OMG WTF VI

Three quotes. Equal.

It went like this: Kings in middle position, with two limpers. So I raised it up to 5x the BB, and four players stayed to see the flop. I wasn't very happy about playing my kings in a multi-way pot, until the flop came Q-6-2 rainbow. I figured one of these guys paired his queen, but figured I would have been re-raised pre-flop if any of them held QQ, so I was pretty sure I was in the lead.

From to raise, perchance to fold on Wil Wheaton dot Net

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Jabberwocky, Lewis Carrol

Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangle me
with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon
See if I don't.

Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz

Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom

I just finished Cory Doctorow's Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom. I judge it to be a net win, measured by entertainment vs. disappointment. Go read it, or better, go buy it and then read it.

Where the following seems fuzzy and oblique, I have tried to obfuscate the book, so this opinion is not a spoiler. I absolutely hate spoilers.

First, what I dislike about the book is the start. In the first chapter, a load of concepts and termini is unceremoniously dumped in my lap. Now that is something every sciene fiction novel needs to do, to acquaint the reader to the world in which the book is set. But in this case it is done in a way that is jumbled, punky, too colorful, and hence strikes me as cheesy. I noticed the same with Neal Stephenson, especially in Snow Crash.

Which is not to say I dislike weird and exotic scenarios - William Gibson's wonderful (and almost unparalleled) Neuromancer has a very similar setting, yet it is not presented as garish as Mr. Doctorow's first chapter.

After you get over the first chapter, the book becomes more enjoyable by degrees, drawing you into the story, until in chapter five, the protagonist experiences a grave personal loss. It is then that you suddenly realize Mr. Doctorow has somehow managed to lull you by starting off with this harmless, plastic future vision. Although you do not know how he did it, he now has his hand inside you guts, and he is ripping them out. You feel intensely with the protagonist.

From that point on, the book truly is a 'page-turner', as Mark Fraunfelder terms it.

Until chapter nine.

In chapter 9, (the penultimate chapter), the story starts to end slowly but surely, grinding its way to a halt in the manner of an overused machine succumbing to the grit in its gears. (my, but I wax poetic today... Anyway.) The story just ends. No catharrsis, although all loose ends get tied up, in a very curt and anticlimactic way. Until the almost entirely superficial chapter ten, in which the story finally

Also, Whuffie.

I mean, come on. This simply shouts cheesy, in six-inch letters.

I guess my criticism of Whuffie comes down to this: it is entirely a story device, and does not follow any discernible, consistent law at all. To be fair, it is possible that Mr. Doctorow has a clear picture of how Whuffie works, down to the details, but I could not tell from reading his book.

Post Scriptum:

On my way home today, I read a Shadow of the Mothaship, and experienced the exact same disconnect. At first, totally uninteresting. Also hard to read because of all the jargon. Then, I start to get into the story, and a little later, something clicks, and I am, again, captivated. Also the same abrupt ending leaving me wondering and unsatisfied.

Post Post Scriptum:

It is now two days later, and I can feel myself mellowing. In retrospect, the good parts of the story stand out more than the bad ones. I have posted the above to reflect my feelings in the heat of the moment, as it were.

...

As I enter the train, I notice a nice goth chick three seats behind me. For some reason she has combined black and pink in her attire, but she's done it thoroughly, and the overall effect is rather striking.

As I get up to disembark, I notice she is standing up too. I slow my step until she passes me, then fall in behind her. She is wearing headphones so there is no chance she will hear my footsteps.

In her left hand, she is holding a book, but I can't make out the title, only a colorful garish photograph on the cover between her by black-lacquered nails.

She sits down on the left of two benches at the bus stop. I hesitate, then I pass her by and take a seat on the right-hand bench. I glance over to her. She has removed her jacket, and is putting on a sweater over a thin translucent top. She has a black bra underneath.

I fantasize about talking to her, knowing full well that I would not have the slightest chance. Suddenly I have the overwhelming urge to scream "FUCK YOU! FUCK ALL OF YOU! YOU ASSHOLES!". But I repress both impulses, and quietly enter the bus that has just arrived.

I guess I'd make a pretty decent stalker, if I don't get Tourette first.

Software Humor

An NSArray* and an NSCoder* meet. The NSCoder* says

"Why the long face? You look pretty downcast."

The NSArray* replies

"Yeah, I was an NSObject* once."

The problem is choice

ITConversations has a fantastic talk, Less is More, by Barry Schwartz, a social science professor at Swarthmore College. Also extremely funny - I laughed my ass off. The topic is fascinating: too much choice is bad, not good.

Book addict that I am, I ordered his book "The Paradox of Choice" right away, and I just finished the first chapter, which is about shopping. What strikes me most about the problem here is not so much the overabundance of choice as the sheer time and processing power required in shopping for clothes. First, you have a large array of choice from which to find a perfect fit. That accomplished (this is where the time goes) you have to figure out, will this go with anything else from my wardrobe?

Women are exceedingly good at this. They are seemingly able to memorize the entire set of clothes in their possession. And in enough detail to be able to make meaningful assertions about matching colors, etc.

As a result, I wear almost exclusively black. The few items I own that are not black are either
- colorful t-shirts (bands, graduations, slogans, apple)
- chosen by my girlfriend.

What I rue most is the lost brainpower. How in hell can anyone waste thoughts on such trivial nonsense?

Weekend

I'm pretty stressed out, sitting in the Laim train station, on my way home from work at half past seven. The people on the opposite platform are staring at me. Bother someone else, granny. My train is late. Again.

Then the first riff of Wild Women by Frankie Goes To Hollywood sounds in my ears and I start to grin. All of a sudden, the temperature goes up a little, from barely uncomfortable to cozy warm. The sun descends a dregree and bathes the rails and platforms in a warm golden glow.

Mood swings are great, you just have to know how to enjoy them.

Not My Day

I leave the office after a day that has gone on for longer than a workday should. I have been failing at a particularly tricky timing-related non-deterministic bug for most of the day. My frustration level is high.

Half tempted to buy myself a beer for the commute home, I notice no bums hanging out in front of the liquor store at the corner. Sure enough it's closed, even though the sign says 'OPEN' in ridiculous Times New.

As I step up to the platform, my train is still sitting on the rails. I begin to run. As I reach it, it starts to pull out of the station. I can almost touch it as is starts to move away. This means I will miss the connecting train at in Laim and get home twenty minutes later.

Ten minutes later, I board the next train, in the knowledge that at home, more work waits for me. The train smells of stale sweat and there are no good places left to sit.

I dial my music player up to blot-out-the-surroundings volume. I hate everyone else here right now, even the pretty girls in the next row.

Especially the girls.