blarg?

interfaces

anglachel:proj mhoye$ svn --version
svn, version 1.7.17 (r1591372)
compiled Aug 7 2014, 17:03:25

anglachel:proj mhoye$ which svn
/opt/local/bin/svn

anglachel:proj mhoye$ /opt/local/bin/svn --version
svn, version 1.8.10 (r1615264)
compiled Oct 29 2014, 14:11:15 on x86_64-apple-darwin14.0.0

anglachel:proj mhoye$ which -a svn
/opt/local/bin/svn
/usr/bin/svn

anglachel:proj mhoye$ /usr/bin/svn --version
svn, version 1.7.17 (r1591372)
compiled Aug 7 2014, 17:03:25

anglachel:proj mhoye$

How are you silently disrespecting path ordering, what is this even.

I gave this talk at FSOSS last week, in which I try to reclaim the term “Social Engineering”, so that it stops meaning “get the receptionist to give you their password” and starts meaning “Measuring community growth and turning that into processes and practices that work.”

I thought it went well, though listening to it I can see I’ve got a couple of verbal tics to work on. Gotta stop using ‘um’ and ‘right’ as punctuation.

Cuban Shoreline

I tried to explain to my daughter why I’d had a strange day.

“Why was it strange?”

“Well… There’s a thing called a cryptocurrency. ‘Currency’ is another word for money; a cryptocurrency is a special kind of money that’s made out of math instead of paper or metal.”

That got me a look. Money that’s made out of made out of math, right.

“… and one of the things we found today was somebody trying to make a new cryptocurrency. Now, do you know why money is worth anything? It’s a coin or a paper with some ink on it – what makes it ‘money’?”

“… I don’t know.”

“The only answer we have is that it’s money if enough people think it is. If enough people think it’s real, it becomes real. But making people believe in a new kind of money isn’t easy, so what this guy did was kind of clever. He decided to give people little pieces of his cryptocurrency for making contributions to different software projects. So if you added a patch to one of the projects he follows, he’d give you a few of these math coins he’d made up.”

“Um.”

“Right. Kind of weird. And then whoever he is, he wrote a program to do that automatically. It’s like a little robot – every time you change one of these programs, you get a couple of math coins. But the problem is that we update a lot of those programs with our robots, too. Our scripts run, our robots, and then his robots try to give our robots some of his pretend money.”

“…”

“So that’s why my day was weird. Because we found somebody else’s programs trying to give our programs made-up money, in the hope that this made-up money would someday become real.”

“Oh.”

“What did you to today?”

“I painted different animals and gave them names.”

“What kind of names?”

“French names like zaval.”

“Cheval. Was it a good day?”

“Yeah, I like painting.”

“Good, good.”

(Charlie Stross warned us about this. It’s William Gibson’s future, but we still need to clean up after it.)

Your new password must contain a mix of:

  • uppercase letters
  • lowercase letters
  • numbers
  • symbols
  • symbols that are also numbers
  • illuminati symbols
  • hobo signs
  • occult symbols (not illuminati)
  • old girlfriend’s phone numbers
  • hieroglyphs
  • fragrances
  • H.P. Lovecraft references
  • exotic spices
  • descriptions of that favorite sweater you lost in a breakup that one time
  • secret regrets
  • controversial onomatopoeia
  • limericks about a thermostat
  • vaguely sexual innuendos
  • anagrams of a word you can’t spell
  • favorite emoji
  • least favorite emoji
  • turnips
  • shrugs
  • ennui
  • cursory pats on the back
  • long stares into the middle distance
  • moments of quiet yearning for lost love (unrelated to sweater or secret regret)
  • cups of OK coffee
  • sense of resigned inevitability (minimum three)
  • irish setters
  • tweed hats

No repeat characters.

My dentist expressed some concern today that when he pokes my gums with a piece of sharp metal, they’re prone to bleeding.

