July 2003 Archives

"nobody cares how you think"

--Dane Gatewood... I think he may be right.

I've fixed my latest bug on this blog where individual entries appear in text smaller than the standard size for the rest of the site.

Well, my blog is dead again. I know, you feel emotionally scarred too. Apparently 1s and 0s have less interest in them than I had thought. Maybe its because this blog still has bugs in it, I don't know. Maybe I need more syndication. I'll try that next. I think I need more blogs in the blogs sidebar. If you read a blog tell me.

This blog makes me feel dead.

May that be the quote of the day.

Yes, its true. The free, online, and multilingual encyclopedia, Wikipedia, has an Esperanto variant (called Vikipedio) with 7606 articles. Esperanto has never been stronger.

As I have been informed in the past, bugs in software are no longer being called "bugs". The new term to describe bugs in the software world is now "issue". Bugs are "issues". Take this to the extreme and you have OpenOffice.org's bug (or more appropriately, their "issue") reporting database. It is widely known that Mozilla's bug reporting database (which I just submitted a bug to this afternoon, in fact) is called "BugZilla". In conforming with this clever play on words, and with the new convention of software being bugless, but having "issues", OpenOffice.org has named their bug/issue database "IssueZilla". Someone please tell me what the world is coming to or I may bash my head through this stupid monitor before which I am seated.

Here's an interesting article about Esperanto (in perfectly good English, I might add) in the Guardian. It's interesting even for non-Esperanto speakers. "A beginners guide to Esperanto"

I need some good blogs to put in the blog links section here at Adams Blog. Once again I must politely implore you to give me some links.

Reader Warning!: This site contains approximately 85% blog, 65% of which is unrefined blog and 20% of which has been refined to pure, distilled blog. Over-consumption could result in eye or mind fatigue, and a permanent failure of ability to operate John Deere 1050C Dozers. Consume with discretion.

Well, considering the number of people that view this site, I didn't really need to put that warning there, but oh well. However... now that I think about it... I'm sending out a notification for this entry, so people might read it... and then never be able to operate John Deere's largest dozer ever: the incredible 1050C! We'll just say that I'm not liable. Anyway, the notifications list has been expanded by using somewhat questionable tactics (They do not fall under the category of spamming however!! I don't do such wretched things.). I know or have known all of the people who I send my notifications to, and if you don't know me and you've been getting unrequested notifications then please complain. Jes that's it, write very nasty posts on the message board (see the right sidebar under disscussion). Or you can send me an email, but that's awfully conventional these days.

So what have I been doing...? I've been helping make my Dad's computer work, which is a truely rough process. If you really want to hear about it, then ask, but chances are, you don't. I'm a bit concerned that this web page is too techy. In fact, I'm a bit concerned that I'm becoming a bit too techy. We had my friend and his friend (Julien and Jonah respectively) over for dinner last night and we spent almost the entire time talking about computers. And what's even more worrisome than that is that I've been getting interested in Linux and even a little bit in Linux/Unix shells. You thought those were dead. And you're right. Because you use windows. Unless you're Julien. In which case you hate anything that doesn't expend at least 50% of its CPU usage on GUI or other graphically related operations. Oh god. And now I'm talking about computers again. I told you I've become too techy (notice the shift from present progressive to past perfect here). I've been to mozillazine.org in the past 24 hours. It's all over.

Now that that is established let's get to the better junk. I've modified my entry style recently as you may have noticed. It's more in the style of most blogs, which just ramble on and on without presenting any unified theme througout any entry (not that I ever did this, but there's some kind of change I think). It's a very interesting way to write. Notice how many more contractions I'm using. I think it gives off a more vernacular aura.

So that's the scraping from the inside of my mind for the day... or at least half of it. Either way it's probably bad enough.

"It's a beautiful piece of job!"

--Some engineer from Boeing talking about the X-35 concept plane

Well, I've started the writing for my grant. There are some of you who are wondering why I have started it when I have the rest of the summer (about 5 weeks), and others of you think that I am already condemned by my very own existance to failure because with 5 weeks left to go things are "really down to the wire!" Well what ever you think, I began. I wrote a really crappy one-page outline and spent a really long time trying to figure out how to do things like page numbers on OpenOffice.org Writer (I still recommend it over Microsoft Office; You save yourself $500 (OpenOffice.org is free) and you get a feature set that is in many ways more powerful and simple to use). Then I went hunting for insects, for a while. I was really bad today, I only caught one insect, but didn't take a specimen because it was a female and I already have a specimen of a male of the same species (an immaculate and perfectly mounted specimen I might add). Pieris rapæ, that's what he is.

