A filesystem is a file. This knowledge is protected for the public by GPL. In time, if America doesn't look after Debian, it will have to be acknowledged that there's nothing home-grown about American technology.
Republicans and Democrats have generally had to see Stallman as their enemy. Though a greenie, and therefore seeming to want the world to become a sphere of black, his writing made me wonder about friends of mine who only talked about user friendliness. This was a long time ago. I walked about town feeling like an old man who was uninterested in the thrill of driving. And the only girls I knew were either keen to talk about gadgets, or talking as if we would be better off walking around with loin cloths.
Come a little bit closer, Native Americans: hear what I have to say.
We like to experiment with filesystem structures: it isn't yet a Science; whether it aught to be or not is a matter for experimentors to think about. But there's no money in the making of discoveries. While there might at times be ways of making money from the implementation of a new idea, girls and boys know that robust has more to do with relationships than with Science.
But filesystems must be robust; this is a matter of marking it clean before using it.
Background recovery is required for equipment that doesn't have an electro-mechanical lock. If such recovery isn't given to us, we must stare at a screen with a text-box, or otherwise at words in a shell, to the effect of, 'please wait while a purgative brings us back to normalcy.'
GNU NTFS doesn't have background recovery, and MSW EXT4 is twenty years overdue; so that GNU dudes have to go on doing the very uncool thing of unmounting before removal.
Unmounting and dismounting are the same thing. Less cool than American prophets, we use the command umount.
Experimenting by doing reminds us of alternative filesystems which had recovery made by dudes who went on to do things which are not classed as uncool. It's uncool to be a drunkard or a coder.
A GNU programmer who kills his wife turns us all who wear the GPL hat into murderers.
This has become more important to me than anything else: I'm either a decrepit holy man or a vagabond. It's clear that I can only make suggestions to a world that thinks all the technicalities belong to me. I come to thanking my friends who told a girl that I was a Nerd who hid behind another girl when he heard gunshots. Gadget girls fall back on their mother's religion.
I don't know if I ever was an awkward boy. I might recall one occasion when I thought I looked a bit disproportionate, and then try to push my recollection back in time from there, but then I would be forming a binary tree. And try as I might I find that I'm just a character in my imagination.
In fact, I've just created the forty-one year old virgin.
With such sparkling teeth, this boy clearly brushed his teeth twice a day, though for twenty five years he hasn't left the house (his diet has been nothing but mealies).
His blue and white bicycle, which he had attempted to cycle over the mountains (but it disagreed with its name), he used every day to tend to the mealies at the bottom of the garden. He also had fruit trees, but he preferred it when the worms ate the fruit, because they weren't being given a chance anywhere else.
Today, at the age of forty-one and a half, he made the decision to get on his bicycle and take a look at the town round about. But the first person he met said that his alloy rims were out of date. This disappointed him, because he recalled fondly that his uncle had repaired them twice--which is a painstaking process if one doesn't own a bicycle factory. He then tried to wave down another cyclist or two, but they must have been olympic cyclists, because they didn't even look at him.
On the way down one of his favourite hills there was a tractor on the main road. Though he was not disappointed--there's always the next time--our story cannot omit to mention this detail. At the bottom of the hill he found a big gathering of people. But the people here just seemed to be playing staring games. And so he decided to take a long ride--something he had hesitated to do since his bike had shown such an aversion to the word mountain. Finally, now, within sight of home, he saw someone familiar. But she seemed to be having an argument with herself in her head. Waiting for her to introduce herself, he finally managed to get the attention of a fellow cyclist. But the cyclist, though he didn't say anything about his frame or wheels being out of date, told Shame (for that is what the boy called himself) that everything was fucked. He thought he better leave the girl alone--she didn't seem to know who she was.
'One more person,' he said to himself, 'I'll try to speak to one more person.'
But descending the hill from which he had vantage of his home, a passerby shouted from their car, "FUCKED!"
So he coasted back home, placed a notice on his gate, climbed into the Cavorite pod, and shot up to the Moon.
Ag, Shame. No girls on the Moon. But this will give us a reason to look at network protocols. Forgive my removing of wholesome advice (or the original inclusion of it, as you will).
The notice on the gate said, 'send me a message when you learn how to unfuck.'