My observation that almost every part of me has that quality was not well-received. He proposed some treatment for it, but when I told him I’d pay quite a bit extra to have him take whatever that is and dip my entire body in it that part of the conversation didn’t go all that swimmingly either. I said he could hold me by the heel, I know how this works, but no.

Anyway, long story short, apparently dentists have no sense of humour and flossing your entire body won’t make you invulnerable.

Now you know.

Leaves

In Tsukiji there’s a small, open-fronted shop called “Tsukiji Masamoto”, and it’s packed. The walls are lined floor to ceiling with knives in various wooden cases, row after row of every tool you’d need to separate one part of some animal from another.

Their shapes were unfamiliar to my western eyes, specialized tools for jobs I know nothing about. Even the local equivalent of the west’s workaday one-size-fits-all chef’s knife, the santoku, seems to come in more shapes and sizes than makes sense. The cleaver-like usuba bocho doesn’t have an obvious western counterpart, the hard angles of the usagisaki hocho, the “eel knife”, likewise. And the savage economy of the soba kiri or udon kiri – literally “noodle knife”, because that’s all they’re for – looks more like the business end of something stylized and cruel than a common household utensil in its own right.

Most striking is the maguro bocho, made for filleting four hundred pounds of tuna in a single motion; some seven feet long, five of it blade, they seem more like a Daimyo’s tool than a fishmonger’s. It’s hard to believe they’re useful until you see how big a full-sized tuna can be; the nature of the tool becomes clear once you understand the nature of the job, as usual.

When I visited there was a man squared up over a whetstone out front, a man who looks like he’s made out of old leather and dock rope. He was holding a hon deba to the wheel in hands you could mistake for a bag of walnuts. He seemed to have been there forever; as far as I’m concerned he’s probably still there, a small man who stands like an old mountain. Tsukiji seemed to have been built around him; I had the impression some shogun’s son had found him standing in front of that wheel when it was still called Edo and returned home to say, father, we do need a fish market, and there is a man already there sharpening knives. Respectfully, father, I don’t think he’s going anywhere for anyone.

As I was watching him work he lifted the hon deba off the wheel and peered closely at its edge for a long time before he lowered the knife and stared at the sky for just as long. For a moment I could almost see a hint of dissatisfaction and then nothing; he put the edge back to the wheel, I moved on.

I think about this a lot; I wish I’d been able to ask him what he’d seen.

This has been sitting around in the drafts folder for a while. I’m not sure why I wanted to finish it off tonight, but I want to get all these half-finished posts done. This seemed like a good way to knock off some of the rust.

Rust Never Sleeps

Occasionally when I’m in one of my darker moods I’ll fire up a game that’s meant to be multiplayer and walk through it alone, crawling around the fringes and corners to see how the game reacts to unexpected stimuli, looking for soft spots and exposed nerves.

I’ve always been a lurker in open worlds games, real life being no exception; I don’t remember when I started looking for the seams, the little gaps where the walls don’t quite line up or the high ledge that offers a long view, but it’s not a thing I can turn off. And when I’m in that sullen loner’s mood, sitting in the dark soloing multiplayer spaces is a pleasant way to spend an hour or two on just that sort of wallhack tourism.

Halo’s Spartan Ops, is kind of fun though not particularly replayable distraction. It’s a neat idea, and I sort of wish they’d done more with the idea of serving up Halo in smaller episodic doses. The environments, though… if you have the right eyes you can’t help but notice that built-for-a-shooter feeling that pervades the designed landscapes of that franchise.

Its not just the trademark gun-litter; whether it’s a forcefield deployed pointlessly in a cave, an otherwise-empty room with one door and twenty or so alien warriors milling around inside waiting to no discernable purpose or an massive structure of dubious architectural merit built by an advanced alien species whose accomplishments include intergalactic teleporters but not doors, you never have a moment to shake off the sense that the world is built entirely around sight lines.

Specifically, as they emerge from you.

