Cogs can think.

I don’t know what you’re looking for
You haven’t found it baby, that’s for sure
You rip me up, you spread me all around
In the dust of the deed of time

And this is not a case of lust, you see
It’s not a matter of you versus me
It’s fine the way you want me on your own
But in the end it’s always me alone

And I’m losing my favourite game
You’re losing your mind again
I’m losing my baby
Losing my favourite game

I only know what I’ve been working for
Another you so I could love you more
I really thought that I could take you there
But my experiment is not getting us anywhere

I had a vision I could turn you right
A stupid mission and a lethal fight
I should have seen it when my hope was new
My heart is black and my body is blue

And I’m losing my favourite game
You’re losing your mind again
I’m losing my favourite game
You’re losing your mind again
I’m losing my baby
Losing my favourite game

I’m losing my favourite game
You’re losing your mind again
I tried, I tried, (but you’re still the same) I tried
I’m losing my baby
You’re losing a saviour and a saint

(c) The Cardigans

I fcuking hate my university’s schedule makers.

They never take into account that many people who attend the VU come from much further away than just Amsterdam. Even though all the classes for a period in my study can easily be fitted into two days, they insist on spreading everything out over the full week, meaning you have to go to school for just one or two classes a day– and even worse, it now means that for the coming 8 weeks, every Tuesday, I have a class from 09:00 to 10:45, and from 15:30 to 17:15, meaning I have 4h45m of ‘free time’– free time at a university campus where there’s absofcukingluitely nothing to do at all. Even worse, I have to leave home at around 7:15, and I’ll get home more than 12 hours later. In that period, I’ll have only done 3 hours of class.

Fcuking bullshit. I’m beyond pissed off right now.

I’m glad you came around today
I sure need a good companion
I’m losing it but you’re the same
Without you I move at random
Abusing you ‘cause you’re a friend
And there’s no Jesus here to explain

And take me higher
Come take me higher
Come take me high above our time
Take me higher
Oh take me higher
Come take me high above our time
We’ll make it out of here… oh yeah

You justify, you’re not afraid
And I won’t feel like this forever
You wait with me, because you know
There’s so much more than this before we go

To take us higher
Come take us higher
Come take us high above our time
Take us higher
Oh take us higher
Come take us high above our time
We’ll make it out of here
Come take us out of here
Take us anywhere… Oh yeah

(c) The Cardigans.

I’ll be short and to the point.

OpenOffice.org is a steaming pile of shit. It is so utterly, utterly, utterly evil, I’d rather eat my own hair instead of having to rely on this buggy piece of crap software. Anyone saying OpenOffice.org is anywhere even near Microsoft Office in whatever measure, has simply never used OpenOffice.org for longer than 7 seconds (the time it takes for Writer (2.0.4) to load). It crashes. It hangs. It churns. It moans. It has a settings panel designed by a seven year old starving Ethiopian kid high on crack, acid, and glue. It is slow. It is unresponsive. It sucks at .doc importing (not really their fault, but still).

I’d give up Compiz/Beryl. I’d give up automount. I’d give up apt.

If I could just have an office suite on Linux that’s even 1% as good as MS Office 2003 (let alone 2007).

I just saw Vladimir Poetin, President of the Russian Federation, in his yearly questionnaire, where he takes a few hours to answer questions from ordinary Russians. Putting aside the fact that this is probably orchestrated by the state, one concern from many Russians near the border with North Korea was quite interesting. Obviously, they were concerned about North Korea’s nuclear abilities.

Poetin responded in a very wise manner: he said that it is simply not a good idea to make threats and try to corner a country with nuclear capabilities; in Dutch, we have a saying that says when you corner a cat, it’ll make unpredictable jumps. Very, very wise words from Poetin.

—

I actually have some weird form of admiration for Poetin. Not because of his government and his actions against the free press in Russia, but more an admiration for his charisma, his stone-cold KGB stare, and his clothing. He has this air of total control, and I like that in a political leader. I think Russia is actually better of with a strong, powerful leader than with a weak one, but obviously Poetin is taking it a few steps too far; you can be strong and powerful also without silencing the free press.

