I just got back from Cwrs Cymraeg. I intend to write up a more detailed historical fiction memoir of the week, but that will wait until I am not quite so tired. Since most of you don't have a clue what I'm talking about (which usually happens regardless of subject). Cwrs Cymraeg is a week-long intensive Welsh language course held each year in various cities. The instruction is fantastic, outside classes there are many opportunities to learn (and some aren't even in the pub). I would go year after year only for the quality of the classes. But it is the friends--seeing old friends and meeting old friends for the first time--that makes it so meaningful.

So, I thought I'd hit the highlights:

I was asked--and promptly and enthusiastically accepted--to be on the board of directors of Cymdeithas Madog.

For the first time, I entered the Eisteddfod (sort of a writing competition). Since the topic for the mid-level is given on Monday, and it has to be turned in Thursday evening, you don't have much free time. Just entering was quite an accomplishment. Coming in third was a great honor. And despite all the discouragement I gave her, one of my new old friends placed first. Another of my new old friends, the fabulously fantastic dragonaries placed in her level as well.

I have hiraeth up to here. A year is a long time to wait. Alberta next year, and tentatively, Wales the next.

If you are learning Welsh, have ever wanted to, or perhaps just want to spend night after night getting drunk with Welshmen, I strongly encourage to go.

Current Mood: wedi blino

For some reason, I feel oddly tired. Curious.

Penblwydd hapus i gylfinir! Mwynha dy bythefnos i ffwrdd.

Mae'n bwrw glaw fel buwch ar graig wastad.

Current Mood: Wet

Dw i'n gallu sgrifennu lol a bydd rhyw pobl'n meddwl dw i'n sgrifennu amdanyn nhw.

Yeah, Andrea, I'm looking at you. You too, Celia.

HWRENSGUTHAN!

Well, since d2leddy did it, it is officially cool now.

Take a look at your LJ friends list, then list up to ten things you want to say to ten different LJ friends... DO NOT state who these people are. DO NOT confirm nor deny any "comment speculation".

1. Someday I'd like to buy a commemorative toaster to commemorate our LJ friendship. I could make toast. Commemorative toast.

2. Absolutely no. Just. No.

3. The word "trebuchet" reminds me of you.

4. I'm fairly certain that you don't actually exist; the laws of physics couldn't possibly allow it.

5. If you want to say something to me, say it to my face...don't be passive-aggressive and do it in a silly meme.

6. When I'm pressed for time and can only read a few people's LJs, you are one of them.

7. But you aren't. Sorry.

8. Neither are you.

9. Some day, I might make a drinking game based upon your LJ.

10. You aren't a person, you are a community. How did you end up on this list? Oh, and you are ugly and your mother dresses you funny.

Current Mood: mischievous

I was very disappointed to learn that a morgi is not a milgi-corgi mix. To help ease my pain of that bitter disappointment, I wrote this:

Morgi, Morgi
(tune: Milgi, Milgi)

Dan y don mae pysgodyn bach,
Ar y cwrel mae'n pori;
A'i corff oren a'i streipen streipen wen
Yn hidio dim am forgi!

( Canwch! )

Current Mood: disappointed

Mae fy nosbarthau yn dechrau mewn llai nag un mis. Dw i'n bachgen drwg a fues i ddim gwneud fy ngwaith cartref. Wps.

Mae'n amser i ddechrau ymarfer fy sgiliau yfed Cymraeg.

Its all fun and games until someone gets a restraining order. Then its fun and games from at least 100 feet away.

In a work email, I just caught myself typing "oferfiew" instead of "overview". On further proofreading I also noticed "yn ffast" instead of "quickly"...and that I started the email with "Sh'mae".

Ffortunately, I wedi ffixed it beffore I sent it.

What do LJ users want? Drama. What is SUP giving LJ users? Drama. Really, there are few companies that are this good at giving their clients exactly what they want.

Current Mood: Dramatic

They are filming this right next to my office. It is just around the corner from the door. I haven't bothered to go look yet, but I just found out Jennifer Garner is in it. That might be worth a peek.