I finally kind of got my Esperanto radio broadcasts from Poland to go onto my mp3 player. The link for downloading a wma version has been broken for about a year, so I downloaded the RealAudio version (my mp3 player isn't supposed to play rm format) and stuck it on my mp3 player to see what would happed. It took four times as much space as the size of the file, and thought that it was in mp3 with 96k compression (it was actually in rm with 20k compression). But it played, so I don't have too much to complain about. I learned however that my sound editing app, Sound Forge, will save to but not open RealAudio files. How dumb is that? Oh well, not too bad I suppose.

I've expanded my notification list dramatically, so that's why I've been sending out a plethora of notifications to the long term members. I'm trying to quickly expand the horizon of readers. I also apologize to the reader who didn't want me to post any more Esperanto short-story translations. I wanted to post the conclusion to the original one that he/she (English could really use a neuter 3rd person pronoun that could be used for humans. Saying he/she all of the time gets really old.) complained about, but did not me to elicit offense... I am complying with your request. I did not me to elicit offense... I am complying with your request. Well that broke the ice! Now we can all be chum and cheery. But hey! At least I truncated the posts so they're not appearing to take up as much space on this "otherwise good [I mean "decent"] blog." Well that's the news today from Server Closet: AppMagic Inc., where all the programmers are extreme, all the writers are eloquent, and all the children are somewhere inbetween.

By: Ernest Hemingway
Taken from "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

The major, who had been a great fencer, did not believe in bravery, and spent much time while we sat in the machines correcting my grammar. He had complimented me on how I spoke Italian, and we talked together very easily. One day I had said that Italian seemed such an easy language to me that I could not take a great interest in it; everything was so easy to say. "Ah, yes," the major said. "Why, then, do you not take up the use of grammar?" So we took up the use of grammar, and soon Italian was such a difficult language that I was afraid to talk to him until I had the grammar straight in my mind.

Far: Ernest Hemingway
Enesperantigis: Adamo Andersono
Traduko © 2003 Adamo Andersono
Prenata de "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway
(Malneto)

La majoro kiu estis la bonega barilaĵisto, ne kredis al kuraĝo, kaj pasis multan tempon dum ni sidis en la maŝinoj korektanta mian gramatikon. Li komplementigis min pri kiel mi parolis la Italian lingvon, kaj ni parolis kune facile. Iun tago mi diris ke la Italilingvo ŝajnas tia facila lingvo min ke mi ne povas interesiĝi pri ĝi; ĉio estis tiel facile por diri. “Ha, jes,” la majoro diris. “Kial, tiam, vi ne interesiĝas pri la uzo de gramatiko?” Tiel, ni interesiĝis pri la uzo de gramatiko, kaj baldaŭ Italilingvo estis tiel malfacila lingvo ke mi timis paroli al li ĝis mi havis korektan gramatikon en mia memso.

Well, I'm still living; that's always a plus. Things have been pretty normal in summary. Yesterday I did the Loma Mar ride, and stopped at the little store there and bought a candy bar (something called a "PayDay", it was extremely good but yes, loaded with trans-fats). The store in Loma Mar is just about the most hilarious thing I have seen for a long time. It is really small and really run down, and in the words of dad, "it makes the Pioneer market look like Costco." Only a few select people will fully understand that. At this store, all of the refridgerators were from the 1950s and the whole place looked as if it were about to fall over: pretty cool, I know. And then Julien came over (bless his soul!) and we tinkered with my message forum and helped build dad's computer. He got a video card!! It's big news. Now he has 64MB of video RAM instead of 32, and his graphics processor is way faster. (I shall not mention anything about my video card at this point, lest it make the reader cry, laugh, or have some other uncontrollable emotional response) So he is happy, although he tried to get one with 128MB of RAM, but no such luck.

Apparently blogging in esperanto is not very popular (in fact I would describe it as being unpopular). But seeing as I have no other place to dispose of my short-story translations I'm still going to publish them here, but just post excerpts on this page and have a link to the full version. Apparently the amount of space that the translations were taking up was a real problem.

So that's my state of being for the day and yesterday. I have doubled the size of the notifications list by adding addresses of people I know from the recipient list from those junky mass-mailings that people like to forward. Maybe I can beef up readership that way... We'll see. ¡Por ahora: Adiós!

Methinks multilingual blogging is not popular. I would have expected just the opposite.