When one of the ordinary Russians asked him what would become of Russia after Poetin resigns in early 2008, Poetin said he’d still influence the government and the country’s direction in a major way.

Got to love them democratic dictators…

I might as well explain to you all why I have a pretty weird name for a Dutchman: Thom Arvid Holwerda.

My surname, Holwerda, is not uncommon here. It is a name of Frisian origins, and there are small clues it even has a German influence. There is a town in Friesland called ‘Holwerd’, but whether or not that has anything to do with my surname is unclear. ‘Werd’ is most likely a derivative from ‘wierd’, which is another name for ‘terp’. And as most Dutch people will know, a ‘terp’ is a man-made hill on which houses were built to keep them dry during floods. Old chuches are often built on ‘terpen’ as well. In fact, Warmenhuizen is built on a collection of terpen, and you can still see them today; we have two churches in my hometown, and the old one, dating from the 1200s, is built on a terp.

My first name, Thom, is rare, as most people who want to name their kid in a similar way usually choose the million times as common Tom, or T(h)omas. My first name has a story attached to it: when I was born, my parents decided to call me Per, much more in line with my parents’ obsession with Scandinavian names (my brothers are named Sven Diederik and Kai Kristian, esp. the latter is such a beautiful alliterating name). However, my mother apparently wasn’t at all happy with it. So, when my father went to the bathroom, and the nurse came to my mother to note my name, my mother said, “He’s named Thom.” Of course I don’t know how dramatised this story is, but I find it really cool I was named “Per” for roughly 20 minutes. However, I am extremely grateful my mother changed it— Thom is a much more posh name. However, it does suck to have to spell out my 4 letter name every time. I wonder how many institutions have my name spelled ‘Tom’ in their databases.

Well, I already explained where ‘Arvid’ comes from. Arvid is a Scandinavian name, and not at all uncommon over there. Here in The Netherlands it is a rare name.

So, there you have it. Thom Arvid Holwerda. And no, contrary to all those silly tech columnists out there, I don’t use my 2nd initial when signing emails, articles, and other stuff.

And so an era comes to an end.

I am very sad to see Michael Schumacher, the best racing driver to have ever existed, retire. Even today, his last race, with all the bad luck, he fought until the very last second, coming back from the 20th position all the way up to 4th. What a sportsman.

He will be sorely missed at my beloved Ferrari.

Rests me to painstakingly acknowledge Renault and Alonso.

Speaking of people not being snowflakes, let’s talk Digg. As some of you will know, I thoroughly detest Digg and its complete lack of quality control. You just have to take a look at any given moment at Digg’s front page to see what I mean. Of course it also does not help Digg is a slow and heavy piece of shit of a website.

Anyway, today Digg readers reached their all-time low. A close-up picture of a cat’s tongue made it to the front page. I kid you not. One picture of a cat’s tongue made it to the front page of a multi-million viewer’s website.

I mean, it’s great Digg exists, and it’s definitely not a bad concept or anything. It’s just that it will never be a replacement for the traditional gatekeeping model of journalism, no matter how many communitywebtwodotoh people want you to believe it will. I mean, all you have to do to make it to Digg’s frontpage is put any of the following words in your headline: “FREE”, “CHEAP”, “PICTURES”, “VIDEOS”, or anything similar to those. That’s not journalism, that’s populism.

To get back to snowflakes– Digg proves, as well, people are not snowflakes.

There are two statements, which, every time I hear them, strike me as unnervingly dead on.

First, The Police. “Synchronicity II”, from their last album, Synchronicity.

Another working day has ended
Only the rush hour hell to face
Packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes
Contestants in a suicidal race

Whenever I drive home from university or work, this spooks through my mind. Sting has a point here. A major one.

Keeping the above in mind, from Dead Like Me. Betty always takes pictures of the people whose souls she reaps, and then puts each of them in a sack they best fit in to. She has like 10 sacks or so, and George wonders, shouldn’t there be more sacks?

George: Why did you bring all these sacks over here?
Betty: To illustrate my point.
George: Which is what?
Betty: People, are not snowflakes.

Trust me. Betty’s right. Look around you. People are classifiable. Scaringly classifiable. Anything but snowflakes, in any case.