TubaOrNotTuba

Not that I really care too much, but the fever to own a personal hockey franchise is growing among the idle rich. Right now, one of the teams that was sent to wander in the desert wants relief from its creditors, and by extension, a new mailing address. Just down the highway, the Montreal franchise is in no danger of needing a moving van, but new owners are one announcement away. Locally, even the regional television station has been showing (over and over again) a documentary about the rise and fall of the Nordiques: there is a fringe segment of the population that would love to have another team to criticize as long as they were local.

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And there it was, the fundamental philosophical question. The one that we all must ask before we die. Come on, say it in chorus with me. The question is “What is the Meaning of Life?” I have children, so I decided, with the help of my local video store, to get some instruction from the masters. None other than the troupe from Monty Python.

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In the car, my son plugs his MP3 player into the “entertainment center” (what used to be a radio with bad sound, when I was young) and brings up his musical choice. I’m surprised to hear a song by Hendrix, one that I’ve only heard a couple of times before. Is this the new classical music for future generations? The odds are good, because the only definition of classic that comes to mind would be instrumental music from at least one generation before. Hendrix fits the reference.

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This evening we watched the DVD version of Blindness, based on a novel by Nobel prize winner José Saramago. A tough way to spend a couple of hours, because the movie shows a very dark and vicious world. Excuse what may sound like a pun; humans are not always noble (sorry).

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The question I keep asking, based on today’s efforts with my newest Linux boot is very basic. What is the difference between a “release candidate” and the “final version”? Obviously there may be bugs that are almost corrected, but this time around I don’t think the difference will be much more than a name. I’m completely satisfied with Linux Mint 7. This is their best effort so far, by a country furlong.

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Here we go. Another improved distribution of Linux to try (and buy, because the price is so affordable). I’m still a fan of Linux Mint, and this evening I burned an ISO of “Gloria” (version 7 Release candidate 1). Usually I’m patient enough to wait for beta and RC versions to pass, but there’s a confidence level with this distro that made the risk acceptable. The usual easy install, where only one of my partitions is erased and reformatted; the Vista stuff is untouched, and after about fifteen minutes and one reboot, bere we are with a newer, faster Linux ready to use. This time around, even my sound works without any tweaking or wondering what forum might hold a clue to a puzzle. Two thumbs up.

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Long live rock and roll. Or, if you will, rock and roll lives long. This summer marks the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, and a number of optimistic reports in the mainstream media point to a big concert (or two or three) sometime in late August (or perhaps October). The cool part is that many of the headline acts from the summer of ’69 are going to be back for the reprise. Proof that good music does keep one healthy. Just ignore the names that are absent because of other priorities (we can’t all live forever).

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I miss my routine. Close to three weeks now in this healing holding pattern, and I miss my cubicle from hell. I miss my phone that keeps me awake. I miss the day-to-day of the workplace. However, I’m also trying to block out the most appropriate time to celebrate summer, and there are issues. If only we had a Magic 8-ball for times like this.

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Although I’m not a group member, I’ve certainly heard the expression “couch coach” used. After all, I live in a community where certain sports teams (and their exploits) are a part of the daily cultural noise. And, win or lose, there are a multitude that believe they could offer an improved version of the direction that all sports teams require.

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Just as we get the name for our newest pandemic on the lips of all and sundry, and then find that name changed, the pigs have decided to claim what is rightfully theirs. Somewhere in the wilds of Alberta (we aren’t being told where, in respect for the patients’ anonynity) a small herd of pigs are ill. They caught the H1N1 A (pronounced hi-nee-a, I think) from a human that had gone wandering somewhere south of El Paso. Almost ironic, since we were calling this the “swine flu” when there were no piggies with curly tails involved. On the other hand, maybe the pigs were referring to it as “human flu”. Now, both infected parties must adjust to the new reality.

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