about it.

And then there were the shared experiences that we all thought our parents didn’t have any experience of. Suddenly we were inventors. We invented smoking that first cigarette on a cold Michigan day. We invented sex. We invented drugs and going to concerts. We invented reading books banned by our grandparents’ generation. Our parents stood by and let us go on about our business. They were worried. They still are. They wouldn’t be parents if they didn’t. I think that maybe they also realized that they had done stupid and brilliant stuff that they thought their parents didn’t know anything about.

I knew better. My grandparents told me stories from their youth, from their partying days. They were wild. They drank whiskey, got into bar fights, played cards, smoked cigars and went to weird places in strange cities. They saved the best for when I was older. They were rebels, and they didn’t even know it. They made us look like prudes, like amateurs.

So, now here we are: adults. We make the stories now. We get lost down back alleys and drink from unmarked bottles, smoke cigarettes sometimes and hang out with weirdos. We have power, we no longer require supervision. Sometimes we are the supervisors of those in need of it. I wonder what skewed view this next generation of children—and the one after that—will take of us? Will they think that we were strange, reclusive loners with nothing but idle time on our hands before they were born? I don’t know. Probably, if that is what we let them believe.

In the mean time, I am going to a party, ostensibly in my honor, and hang out with the rest of the weirdos. And to all of those with whom I did not spend your birthdays or who were not celebrating with me either, maybe you can tell me your stories someday. I’m dying to hear them sometime, now that we’re all old enough to know better.

Happy Birthday

Today is, as some reckon, the 17th birthday of Linux, the open-source UNIX-like operating system which has become increasingly popular in recent years. I adopted Linux about 2 years ago, first dual-booting (having 2 operating systems installed on the same machine and choosing at startup) Fedora, and then Ubuntu. Then I got brave and removed Windows from my last laptop. Then I got a new laptop and nuked the drive the moment I got it with a fresh Linux install. Then I installed 64 bit. Then I started compiling my own kernel. After that, it was all downhill, or uphill, depending on which way you were looking.

I became a Linux enthusiast, then an evangelical. “There is this operating system that is freely available, you can download it, and then you can install software by searching for it and selecting it (if you are in a package-managed distro, that is),” I would say. “Why does one become evangelical for an operating system,” you ask? Here is why:

Now, I am running my own Debian server: a tiny little ARM-processor-based wonder-device, 4 watts/10 under load. That is less than most energy efficient lightbulbs. Right now it just houses my digital media, my backups (which is makes without my ever having to know), and acts as a print server on our network so that I don’t have to plug the computer in, print, etc. It just works. I just added audio to it via a hardware-hack, USB in-line, jack-spliced audio card cannibalized from an old USB headset. I now have a command-line stereo with music library. Streaming internet radio too. And I can serve my own radio stream, in case the end comes and we have to rebuild the internet with string and tin cans.

I have grand plans for this little guy, the Linksys/Cisco NSLU2, or SLUG as we call the firmware-modded versions. I want about 15 more of them to just do little tasks and coordinate with each other. There is a Mic-in jack that I spliced onto the aforementioned audio card, so I am working now on adding voice-command support. Just simple stuff: “Radio on” or “Backup laptop now.” I have these sci-fi-esque visions of a fully automated house where these little guys talk to me as I walk through, turn lights on and off, report the weather, stock prices, news headlines if asked. I have also been working on a project (currently on hold, too much hardware to move to the Middle-East) to create a group of thin-client picture frames and touch screen interfaces that will be placed around the house. These would display photos, art, whatever. When asked, they could show you websites, play music on the stereo, etc. I dream of an alarm clock which is set by saying, “Jeeves, wake me up at 6:45, NPR on the radio.” “Very well then, good-night Sir.”

I dream of these things, and I will have them. I already am far closer to having these things than I ever was using computers the way that we are taught to do so in out modern age. Even the best average user today really uses their computer no differently than they might use a typewriter and an 8-track. Why is this the case?

It is the case because we are not encouraged to be curious about what is inside of our computers anymore. That, and we have been conditioned to believe that you must pay for software for your computer, which is simply not the case.