I've found myself not only following sports, but actually reading sports news. The Patriots losing in the Superbowl? Big deal. All it means to me is that I won't have to fight the crowds at the train station the day they would have had the big parade. No, the only game that mattered last weekend was Wales vs. England in the 6 Nations rugby tournament.

When I read articles about rugby in English, it makes little sense; I don't know the players, positions, and I'm a little vague on the rules. But articles in Welsh...the poetry comes through clearly. I still don't entirely understand the game, but the deeper meanings reverberate through me. Welsh is the language of poets, madmen, and heaven itself. Some of the greatest hymns such as Cwm Rhondda, Calon Lân, and Milgi Milgi were written in that blessed tongue. And even when applied to something as mundane as sport, the language transforms the secular and often profane into a spiritual, enlightening, and profound celebration of the grace and dignity of human competition.

As an example, a recent article on the BBC's website had the following line:

"Roedd y perfformiad yn yr ail hanner yn erbyn Lloegr yn ffantastig."

Even if you don't understand the words, and can't experience the joy of the sound of them coyly flirting in your ears, the striking visual beauty of the language is unmistakable. The diagonals of the 'y' giving the pattern of letters a beguilingly complex rhythm.

Translated, it becomes unremarkable. Great and significant in meaning, of course, but the beauty of sound is lost.

"The performance in the second half against England was fantastic."

The words are utterly true and utterly bland.

And it was ffantastig. Ffantastig iawn. Ffan-ffycio-tastig.

Current Mood: contemplative

"Do you know what today is?" I asked bexspex as I hopped out of bed this morning.

She stared blankly at me for a moment. "Thursday?" she answered uncertainly.

I nodded slowly and gestured that there was more to it than that.

"Oh, your first day as a 'real' employee."

".....well, yeah, there's that, but its something more important than that."

She shrugged and shook her head.

"My new graphics card comes today!" I exclaimed jazz handedly. Just in case she missed that important visual punctuation, I added "jazz hands!"

She looked at me for a moment. "Have you been tracking your package every hour?"

"Um, no." I answered, and then mumbled "of course not, I've been asleep for the last few hours."

"How is it coming?" She asked.

"It is coming along very nicely. Thank you for asking!"

She stared at me for a moment, then shook her head. "How is it being shipped?"



After I regained the use of my right hand a month ago, I started to play my new computer game (Unreal Tournament 3). Or tried to. Even after applying the patch, trying every hint I could find online, installing the latest drivers, and then even beta drivers it would, after a couple minutes of play, crash. Crash hard. Eventually, I began to suspect that it wasn't a software issue.

For some time, I'd noticed that I would occasionally get strange graphics artifacts in some games. Long smears of a texture. I assumed it was a software issue, a device driver problem. Sometimes they'd go away, and sometimes they'd get worse and I'd blue screen. As I was researching my stability problems with UT3, I came to find out that those artifacts, spikes, are a symptom of bad memory on the video card. I did some testing and confirmed that I do, indeed, have some bad memory. I normally don't have problems unless the game is really pushing the card hard (and UT3 not only pushes my card, but also shoves, teases, and then knocks it down and steals its lunch money).

Now, I know what you are thinking: just like its owner. The more Arthurian of you might even be saying that "the graphics card and the gamer are one." But you are wrong. I don't have a bad memory. I don't have bad memories. I am the bad memory...and your worst nightmare.

I did my homework, and found the chip I wanted: the nVidia 8800GT. It's much faster than anything anywhere near its price. Even going up a couple hundred only buys you a small improvement. With graphics cards (like most things), at the low end, each dollar will buy a significant improvement, but there is the point where serious cash will only purchase modest improvements. This chip pushes that point down to affordable levels. The Law of Diminishing Returns is here early and it wants to party at my house. Unfortunately, every other rocket jockey, kill stealer, and spawn camper also wants it to party at his house. Buying it was more like buying concert tickets to a sold out show than buying computer gear. Hard to find actually in stock. Now I know how all the Konsole Kids feel.