This is a pretty niche failure mode, I’ll admit. It’s possible I’m the only person who will ever notice or care about it. But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a space designed for a shooter that didn’t undercut any grandeur and greater aspirations the game might have. It maybe unavoidable; as lush as some of these environments seem at first, how do you evoke that sense of being part of something much bigger than yourself when everything is designed around you?

So much video game architecture fails that test of basic significance, worlds of outsized and beautiful physics-defying structures that don’t speak to any motive beyond themselves. Halo 4 is hardly the worst example, but the scale it aspires to makes this kind of anarrative laziness hard to overlook. This incredibly ambitious backstory, these huge structures and it’s all facade; there’s no “why”, because you’re there with the controller in your lap and you’re the “why” and there is no larger story than that.

“This place once belonged to an ancient and noble civilization, whose might and wisdom spanned the galaxy”, these structures say, “and as a monument to our glories we have built this: a monochromatic rhombus.”

Also I’m not sure how that Spartan Miller guy got his job, but he’s kind of excitable for an ostensibly hardened space marine.

But if you’re the sort of person who appreciates a jetpack – and if you’re not I don’t really see how we can keep being friends – then a lot of these arbitrary obstructions and forced perspectives are suddenly, inexplicably tractable. That extra degree of freedom is enough; in some places – Science Mountain is a good choice here – suddenly you can fly over a gate you were meant to fight past. And the game, of course, doesn’t appreciate being spoken to like that: Halo is on rails, and always will be thus! And you’re frightening the AI and this is just the way things are and I don’t care for your tone, young man. You can’t just leave the rails, that’s why it’s called “going off the rails”, and… hey, get back here!

And in this transgression, of course, Halo reveals itself for what it is.

You clear that gate, mop up a few stragglers and hop back to flip the switch to proceed. Enemies appear, less and listless. Defeat them, and now you’re alone. The next part of the sequence simply doesn’t happen. No-one else appears, no more doors open. Your team never contacts you and you, stoic and silent, never reach out to them.

There’s no meaning, there’s no more, there’s no distraction; there’s just reflection and just you, silently exploring a small corner of a deserted island intended only for you, forever. And there’s nothing to do but look for another seam, another glitch, to allow you maybe possibly move on.

It’s a weird, lonely feeling; kind of what you’d expect from soloing a multiplayer game alone in the dark.

I bought a new bag.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I shouldn’t buy anything in the wintertime; I spend too much time indoors and it’s bad for my head. After a while I start believing that I should start having things that are nice, and maybe even – dare I say it – fancy, and when you’re a guy in the throes of middle-age that can end poorly.

As a side anecdote: my personal canonical example (is “headcanonical” a word?) comes from late winter about two years ago, when I mentioned to an old friend that I’d been (at 37, with two kids; painfully trite, I know) casually window-shopping for motorcycles. She’s known me forever, and her reply slid in flat between the ribs that special way only an old friend’s can.

“So did your dad ever hug you when you were a kid, or are you going to get one of the really loud ones?”

Painful wince, scene.

Gentlemen, having women in your life who will call you on your bullshit is invaluable. I’m not getting a motorbike.

Which, in fact, is great – all that cabin-fever stir-craziness ends in the spring, because what I really want, every year, isn’t fancy shoes or a motorcycle, it’s to get back on my bike. A few weeks of summer commutes has cemented it, too; I fly past a lot of expensive European metal on my ride in and your Porsche or Ducati doesn’t matter much if everyone in front of you is parked. But on a bike I can blow through traffic like the wind, and in rush hour traffic – and that’s most of the time, downtown – I’m far and away faster than anything else on the road.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand: after a fair bit of screwing around trying to turn my venerable old laptop bag into the messenger bag I actually wanted, I’d decided I needed to solve the problem once and for all.