Well, I've decided to go for full disclosure. In the eyes of my readers this renovation has been a disaster. Here are all of the comments that have been posted in response to these new developments:

"yawn. yawn. yawn."
--Anonymous

"Doubling readership, eh? A twofold increase might only be remotely possible. Here's a quote that may help you reset your expectations:
'I have discovered, throughout my life, that it is not neccessary to be smart, rich, athletic, or lucky in order to wildly succeed. It can be done quite simply. In order to find a wealth of success all one must do is set his goals lower.'"
--Anonymous

"Adam, I think you have way too much time on your hands."
--Marialice

"Well I was one of the origional readers and I'm always here to listen to you, the true expert of social dynamics, and well, everything."
--Maxwell

"Dude,
I think your blog is broken. I am using IE and I can't see anything."
--Pernicious

"This is better than before, if that is any comfort."
--Anonymous

"Why do you do this? Esperanto may be a cool concept, but is it worth it to use op all that space in a perfectly decent blog simply to show off how you enjoy learning about useless languages? Essentially, I am asking that you have more content and less short-story translations on your blog. Thank you"
--Anonymous

"You can tell you're a loser when most of the comments on your entries are by yourself...... Part II of your plan has worked: you have gained a new reader.... Don't put anything too offensive in here and you just might keep him."
--Colin

"Hello:
I would like to submit my site for submission into your links section:
SeanAlonzo.com
SeanAlonzo.com is the official site of occult fiction author
Sean-Alonzo, exploring symbolism, alternative history, philosophy,
secret societies and other areas of the esoteric tradition.
http://www.seanalonzo.com
Thank You,
Sean-Alonzo"
--Sean-Alonzo, wanting his site in the links section

As you can see much of this suggests fairly disasterous implications. I am almost certain that my friend Theodore (aka "Ted", or a little symbol that he made up that faguely resembles a capital Eth (Ð)) is among these swaths of anonymity although he says he never reads this blog because it's stupid. Oh, and yes, that some more feedback that I've received. At least it's all good for a couple of laughs. It's a good thing you haven't heard what my reader john thinks of anonymity and community.

From what I gather people want to hear more of what goes on in my life, so here it is. I rode the Pescadero loop yesterday with Dad and Helen. Yes, that's the 30-mile loop that has sort of been my eventual goal in cycling. I didn't do too bad, although I wasn't going quite as fast as the others (partially because my bike is not brand new and doesn't use one of the lightest semi-mainstream frames, and partially because I'm just not as good at this point). My hill-climbing has improved though. I must say that I really enjoy riding with people for a change because I mostly just ride alone. It's more fun with other people. We caught on to a big peloton from the Alto Velo club for a while, but I really couldn't hold on for that long (it was after all the last 8-mile leg of the ride). In fact the ride was a race course for an Alto Velo race (Alto Velo Site). Of course they did this loop 3.7 times and they started in Pescadero, while we just looped from La Honda back to La Honda... once. Yes, I think once was enough for me. Then of course there was the usual massive power failure... in the middle of summer. Power was out all along the coast for most of yesterday. It went out when we had stopped for lunch in Pescadero and were looking in a furniture gallery; no blogging then.

Julien is coming back today. It's amazing how inactive the phone has been during his 3 weeks of being in Cayucos. I'm going to have to take it easy on him when I see him. He went to all of the trouble of bringing his G4 with him to Cayucos and he ordered a new video card, memory, and one of these violent strategy games which I think got shipped to him while he was down there. Unfortunately for him, they sent him the wrong version of the video card which didn't work on his G4. So he was distraught because I don't think his game (something like Warcraft III expansion, the throne of coldness, or something like that; I'm not up on the gaming community, but apparently it is quite the hit) worked either. It really is a rough life that these die-hard gamer/graphics neophytes live.

Actually, now that I'm on the topic of Macs, the G4 is old news. A while ago Apple announced the G5 (it's almost been a month... old news!), which is fiendishly cool, but probably ultra-overkill unless you do lots of development or play lots of taxing video games. The best part is the cooling system which makes Dad's 11 fans look low-tech. It's also 64-bit now, which is also pretty cool.

So yes. I'm obliging myself to stop before I provoke more unhappy negativity from the batch of disgruntled hypercritics who frequent this site. Adiaŭ! (I will not let these hawkish sorts deny me just one word!)