The knob on the 8800GT normally goes up to 11. But the card I got is factory overclocked (and, thanks to some barely street legal copper, well chilled) all the way to eleven and a half. For the curious: http://www.newegg.com/Product/Product.aspx?Item=N82E16814125087

Current Mood: Ready to Frag

As bexspex was crawling out of bed this morning, she said something with the word "beat". Or something that sounded like that. Or perhaps, nothing at all. Regardless, I responded with "I've got the beat."

"Um, what?" She asked.

"Everybody get on your feet." I answered.

She stared at me for a few moments. "Great. Now I'm going to have that song stuck in my head all day."

I felt bad about that, so I said "Yeah. But I'd rather be Wang-Chunging." I thought that should help.

She tried to escalate. She said "No, you'd rather be doing the Safety Dance." It didn't work.

As I was getting dressed, I got thinking about earworms. One of the worst ones for me is the Spice Girls' "Wannabe". At North Station, there are signs up all over advertising that they are playing at the Boston Garden Shawmut Center FleetCenter TD Banknorth Garden, which is attached to North Station. Since like the hands on a stopped clock pointing at the correct time, I'm there twice a day (and just as punctual), I now know very well that they will be in concert on January 30. I think it would be funny to show up that day dressed in a track suit and a GLC (Goldie Lookin Chain) t-shirt. Perhaps a bit of gold-filled wrapped around my neck for good measure. I doubt many people would get the reference.

And since most of you won't get the reference, in 2005, GLC performed in Cardiff's Millennium Stadium just prior to the Wales v. England's World Cup Qualifying match. They dedicated a song to Victoria "Posh Spice" Beckham, who along with her trueloveforeverxoxoxo David "I Kick Balls" Beckham was present. The song, "Your Missus is a Nutter" is about binge drinking. A few days after their appearance, the band was summoned by the mayor of their hometown of Newport. He criticized their bad judgment in dedicating that song to her, and went on to say that he thought the title of their new CD "Safe as Fuck" was in bad taste. Most people, however, thought the Football Association of Wales where the ones that exercised bad judgment in having them play in the first place.

As I finished dressing, I remembered that I'd noticed something interesting in that song. So, now fully dressed, I said to bexspex "One of my favorite Welsh rap groups..." It took her a few minutes to stop laughing before I could finish that sentence. She asked if I'd said it that deadpan just to make her laugh.

"Of course," I lied. I've found that taking credit for accidental humor is a good way to improve my reputation as a funny guy. Actually, I've found that taking credit for fortunate accidents or other people's accomplishments is a good way to improve my reputation on a good number of other things as well. I strongly recommend that strategy. Except, for perhaps murder. Then, even if it was your accomplishment, and wasn't accidental, it is generally wise to not claim credit. The only exception is if it was a particularly funny murder, and then it is a coin toss.

I started over. "One of my favorite Welsh rap Groups, Goldie Lookin Chain...I've noticed that at times they almost sound like they could be from Boston. They manage to successfully rhyme 'harm' and 'calm'." I had carefully enunciated the 'r' in 'harm' and made the 'l' in 'calm' as dark as midnight.

She stared at me, wondering what the point of this was. I demonstrated, "haaaaahhhhm, caaaahhhhm", emulating a perfect Bostonian (and apparently, Newportonian) accent.

"Interesting," she lied.

For your enjoyment, please find enclosed the video for "Your Missus is a Nutter" and a clip of their performance at Millennium Stadium. That song is the second one they play (the first is "Guns Don't Kill People, Rappers Do"). As long as you are wearing headphones, both are probably Safe (as Fuck) For Work.

Current Mood: caaaahhhhm

I spent a very rainy lunch hour indoors, looking at satellite views of Wales courtesy of Google maps. Often, when I look at places with the satellite view on Google maps, there is almost enough detail that you tell if people are wearing brown shoes with a black belt. (The CIA, of course, has satellite images detailed enough that you can tell if people are wearing last season's shoes.) Sadly, the maps of Wales are rarely that detailed. And that is fine, I suppose, because I've already learned about fashions in Wales by watching a lot of music videos. What I've learned mostly is that all Welshmen are young musicians badly in need of haircuts.

