I was bitching to you yesterday about that stupid Paula Zahn show where they had a supposed “discussion panel” about atheists, yet had nary an atheist on it. Guess who’s going to be on her show tonight? None other than eminent evolutionary biologist and world-famous atheist, Richard Dawkins himself. I’ve heard him speak several times, and he’s wonderful–eloquent, rational, logical and polite even in the face of screaming evangelical nutcases insisting that the world was created in seven days 6000 years ago, that an entire living and breathing woman was made from a single rib, and that ID is science. Some call Dawkins, “Darwin’s Rottweiler”, but he’s not attack dog-ish in the least, only calmly determined. It should be quite interesting to hear what he has to say. I hope I remember to watch the damned thing!

While I certainly do believe that it’s everyone’s absolute right to have his or her own beliefs whether I agree with them or not, that should be my right, too, and until there is no stigma attached to “the a-word” (in the US, of course, not so much Canada and even less in most of Europe), I want to see stuff like this on national television because I want people to learn that we’re not evil and satanic, we’re not a cult (we could not be any kind of cult because we are not organised) and the majority of us (militants aside–they’re as bad as the religious extremists) don’t want to “destroy” anyone’s view of the world, we want only the right to have our own without being persecuted for it. You’re spot-on about an educated populace; it’s the ignorance (and resulting fear) of others that keeps atheists “in the closet” because they outnumber us, or at least if they don’t, too many are afraid to reveal what they truly believe. If I could say to a neighbor, “No, I don’t attend any house of worship because I cannot reconcile the existence of a God or gods with what I know can be proven, and I have my own perfectly functional moral compass to tell me right from wrong” then I’d just shut up about it. I can’t, though, because here in the armpit of America, it’s not okay to not believe. If you don’t go to church every Sunday because you had something else to do, then you may get some disapproving frowns, but if you don’t go to church because you don’t believe, you’re evil. We’re second-class (perhaps even third-class) citizens, and indeed, in many states, a person who does not believe–or at least claim belief–in some kind of higher power cannot hold political office. I think that’s ridiculous–did somebody set the time machine for the 16th century? I don’t want us living under the western equivalent of Sharia Law, but if the most extreme evangelicals had their way–and their voices are certainly loud enough and backed by enough money to be heard–that’s exactly what we’d be doing. I’d be quite content to mind my own business and even be pleasant and polite if Pat Robertson lived right next door to me, but only if he’d mind his own business, too. Therein lies the problem: he wouldn’t, and he would have enormous support for meddling in mine even if I had done nothing wrong. If I’m not doing anything that causes harm to anyone else or violates any laws, then it’s none of anyone’s business what I do or do not believe. I don’t need or want to be “saved”; I just want to be left alone and my beliefs given the same respect as anyone else’s. If I’m wrong and there is indeed a God or gods who judge(s) us when we die, then I’ll know when I turn up in hell for my sentence of eternal damnation…but I’m sure I’ll have lots of company. 😉

Someday in the not so terribly distant future, I will die, and I believe that will be the end: that there is nothing for me after useful brain activity ceases except organ extraction and helping to teach medical students (I am both an organ donor and a body donor). Unless they cremate what is left (I have no preference), then bacteria, insects and worms get it and will turn it into nitrogen-based fertiliser. That’s all right with me–I hope the little buggers grow something pretty with it and someone in the future can enjoy it. I will not die wealthy, or famous, or beautiful, and no one will write about me in a history book, but I will die knowing that I stood up for what I believed was right and never hurt anyone else in doing it. I can look in the mirror and respect the person I see, and that’s all I want. For me, the “meaning of life” is (42? 😆) how you live it; knowing you did the very best you could with the resources available to you, that you helped where you could, and never intentionally harmed anyone else. I don’t need a heaven because I have one right here, every time I choose good over bad and feel confident that I can tell one from the other.

Love, L.