Well, the response to my renovations has been overwhelmingly negative. The comments find strength in sarcasm about how I have no readers, and I am at risk of losing myself as a reader, etc., etc.. That is unfortunate indeed. At least one person did not seem to think that my blog was inevitably doomed for the rest of its miserable existance. I have received a request to not post esperanto translations. Something else that surprised me was that nobody seemed to like the English versions of the Hemingway short stories either. Hemingway must not be a very popular author among this type of crowd, which is too bad because I've always liked his work. Anyway, apparently the name for my forum ("/dev/null") is not creative and is too techie as well. But I have found a strength of this site. If you enjoy reading sarcastic scathings then the comments on this site are for you!

Well, there is a new link on the links panel to the website of occult fiction author Sean-Alonzo. It seems he found this site by some random quirk of cosmic chaos and he wanted a link, so, I gave it so him. And since that link is taking up space that (as I am now aware) has valuable retail worth (hah! indeed), I suggest that you all go there. Unless of course you're Sean-Alonzo himself... in which case I suppose you should go wherever you want. And that's the news from Adams Blog, where all the Authors are strong, and most of the comment-writers are above average.

Well, I am hereby announcing that this site is finished with all major renevations. As you can see, the layout has been massively changed, and I have added a new message forum called "dev/null" that, although not entirely complete in terms of my plans for graphical appearance, is fully functional. It's been a long road to the point that you now see; I have spent the better part of 2 1/2 days working on this, and I hope that you find it worthy of interest. I would like to reiterate that I am setting up a list of recommended blogs, so if you have a blog, read a blog, or know someone who has a blog, send me the URL and I will post a link under blogs for it. Also if you are on the notifications list for Adams Blog and would like to be removed, send me an email to that effect or make a comment on this site to that effect. If you want to be added to the list, enter your email address in the notifications field on the sidebar to the right. If you have any suggestions please voice them, and comments are highly desired. Adams Blog is undergoing a massive publicity campaign that involves synidication and notifications, but do tell people you know about this site as well. It has been redesigned and will be operating with a "high-traffic" mindset. The Author and everyone here at Adams Blog wishes you happy reading and posting, thank you!

If you are using Internet Explorer this site will look terrible. That's because Internet Explorer (all versions I might add), is a terrible, slow browser whose only feature is somewhat good reliability, which doesn't help if you can't see things the way they're meant to be seen. This site should display fine in all recent Mozilla builds, including Netscape, or on Konqueror or Safari. I use Mozilla Firebird: it's free, it's fast (kills IE in comparison tests; nearly equivalent to Safari in speed), not too huge, but they're only at the 0.6 release so it's still a little buggy. Mozilla 1.4 (or derivatives) is therefore what I recommend for viewing this page.

http://www.coxar.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/

By: Ernest Hemingway
Taken from "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

In the fall the war was always there, but we did not go to it any more. It was cold in the fall in Milan and the dark came very early. Then the electric lights came on, and it was pleasant along the streets looking in the windows. There was much game hanging outside the shops, and the snow powdered in the fur of the foxes and the wind blew their tails. The deer hung stiff and heavy and empty, and small birds blew in the wind and the wind turned their feathers. It was a cold fall and the wind came down from the mountains.

We were all at the hospital every afternoon, and there were different ways of walking across the town through the dusk to the hospital. Two of the ways were alongside canals, but they were long. Always, though, you crossed a bridge across a canal to enter the hospital. There was a choice of three bridges. On one of them a woman sold roasted chestnuts. It was warm, standing in front of her charcoal fire, and the chestnuts were warm afterward in your pocket. The hospital was very old and very beautiful, and you entered a gate and walked across a courtyard and out a gate on the other side. There were usually funerals starting from the courtyard. Beyond the old hospital were the new brick pavilions, and there we met every afternoon and were all very polite and interested in what was the matter, and sat in the machines that were to make so much difference.

The doctor came up to the machine where I was sitting and said: "What did you like best to do before the war? Did you practice a sport?"
I said: "Yes, football."
"Good," he said. "You will be able to play football again better than ever."
My knee did not bend and the leg dropped straight from the knee to the ankle without a calf, and the machine was to bend the knee and make it move as riding a tricycle. But it did not bend yet, and instead the machine lurched when it came to the bending part. The doctor said:" That will all pass. You are a fortunate young man. You will play football again like a champion."

In the next machine was a major who had a little hand like a baby's. He winked at me when the doctor examined his hand, which was between two leather straps that bounced up and down and flapped the stiff fingers, and said: "And will I too play football, captain-doctor?" He had been a very great fencer, and before the war the greatest fencer in Italy.