Nevertheless, I'm disappointed when I zoom in for a closer look at the countryside and so frequently see the blurry green replaced with the text "We are sorry, but we don't have imagery at this zoom level for this region. Try zooming out for a broader look." I assumed that detailed satellite images of an island the size of Great Britain would be no big deal. Plus, since the US has no royal family, they are a strategic source of tabloid gossip.

After a while of just roaming the countryside, I started plugging in place names. I started with "Capel Celyn" (current weather: wet). Then, continuing that theme, moved on to "Cantre'r Gwaelod, UK" (current weather: wet). I was happily surprised when I got a result. But, I figured since Google knows everything, it would certainly know if it existed. Apparently, it is in Wrexham, rather than beneath the waves of Cardigan Bay. I suppose it could be a different Cantre'r Gwaelod, since Wales (like everywhere else I suppose) likes to duplicate place names. There is probably at least one Llanfair for each Mary in the Bible. Speaking of which, I then moved on to Anglesey (current weather: cloudy). Not only couldn't the satellite people be bothered to take a few closeups, but they didn't even wait for the skies to clear a bit. That view is covered with clouds. Although, I suppose, this being Wales, it could be simply overrun with sheep...or white goats (with white lips and white tails). I'm not sure what was more disappointing: that I saw the message about not having imagery at this zoom level, or that I didn't see "We are sorry, but you don't have a big enough monitor at this zoom level for this town name."

Current Mood: No mood at this zoom level

http://hardware.slashdot.org/article.pl?sid=07/12/07/1736209

In junior high, I joined the school's computer club. I was instantly hooked. We had Atari 400's (with the gawdawful membrane keyboards) and 800's. I wanted one. After begging and cajoling my mother and stepfather for an Atari, they got me a Commodore VIC-20 for Christmas the following year. It was cheaper. I didn't know if I should be heartbroken because I got an inferior machine, or thrilled because I had a computer of my own.

As I sulked, I started programming it. I learned how to do graphics and sound without graphics and sound commands. By the time Christmas break was over, I was getting pretty good. It turned out that all that little Charlie Brown tree of a computer needed was a little love.

I wrote a maze/dungeon game, and as I tweaked it and added features, I quickly started to fill the computer's small memory. Eventually, I ended up changing all the variable names from something descriptive to single letters, just to squeeze the most out of it. With the tape drive, it was just as well, because each byte would mean a longer load time.

Being a hardcore techie himself, my step-father got the bug, too. Before long, we were something almost unheard of at the time: a multiple computer household.

Then I got a Commodore 64, followed by a Commodore 128. With 64K and 128K, I had more room than I could ever use. And with a floppy drive (and then second), I could easily store programs that could take advantage of all that space. With my 80 column monitor, I could fly at 2 MHz. I was a techno-badass.

I did an incredible amount of programming on those machines. I could hack into the early hours and still crave more. If I wasn't writing one of my own, I was typing something in out of a magazine. And the games, oh the hours I spent.

The 128 was with me all through college. Even though I had access to VMS and Unix machines, I still burned hours on it. And when I was in the computer lab, I would never actually be sitting at the computer I was using. It was in an air-conditioned room with a raised floor while I was typing at a dumb terminal.

In college, I worked part time in my step-father's electronics repair shop. It was a Commodore-authorized service center. There, I had my first exposure to the future. The Amiga. Unbelievably powerful machines they were. The things they could do. Oh, how I wanted one. I spent many hours playing with the newly repaired computers of our customers.

After college, I got my first real job, and was married, I bought myself an Amiga 500. I was no longer limited by a 1 or 2 MHz 8-bit computer. I had over 7 MHz of 16-bit Motorola lovin' under the hood. 1 MB of RAM--the things you could do with that much space. And I did much less programming on it. Oh, I still played games, but programming was just so much effort. You couldn't just turn it on and start typing. Sadly, this was indeed the future.

