Author: Aaron Weber

Financial Foresight

Seems obvious to me, but children just seem like a luxury most people just shouldn’t indulge in. I mean, you can do quite well making not much money if you’re only supporting yourself. But feeding eight people on a minimum wage salary? Not bloody likely.

The solutions, of course, are difficult. If we “care about the children” we’ll increase aid to families with dependent children, but then the “personal responsibility” right complains about “welfare queens” and “abuse of the system,” and the childless cranks like me tend to get annoyed that all their money is going to support people too irresponsible to use a rubber.

Frankly, I don’t have kids and don’t plan to, but I still find the Child-Free Movement, like the QuirkyAlone movement, incredibly annoying. Being single and childless is not a “movement.” I have no problem paying my education taxes, or helping out when my co-workers have sick kids, because I know those kids will be paying for my retirement. That’s the intergenerational commitment that the childfree selfishly ignore. Still, I wish people would think twice before, as it were, pulling the trigger and bringing one more miserable squalling child into this world. It’s not like the kid will be grateful or anything.

SLC Punk

200 MB into the downloading of X11 and OpenOffice.Org for MacOS X, I’m definitely getting my money’s worth of bandwidth from the hotel net connection.

My back is killing me. I feel like an old man. Hell, I tried to go to bed at seven thirty tonight.

Need a new laptop. OS X was cute and all, but this hardware is way out of date and I need something I can work on, not just play. And that means SUSE 9.1, XD Unstable, OpenOffice 1.1, and most importantly Evolution 1.5. Mail.app blows chunks. I still haven’t figured out how to get it to display more than one folder.

Bitter Litte Coda to an Illustrious Career

Avenue Victor Hugo Bookstore is closing after nearly 30 years in business, and posts an incredibly bitter little suicide note to everyone who failed the store as it was dying. I’d do the same. Screw being gracious and going down with the ship, especially when you’re more or less in a fleet and you’re watching one after another sink as the weather turns against you all. It’s mean, it’s self-serving, and it’s basically true, with the exception of the final prediction that the closure of bookstores leads inexorably to the end of culture and erudition.
Continue reading “Bitter Litte Coda to an Illustrious Career”

Hours and Time

Within two weeks of arriving at Ximian, in April 2000, I had pulled my first 36-hour shift, discovered the wonderful condition called “keyboard-face,” and spent nearly 100 dollars on high-caffeine beverages and diGiorno pizzas delivered to my door by the late lamented Kozmo.com.

I have never felt the kind of stress that I do now. My entire spinal column hurts, my head throbs, I can feel my gut clenched all day while I sit at my desk, and half a dozen times a day I feel my heart beat rapidly in my chest and find it difficult to breathe. I think Brainshare might be to blame, but I can’t really tell. With any luck I’ll feel better by April.

Hidden Messages

Before my parents left for vacation, my dad hid my mother’s jewelry. When they got back, he couldn’t remember where he’d hidden it. At some point in his search, he took the bottom drawer out of the built-in cabinet in my old bedroom. Taped to the floor was a note, in my handwriting, saying “What are you looking for? What did you hide?”

I’d apparently written it and put it there when I was maybe 18 and then forgotten all about it.

Is this funny?

I think this is a joke news report, in which case it’s pretty funny. Actually, it might even be funny even if it did happen.

This one is a real news report about the possible damage to emotional interactions caused by psychopharmacology. If love is like addiction and obsession, you can more or less cure that with medication, right?

I have a feeling this could be a good excuse for people afraid to commit to relationships (“You’re wonderful and I would love you, but I’m medicated beyond the ability to love!”) That’s better than “it’s not me, it’s you” or “let’s be friends.” I guess.

Finally, a Dead Man’s Clothes that Fit Me

I found it alternately creepy, heartbreaking, and fun to spend a few hours with my family sorting through my late uncle’s posessions. My grandmother, a firm believer in waste-not-want-not, was very concerned that his belongings be put to use. The automotive memorabilia has gone to the race team members and auto clubs, and the dog memorabilia has gone to the Bull Terrier groups. Most of the rest is probably Goodwill-bound, sadly. The puppies have been adopted, and Grandma is keeping the remaining two adult dogs, “Action” Jackson and Blondie, although they’re a bit too much for her– they have to be walked separately since we won’t risk them fighting, and that makes eight walks a day with stubborn, muscular dogs. His rifle went to the farm manager’s eldest boy, who’ll probably return the favor with gifts of venison next season.

We tried on some of the clothes, of course, but he was much, much taller than the rest of us. Nonetheless, my brother and father found a couple pairs of nice pants that they’ll have hemmed (Grandma: “I bought him these twenty years ago and he never wore them!” Dad: “And now they’re back in style!”), and my brother’s the proud owner of a new wide-lapelled suit from the 70s. I got a couple of old pit-crew jackets.. If the rest of the stuff hadn’t been three sizes too large, I’d be able to head over to the Model Cafe in Allston and hang with the indie-rockers in a proper costume, down to someone else’s name embroidered on the chest. At first I thought I’d feel awkward wearing his clothes, especially doing it in a semi-ironic fashion. But he was always one to appreciate utility and irony, so I think he’d get a kick out of it. Besides, the collars are short, perfect for motorcycling, once the weather warms up a little.

Later we took both his cars out for exercise. Fabulous, although I have to say that as someone who’s a little unsteady with a manual clutch, it was a rather harrowing experience at every stop sign. Not cars to learn shifting on. We’ll have to sell them– it makes no sense for anyone but a serious enthusiast to own these vehicles, and neither my brother nor I would even have a place to store them– you can’t keep a beast like that outside, not in Boston or DC. Anyway, if you’re interested in a heavily customized M3 sedan or Mini Cooper S, drop me a line. Classy, race-style customizations, mind you. No hydraulics, ground-effects, or subwoofers.

Odd weekend, I’ll tell you that much. Odd weekend.