I’m not talking about software piracy either, a practice that I am rather ambivalent about these days. I don’t think it should be illegal, because I don’t think that it should be an issue. The best software out there is being developed by the curious, hobbyist, academic interests of developers with a machine and a little know-how. It’s mass peer-review. When the software is not human readable and the source is closed, bugs and weaknesses aren’t found until they are exploited. Enter FOSS: Free/Open Source Software.

Back to my point, these things interest me because they have enabled me, as a hobbyist, to make some really cool things happen. Soon my server will be talking to me, and I to it. Then it will be a server farm, then an integrated system that commands a house, or at least some of the functions in it. It’s cool. I can do it. And it is freely available to me. Sold.

This is why I am a Linux evangelical. I will walk down the street wearing a Linux t-shirt if it gets people to ask me what it is. I also just realized that I am wearing a Linux t-shirt.

Help celebrate this Linux birthday by taking Linux for a spin. There are a number of distributions that allow you to run the operating system from a CD (called a “Live-disk”). Live-disks are slower, because they have to run off of a CD. But try it. If you have an old computer laying around, dig it out, and install Linux on it. In my opinion, Ubuntu is probably going to be the best for first-time users. Here is a list of live-disk distributions which will allow you to install if you would like to:

Ubuntu
Gentoo
Debian
Knoppix
Damn Small Linux

Try it out. Linux has come a long way from its roots in the command-line. Sometimes when I am sitting in public using my laptop people come up wondering what kind of laptop it is and what my “Windows” is. I invite them to sit down for a cup of coffee, and I say “Have you ever heard of something called Linux?”

et al.

While self-critical, I typically don’t allow myself to indulge in speculative self-loathing, like wondering what I am doing or what I will do next.

Typically.

That said, there is nothing like a birthday—mine, today—to really push one into such a mood. So, I was already there, and then I read this:

It made me wonder a bit. Why am I doing what I am doing? Do I indulge myself enough in doing things that I love? Do I love my work/field?

Then I remembered that I don’t really need to know why: I only really care about the process most of the time. At least on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, I tend to be more of a pragmatist. Today is Friday.

Do I indulge myself? I suppose this would depend upon your viewpoint. Some might say that I do not. Others might argue otherwise. I would place it like this:

Indulged========[ME]==========================Not Indulged

I tend to indulge my curiosities whenever they arise. I tend not to indulge whims, however. I feel that this is a reasonable indulgence model. I know more than enough people who indulge whims and then refuse to indulge curiosity because they believe their curiosity to be a manifestation of whim. This is wrong. Curiosity is the stuff of life, as far as I am concerned, and the deadening of curiosity in children by overindulgence in whim that goes on these days will be the downfall of human society eventually.

In other words. Turn off the TV. Get off your widening ass. Put down your processed-cheese-processed-burger. Eat a tomato that you grew in your backyard while you take apart your favorite toys with a screwdriver.

As an aside, I just took apart and reassembled my mobile phone because I noticed that I had the right screwdriver and realized that I could. That is the kind of indulgence I am talking about, I suppose.

Do I love what I do? I think so. Sometimes I wonder if I have just trained myself to love it. Though, what I suspect is that I only love it because I am able to indulge my curiosity in a number of ways via this route.

Think about it:

Because I indulged my curiosity, I did a degree in Latin rather than in music. That led me to accidentally studying Arabic because I indulged my curiosity about it one semester. That led me to traveling to Egypt, which led me to become interested in Islam, which let me into an MA in religious studies. Subsequently, I indulged my curiosity further by deepening my study, which eventually led me to come here for a long-term stay. That led me to apply for an MA program outside of the United States, which led me to come and live in North Africa, where I can so fully indulge my curiosity on a continuous, real-time, full-immersion basis.

The short answer: obviously.

I realize that this was primarily written to myself, but isn’t that what a blog is sometimes? I like it when it can be a sounding-board for my own personal, interior thoughts. Also, in this case, it might help me in explaining an answer to the question: “Well, what are you going to do with that?”

I’m going to go see if there are any other things lying around that I can take apart with my new screwdriver.