A few years later, I broke down and bought a PC. I felt somewhat like a sell-out. But my 166 MHz Pentium 1 (this was even before MMX), 16 megs of RAM, 16 GB hard drive, and a CD ROM drive was simply decadence. Over the next few years, I upgraded the hell out of that box. When I retired it, it had 80 megs of RAM, 80 gigs of hard drive, a CD burner, a 3D graphics card, a kickass sound card. And I did even less programming than I did on the Amiga.

Now, a few computers later, I have a tidy little network. My main computer is over a year old, and is still faster than most. I can't remember the last time I actually wrote a program on the computer that is actually sitting in front of me. The computer I'm actually programming might be sitting on a raised floor in another state, or in a corner on the other side of my computer room (technically, the dining room). But the computer I'll be typing on is (despite the multiple gigs of RAM, dual-core processor, and sweet, sweet graphics card) acting as a glorified version of that VT220 dumb terminal I used back in the computer lab in college.

For all the changes in technology, one thing hasn't changed. All too often, you can still find me awake way too late on a Friday night, typing away, writing one program or another. Some loves are never lost.

Current Mood: nostalgic

I wrote a little bit about this back in August...just not in English. Over the summer, two of my fingers suddenly went numb--my pinkie and ring finger on my right hand. This happened the day after my Welsh course. I just figured it was a repetitive strain injury from lifting pints.

I went to my doctor who the sent me to a neurologist to have some tests done. The tests involved being wired up to a machine, then repeatedly poked with very fine needles, and finally shocked with a cattle prod-like instrument. When he was finished, the neurologist asked me again "how long did you say this has been going on?"

"A couple weeks."

He looked at his notes, "Judging by the results, this has probably been going on for much longer."

The ulnar nerve, which provides sensation to those two fingers and controls strength for the entire hand is exposed at the elbow. Basically, that exposure point is the funny bone...and mine was permanently funnied.

I was then sent off to an orthopedist. The conservative treatment is to first have me sleep with my arm splinted straight. The nerve is under tension when the arm is bent. Keeping it straight will often allow it to heal. The orthopedist tapped and poked and bent me in various ways ("does it go numb when you do this?" "it is already numb"), took x-rays, and looked over the results from the neurologist. Finally, he said that there was no point in even trying the splint, the nerve was far too damaged. The only thing that might help is to move the nerve from the outside of my elbow to the inside. Safely tucked under the muscle, it won't be aggravated each and every time my elbow touches something, and it will actually have a shorter path so it will never be under tension. They do this surgery all the time; they even make glossy brochures about it. He gave me one. Just to be certain, he double-checked with the neurologist who agreed that this was the only option.

So, a couple weeks ago, I had the surgery.

My right arm is now splinted and in a sling...and mostly useless. My mouse now sits on my left and I'm typing left-handed. I'm a programmer, so I'm used to having two hands fly over the keyboard in bursts of text followed by arcane symbols. Reduced to one hand (and my non-dominant one at that), I'm hopelessly clumsy, and even the usually terse vi commands have become unwieldy.

A couple days after the operation, my early Christmas present arrived: Unreal Tournament III. It sits on a bookshelf yet to be installed. Its glorious gore and blissful bloodshed is hopelessly unplayable in my current condition.

I'm not good at this, everything from buttoning my shirt in the morning to pulling the covers up at night is frustrating. And as bad as I am at doing things, I'm worse at letting others help me. It isn't pride or determination; I just don't think to ask.

In nine days the splint comes off and the staples come out. I will be able to bend my arm. Once again I'll type with two hands. I won't be able to carry much weight right away--part of the surgery involves cutting a tendon, and that combined with all the muscles twiddled with takes time to heal to full strength. But I will be functional again. It will take months for the nerve to completely heal (if it ever does).

And after I'm free of the splint, if you need me, you'll be able to find me in front of my computer. My right hand in its rightful place on my mouse, and with each twitch of my finger, my smiling face will be lit in the flickering light of rocket fire.

Current Mood: frustrated

As busy as a one armed Unix programmer.

Current Mood: busy