...about having to have a Live ID in order to leave comments on my blog?  I'd really like to move over to Live Spaces, but there's no such thing as anonymous comments over there.

So, what say you? 

Are you OK with having to have a Live ID in order to tell me I'm an idiot?

I read this article for a while at work today, and it's spot on.

I've tried to program against Linux before, and it was a nightmare.  I chose to try using a C# compiler from the Mono project, and a free (because everything for Linux is free) IDE called SharpEdit (or #Edit, or something like that).

There were no fewer than 30 steps that I had to follow *before* I could even start writing code.
I had to get specific versions of about 20 different components - none of which were in the same place, and the guide document pointing to all of those components was outdated.

I gave up.

Incidentally, the same thing happened when I tried to use C# on a Mac, so I just gave up all together.  I've looked at Cocoa and Objective C, but that seems like a lot of work, too, for just playing around.   Anyway, read this article.  

Quote

elliotth's blog: Desktop Linux suckage: where's our Steve Jobs?

I'm pretty sure I want this.   Introducing... the HTC Touch HD - MoDaCo

I told Marc about this a long time ago, but I totally forgot to blog it.  And, since I have nothing else to talk about, I figured now would be a good time.

About a month or so ago, I was at a doctor appointment to get a refill on my antidepressants.  The office where my head meat doctor works is … interesting.  It’s actually in a school for “behaviorally challenged” kids (which means that they rotten little fucks).  As such, I’m used to there being the average amount of screaming, yelling, swearing, and general craziness that goes along with rotten little fucks.

But that day was different.

There was another patient there to see a different doctor.  I saw her enter the waiting room, and just sort of hang out at the door looking uncomfortable.  Her eyes darted around the room, and every now and then she would close her eyes and bow her head.  I thought that maybe she was praying, but upon closer inspection I heard her whimpering while she was doing it, so it became obvious that she was crying.  For about 3 seconds at a time.

After a few minutes, she moved to come sit down in one of the chairs.  Her movements were uncertain at first, as though she may have thought that the ground would give away under her.  Then she darted for one of the chairs.  Of course, it was a chair next to me.

Naturally, I was playing with my iPhone (which I’ve given up now, but that’s another blog post) and trying to block everything else out until it was my turn to see the doctor.  He was running late.  The woman looked through the magazines on the table, and decided that she wanted the one sitting in front of me.  She asked me – very calmly and quietly – if I would please hand her the magazine. 

“Oh good,” I thought.  “That seems nice and sane.  Perhaps I was wrong to jump to conclusions.”  And I handed her the magazine. 

Well, that was retarded of me, because then I was fair game for discussion.  She looked at my phone and told me that it was just like her phone.  She didn’t visibly have one, but maybe it was in her pocket or purse, I thought.  Then she reached over like she wanted to take my phone from me. 

I repositioned myself in a way to suggest that I was done with this conversation, but she was having none of that.  She started talking about… something.  I have no idea what it was.  It was gibberish, as far as I could tell, but she was very passionate about it.  Then she told me that her dad had just died the week before, and she bowed her head and whimpered again.  She put her hands up to her face to wipe “tears” away from each of her eyes.  After about 3 seconds, she was done crying again, and smiled at me.

I smiled – awkwardly – back at her, and she stared telling me all about her home on some tropical island I’d never heard of, and her husbands, and how I probably knew them.  She said that her husbands were dead as well.  She did the crying thing again, and was abruptly done with it again.  Then she decided to tell me their names.

They were both named John. 

John Ritter and John Denver.

Then she grabbed the magazine that she had been neglecting, and pointed out a picture of a chair in the magazine to me and made a “yipping” sound. 

At that very moment I saw my doctor coming down the hallway, presumably to collect me. 

As much as a handicapped man can bolt, that’s just what I did.