Samba, O Samba, how I hate you. WHY is installing Ubuntu as simple as half a dozen mouse clicks, and installing software as simple as two clicks, but setting up Samba is a fucking nightmare of epic proportions? Getting access between P’s XP and my Ubuntu was kind of a pain, but I figured it out in the end. Getting access between the laptop and my desktop should be simpler (one would think) because they’re using the same OS, but…no. Samba is installed and running. I’ve edited smb.conf and unless I forgot something critical since the last time I did it, it should be right. I can see the workgroup and the computer names, but can’t browse any shares even though I’ve set up users and shares on both systems. WTF am I doing wrong, or not doing? The Samba guide is a confusing blob of words that generally don’t apply to my situation, and although LinNeighborhood made me a nice GUI, and I can see the names of the shared folders, I can’t mount anything because I get access denied errors, or no connection at all. I’ve even run the goddamned thing as root once, but…nope.

Samba, I love you because you can talk to Windows, but I for damned sure hate to have to configure you because you are a PIG.

EDIT:

Okay…that was fun, and if memory serves, it worked just the way it did the last time. Meaning, of course, that it works just fine now and I still don’t know what the fuck I did to get it that way. I turned off both firewalls and somehow, it decided to work, but even after I turned both of them back on, it still worked, so that wasn’t the problem. Anyway, it works, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still have a love-hate relationship with Samba. I do.

P.S. I’m very well moisturised and I smell so damned good that I’m giving serious consideration to chewing off a leg or something. OTOH, I may need both of them in future. Hm.

Who the hell designs earbuds…DUMBO?! I’m trying to watch DVDs on my laptop in bed, but P’s asleep, so I have to use headphones. I don’t like headphones because they’re too hot, I want buds. I have half a dozen sets, and they’re all too goddamned big. The only ones I have that fit right are my Apple ones, but getting them means getting up and going to the living room, and that’s just more than I’m willing to do right now. Still, my ears can’t be THAT freakishly small–surely there are other people who don’t have gigantic holes in their ears?

sa·lu·bri·ous adj.

Conducive or favorable to health or well-being.
I discovered that if I don’t enter a title, the entry is assigned a number. Since I hate thinking of titles, this feature is salubrious. 🙂

“As a matter of fact, if you want to sit by the dock of the bay stuffing your face with beef-tallow-soaked fast-food French fries, washing them down with a carbonated beverage just chock-full of HFCS while taking the edge off with an unfiltered cigarette delivered by an illegal alien after it was manufactured in a Cuban factory and subsequently soaked in crystal methamphetamine, I could not care less.”

Ramen! Evangelicals, out of my bedroom. DHS, off my phone line. State, step away from my lunch menu.  If some dumbass wants to kill himself with meth, let him, just don’t make me pay for his medical bills and rehab. Isn’t this supposed to be the land of the free?

If, by some miracle, I actually DON’T go to Texas, hunt you down and kick you in the nuts…

“Base standard…” OH FFS! Watering eyes. Jesus H. Christ. I’d like to POKE you in the watering eyes with a sharp stick–you got that, you RETARDED FUCKWAD!? STFU, DIAF and every other mean-spirited acronym in existence! Holy FUCK I can’t stand you! If all you’re going to do is pick at your new fish because they aren’t THE POOR FISH YOU POISONED AND STARVED TO DEATH, YOU ASSMUNCH, then just don’t post about them at all. For that matter, take them back to the goddamned store, then blow out the pilot light of your gas oven, crank it on high and STICK YOUR WORTHLESS EMPTY FUCKING HEAD INTO IT. Don’t forget to seal the opening tightly with plastic and breathe deeeeply.
ARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

You do not, not, NOT (never, under no circumstances, not EVER!) use an apostrophe to make a word plural. It’s not “molly’s” unless it belongs to one molly, and certainly not “mollie’s” unless the fish’s name happens to be Mollie. It’s “mollies”, shit-for-brains, because when you pluralise English words that end in the letter ‘y’, most of the time you do so by changing the ‘y’ to ‘ie’ and adding an ‘s’. Apostrophes are used to indicate a possessive. Watch…

One puppy. A dozen puppies. The ball belongs to one puppy; it is the puppy’s ball. All twelve puppies play with the ball, but it belongs to only one of them, so it is not the puppies’ ball.

One molly. A dozen mollies. Not molly’s, mollie’s or mollys. Mollies.