I’m partial to messenger bags as because of the kind of riding I tend towards is the “playing-in-traffic” kind, and for that you need any weight you’re carrying to sit as high on your back as possible. It’s hard to cinch the load on a backpack up over you, and the lateral stability on them is usually iffy. They’re just not meant for this kind of work. I love the look of Saddleback Leather’s bags – so beautiful, so utterly impractical – but when spring rolled around I had to own up to the fact that they’re not right thing. I’m the semi-mythical Scofflaw Cyclist that comes up whenever people talk about traffic, and I needed something for the aggro bike commuting I do every single day. So I laid out my criteria and broadened my search.

My needs turned out to be pretty straightfoward:

  • Waterproof for real. Not “resistant”; clean-it-with-a-hose waterproof.
  • Holds a 15″ laptop plus the usual nerd fixins’ plus two days’ clothing.
  • Replaceable straps – that is, the straps can’t be sewn in to the bag.
  • Quick-adjust straps. Gotta be able to cinch it down and step out of it easily.
  • Second support strap, ideally also quick-adjust.
  • Side pockets I can reach without opening the whole bag.
  • Little or no velcro, just because it annoys me.
  • Being able to clip stuff to the sides is a plus, and Molle webbing is nice and everything but
  • if the word “tactical” appears anywhere in the product’s page, close the tab. “Tactical” has become shorthand for “substandard gear aimed at the macho bullshit market”, so when you’re in the market for sturdy, dependable gear this is a huge timesaver. Remember: amateurs study tactics, professionals study logistics.

The replaceable straps part is really important. They’re generally the least-thought-out part of the bag, despite being the most important. Being able to either get them just right or replace them is a deal-breaker.

As beautiful as they are, the Saddleback bags – any leather bags – were disqualified early on, and the strap criteria ruled out all of Crumpler’s products. Maxpedition bags are solid, but they suffer from that mall-commando velcro-and-tiny-pockets-everywhere aesthetic that makes you look like a deflated Rob Leifield character, so that’s that. They’re like some of the better Targus bags, in that sense; all the ingredients of a great product are there, you can see them, but nobody with any taste cared enough about how they worked or fit together.

I had a couple of strong choices, though. The last candidates to get cut were:

  • The Tom Bihn Ego/Superego, cut for the straps. It’s a nice bag and Tom Bihn sees a lot of love around the office, but bags that hang low off clips generally seem to be designed for casual cyclists and pedestrians.
  • I spent a very┬álong time looking at Acronym’s Third Arm products – this one is just so close to perfect – but $1100 for a messenger bag indefensible lollerskates.
  • The MEC Velocio, a very strong contender particularly for the price, maxes out at a 13″ laptop and was cut for size & strap reasons.
  • Chrome’s Buran looks great and is well-reviewed, and the seatbelt-buckle strap is compelling. but falls down on the side pockets and removable strap questions. Chrome makes great bags in general, and the Buran was the last cut. [UPDATE: This was an error - the Buran has removable/adjustable straps that are equivalent to those on the Timbuk2 Especial, and if I were doing this again it would be a tossup; the Buran also meets my requirements.]

The winning candidate was the Timbuk2 Especial Cycling Messenger Bag, which is as close to perfect as I’ve seen. Sits high on the back. waterproof, the strap is great and the magnetic-clip latches are good enough that I find going back to the old kind pointlessly cumbersome now. Fits a lot if it has to, cinches down if it doesn’t, comfortable and lifts off the back a little bit to air out which is quite nice. This plus their extra 3Way phone case for the strap has been making me very happy for about a month now.

There are a few caveats::

  • I generally dislike velcro, but Timbuk2’s “silencer” straps aren’t worth it. A yard of velcro does the job for a fraction the price. If those straps had incorporated some extra molle-style gear loops I’d have jumped at them – some extra clip-in points under the flap would be welcome – but you’d need two sets to quiet this bag, so I wouldn’t bother.
  • I’ve replaced the stock support strap with $5 worth of straps and buckles from MEC so that I can loosen it up or cinch it down as easily as the main strap. This isn’t a big deal until you’ve got to wear a jacket, but it was worth it. Likewise I’ve added a small strap to the main buckle so that it’s easier to unlatch with gloves.

