I just hate it when he does that. I never know what he's trying to convey. I am the ACE at taking in even THE most inscrutable terms or accents or whatever, but Phil-speak, which I suspect is server-speak, never yields up anything that makes sense to me. I have also just learned—against all odds—that my problem with the "wrong" box for the hard drive to my dead Mac has not been that the box is wrong! The hitch has been that they put so many alternative plugs for alternative drives in there, expecting all the unused ones to just be skrinched up in the box—uselessly—with the drive, and after you have done all that—OMG—Bob is quite suddenly and so mystically your uncle. I am now back in possession of all my emails and all my stash of old images and they are all in their own little history folder and now my old hard drive is my fully functioning external drive for backing up the crap I accumulate so the bits that are not crap are also not lost. I feel elevated to the height of at least Everest that the problem has been stupidity and now that I'm in Jim's house with all this stuff, the problem can have gone away and a clear path into the future stretches out before me.
Contrary to popular expectations, I love to find out that I have been wrong... or stupid... or ditzy... whatever the hitch has been. It means everything can get better! That—no kidding—feels like sex. Try it.
So. Jim, who knows the very soul of my paranoia—aka deeply-held Americanism—has recommended that I look-in to this plug computing thing, or whutever it is, and so the image link is meant to be my gateway into the eventual escape from fascism. My friends love me. They put up with my weirdness and they help me be happily weird. Do you realize how important that is? No. Really. He's content to use Chrome so that Google can keep perfect track of his every whim, but he knows how creeped-out that makes me and so he helps me keep as uncreeped as possible. I used to be able to just hop in Goldie and drive a couple miles and be here with Jim and Peggy. They put up with the late night death grip chocolate cravings of menopause problem. They let me read every book that lines every wall of this house, even though they've only ever had the time to buy them. They cook me gourmet meals. They serve me fancy drinks. They get me wild birthday presents. They love me even if I'm stranger than fiction to them.
So. We all now must turn our attention to this plug thing....
OH, man, I really think you oughta bookmark this page. I'm pretty bonkers for this bit here:
Doesn't that sound SANE?
When is Freedom Box?
We don't know yet. But all around us, we can see that it needs to be soon.