The food belongs to the molly, so it is the molly’s food, but all of the mollies try to eat the food because they wish it were the mollies’ food. Wishing doesn’t make it so, though, and that includes the times you wish you understood the basic rules of English grammar and spelling. Idiot. Every time you use an apostrophe to make a word plural, God kills a little fuzzy baby kitten. YOU are directly responsible for the deaths (not the death’s) of those innocent kittens. How do you sleep at night?

Christ in a sidecar! Where did these arsewipes go to school? Vera Caldwell would’ve had my six-year-old head roasting on a spit if I hadn’t learned better than that. How are they not embarrassed? How can they read something that has a pretty good chance of being correct (like…oh…let’s say, a grammar book?) and not see that “one of these things is not like the other”? Why don’t they even care when they look like illiterate fools? Well, I suppose that the man with no nose can’t smell even the biggest pile of cow shit.

I just watched some video on YT about a “physics model” desktop where you create piles of documents, somewhat like you might do on a real desktop. I’ve seen it before, but hadn’t thought about it in a while. Models like that cause me almost physical pain. My real desk is a catastrophe; here in front of me right now I have piles of DVDs and CDs, a metric tonne of paper (much of it neon Post-It notes), a couple of cards, a postcard, a barrette, two hair elastics (I won’t say “rubber band” because they’re not–they’re covered elastics), a bottle of ibuprofen, one of Benadryl, one of Tylenol caplets, antacid (live on those things), pens, pencils, a tube of Ozonol (for paper cuts), NyQuil, an LED flashlight, a pink plastic duck on a keyring (the duck has LED lights in it) and the end of the USB cable for my camera (the other end is plugged into the computer). If I have to find a paper or note on my desk, it could take forever (if I can find it at all), but that’s okay because none of it is important. Important stuff is descriptively named and neatly tucked away in folders on my HDD where I can make the computer do the work when I want to find something. My computer desktop makes me happy because there’s nothing on it at all, not even mounted volumes (I love you, Gnome). It’s my default download directory, and there’s a reason for that–I can’t stand clutter there, so it forces me to NOT just leave stuff I’ve downloaded all dumped together. If I don’t want to make myself crazy, then I have to sort and file it as I download it, and if I no longer need it, then I trash it. If I wanted to look at clutter, I’d go look at P’s desktop. *shudder* Mine is tidy, fairly spartan and pretty. 🙂

My desktop today

Maybe my fan…s (is/are?) right and I do need a vacation. Deliver me from the whining idiots. If you don’t know how to treat sick fish, then….DON’T FUCKING BUY SICK FISH. I hate you, I hate the idiot who bought another fish when he doesn’t even understand the basics of caring for the one he has, I hate the idiots who whine and moan and cry when their fish get sick. WTF do you think whining is going to do? If your fish always get sick and you can’t figure out what you’re doing wrong, then perhaps you might want to hang up the ol’ gravel siphon and start a stamp collection or something. I don’t want to READ about any more sick fish. Search the goddamned forums and you’ll find out whether you can use RI+ with antibiotics because that question’s been asked ad nauseaum. Read the fucking articles, search the forums and then–ONLY then–ask whatever it is that you want to know. Every-fucking-where I go, always the same dumbasses, the same questions, never a simple answer or anything more cheerful than yet another fucking idiot with a sick fish. Jesus H. Christ! Would it absolutely kill you dumb bastards to post something that might make me actually WANT to log on in the fucking morning? One cute little fushie-wush with pouty lips, twenty whinebags with (surprise) sick fish. “Oh, bless your heart–you saved that little fishie!” How come nobody ever blesses my fucking heart when I’m the poor sonofabitch stuck walking the idiots through the treatment? “What now, FM?” “Wahhhh, I don’t know how to do this, I want you to tell me.” Well, here’s what now…hop aboard the clue train and LEARN IT JUST THE WAY I DID!

Thank god(s) for J.; I’d not have made it through this day alive without his help. C. is a big help, too, and she does know how to use the search function. Holy fsck I hate people. I wish L. was home; he’d cheer me up.

I changed my mind. Some people > computers. The birds are twittering, the butterflies are in the honeysuckle and it isn’t just a piece of furniture to be measured and built, sanded and finished, and then left alone. It’s fluid and changeable, and it’s all going to be okay. I don’t know how, but it will because it must.