… but that’s not much, and the result is exactly what I wanted.

Well, we have to get back to making jokes at some point. I bought some glasses from the internet.

I bought new glasses from the internet.

It didn’t go exactly as I’d hoped.

My father, David Hoye, died on Sunday at about 5:30 in the morning. He was seventy years old; he’d been married to my mom for the last forty-five.

He had his own ideas about what was right and how things should be done, and though he’d always listen he didn’t much care who disagreed with him. He was impractical and idealistic and stubborn and if you know me at all I’m sure that comes as no surprise whatsoever. We were differently stubborn people with different ideas though, or perhaps “of course”; finding a common language, much less common ground, was never all that easy. It took me a long time to recognize what I’d decided in my teens was overbearing micromanagement for the uncomplicated thing it really was: caring. Lots of it, all the time. I’ve inherited that too, to my chagrin. And it never goes away and I can never turn it off and if I’m lucky someday my kids will hate it just as much as I did. If I’m really lucky they’ll eventually feel the way I feel about it now, but who can say?

He never complained about pain, ever, so when he had to cut a March visit short because his back was “bothering him”, that was worrying. He was diagnosed with prostate cancer shortly afterwards, and it took longer than we would have liked to get him on a treatment program and a pain-management regimen that seemed to be working. But prostate cancer is one of the ones we’re supposed to be able to manage, right?

It looked that way for a while; the numbers were moving quickly in the right direction, and though he was still weak from the medication and radiation treatments he was lucid, could still move around with some effort and things seemed to be moving in the right direction. On May 5th, though, he was checked back into the hospital in considerable pain, where we found out that whatever he had had metastasized and by that point was basically on fire.

All of his kids got a chance to talk to him while he was still lucid and fully present, for which I’m grateful.

It wasn’t a good week; cancer doesn’t give out many of those. But he was himself, right to the end; stubborn, determined and caring deeply about his wife and family. Another thing I’ve apparently inherited from him is that painkillers don’t work for shit; on Friday I watched him, in a body that barely worked at all, fight his way up past enough morphine to put down a mule to tell my mom he loved her. On Saturday with the painkillers running as hot as the hospital staff could set them he was still struggling to talk, but the only thing we could make out were the names of his wife and kids and him asking us to take care of each other.

I want to tell you a story about him.

This happened in mid-November, I think, when I was seven or eight years old. We’d had a warm, dry lead-up to winter, and though the leaves were long off the trees we hadn’t seen any snow yet. But that evening while the temperature dropped on our calm one-block street, we got about a quarter-inch of freezing rain on top of everything.

Dad woke us up for this; it gets dark early in the winter so I have no idea how late it really was but it felt late. Dad woke us up and got us dressed in our snowsuits and we went out to the front porch, where he helped us put on our skates.

In hindsight, I doubt we were out there for more than twenty minutes. But how can I describe those twenty minutes, through an eight-year-old’s eyes? Everything I’ve grown up around suddenly made of crystal, the whole world from asphalt to the treetops shining in the old yellow streetlights like one diamond. Skating up and down the street, arms out like a superhero, stumbling over exposed pavement and turning around to try again. Ruining our skates, I’m sure, for a few minutes of surreal, magical flight up and down our block.

We were the only kids out there that night of the dozen or so young families on the block, and this is what I wanted to tell you about my Dad: he found this for us, this moment that was as close to magic as anything I’ve ever seen. And anybody else could have done that, sure. But nobody else did, and I doubt anybody believed me when I told them about it the next day or any day since, and I don’t care. I had dreams about it afterwards for years; to this day, sometimes, I still do.

He died early Sunday morning, slowing to a stop after his first decent, painless (I think, I hope) night’s sleep in a long time. And I’ll miss him, and I hope that when my time comes that I can show my family a fraction of the love and dedication that he did.

Goodbye, Dad. I love you.