Give My Friend Ten Lousy Bucks

My son's Cub Scouts pack's Assistant Cubmaster is in Greece volunteering at a camp for Afghan, Kurd, and Syrian refugees. He is trying to build a school for the children there, because he is a goddamn prince of a man.

One of these children is a six-year-old girl who told him she watched her own mother be beheaded. Let that one sink in for a moment.

Michael needs money for this school. Just ten bucks'd do it. Ten bucks so these kids can get a school and I can stop crying in my office right now. That's a good deal.

This is his GoFundMe page. Please consider throwing a few bucks his way.

I want to tell my son

I want to tell my son that the world will let him coast on charm and a reputation for being smart, if he is content to let it do so. I want to tell him that he will despise himself if he does. I want to tell him that ideas are cheap, and everything is born in a tide of shit and amniotic fluid and tears and quivering muscle.

I want to tell him this, but first I need to check my favorites.

I want to tell my daughter

I want to tell my daughter that she can skip the social anxiety and go straight to the Girl Who Gives Zero Fucks that I know. I want to tell her that if she does that, people will lay their coats in her path.

I want to tell her this, but I've only figured out how to do it myself in print.

Online Real-Time

Two Christmases ago was a busy season for funerals. I wrote to you about it.

Among the losses was a new friend and coworker, whom we'd dubbed "Online Real-Time" for his general lack of a brain-to-mouth filter. That's a character defect for most people, but Justin was such a genuinely good man that it was nearly always on the endearing-to-hilarious spectrum.

So. Fifteen minutes ago I was updating one of my code repos at work. I pulled down my counterpart's latest changes, tried to do a build, and my development environment complained that it couldn't find a new form interface it needed:


We hide things in the software you run. We bury our frustrations in comments. We name things after inside jokes. I once got a bug fix ticket that simply read "please make your error logging less witty."

Sometimes we bury a tribute where you will never see it.

Nerds, you can be pretty great sometimes.

The Big Push Begins


We finished reading Because of Winn-Dixie last night. In it there is a candy, the Littmus Lozenge, that tastes sweet and like sadness at the same time. People can't stop eating it.

I'm thinking about that candy today.

(Incidentally, if you haven't read Kate DiCamillo, read literally everything she's ever done. She has the rare stuff. Every one of her books is a Littmus Lozenge.)