The doctor went to his office in a back room and brought a photograph which showed a hand that had been withered almost as small as the major's, before it had taken a machine course, and after was a little larger. The major held the photograph with his good hand and looked at it very carefully. "A wound?" he asked.

"An industrial accident," the doctor said.

"Very interesting, very interesting," the major said, and handed it back to the doctor.

"You have confidence?"

"No," said the major.

There were three boys who came each day who were about the same age I was. They were all three from Milan, and one of them was to be a lawyer, and one was to be a painter, and one had intended to be a soldier, and after we were finished with the machines, sometimes we walked back together to the Café Cova, which was next door to the Scala. We walked the short way through the communist quarter because we were four together. The people hated us because we were officers, and from a wine-shop someone called out, "A basso gli ufficiali!" as we passed. Another boy who walked with us sometimes and made us five wore a black silk handkerchief across his face because he had no nose then and his face was to be rebuilt. He had gone out to the front from the military academy and been wounded within an hour after he had gone into the front line for the first time. They rebuilt his face, but he came from a very old family and they could never get the nose exactly right. He went to South America and worked in a bank. But this was a long time ago, and then we did not any of us know how it was going to be afterward. We only knew then that there was always the war, but that we were not going to it any more.

We all had the same medals, except the boy with the black silk bandage across his face, and he had not been at the front long enough to get any medals. The tall boy with a very pale face who was to be a lawyer had been lieutenant of Arditi and had three medals of the sort we each had only one of. He had lived a very long time with death and was a little detached. We were all a little detached, and there was nothing that held us together except that we met every afternoon at the hospital. Although, as we walked to the Cova through the though part of town, walking in the dark, with light and singing coming out of the wine-shops, and sometimes having to walk into the street when the men and women would crowd together on the sidewalk so that we would have had to jostle them to et by, we felt held together by there being something that had happened that they, the people who disliked us, did not understand.

We ourselves all understood the Cova, where it was rich and warm and not too brightly lighted, and noisy and smoky at certain hours, and there were always girls at the tables and the illustrated papers on a rack on the wall. The girls at the Cova were very patriotic, and I found that the most patriotic people in Italy were the café girls - and I believe they are still patriotic.

The boys at first were very polite about my medals and asked me what I had done to get them. I showed them the papers, which were written in very beautiful language and full of fratellanza and abnegazione, but which really said, with the adjectives removed, that I had been given the medals because I was an American. After that their manner changed a little toward me, although I was their friend against outsiders. I was a friend, but I was never really one of them after they had read the citations, because it had been different with them and they had done very different things to get their medals. I had been wounded, it was true; but we all knew that being wounded, after all, was really an accident. I was never ashamed of the ribbons, though, and sometimes, after the cocktail hour, I would imagine myself having done all the things they had done to get their medals; but walking home at night through the empty streets with the cold wind and all the shops closed, trying to keep near the street lights, I knew that Ì would never have done such things, and I was very much afraid to die, and often lay in bed at night by myself, afraid to die and wondering how I would be when back to the front again.

The three with the medals were like hunting-hawks; and I was not a hawk, although I might seem a hawk to those who had never hunted; they, the three, knew better and so we drifted apart. But I stayed good friends with the boy who had been wounded his first day at the front, because he would never know now how he would have turned out; so he could never be accepted either, and I liked him because I thought perhaps he would not have turned out to be a hawk either.

Far: Ernest Hemingway
Enesperantigis: Adamo Andersono
Traduko © 2003 Adamo Andersono
Prenata de "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway
(Malneto)

En la aŭtuno la milito estis ĉiam tie, sed ni ne iris plu al ĝi. Estis malvarme en la aŭtuno en Milano kaj la mallumo venis tre frue. Tiam la elektraj lumoj ŝaltis, kaj estas agrable laŭ la stratoj por oni rigardanta en la fenestroj. Estis multa da ĉasaĵo pendanta ekster la butikoj, kaj la neĝo pulvoris en al peltoj de la vulpoj kaj la vento blovis iliajn vostojn. La cervoj pendis rigidaj kaj pezaj kaj malplenaj, kaj la malgradajbirdoj blovis en la vento kaj la vento turnis siajn plumojn. Estis malvarma aŭtuno kaj la vento venis malsupre de la montoj.

Ni estis tute ĉe la hospitalo ĉiu posttagmezo, kaj estis malsamaj pasejoj por piediri trans la urbo tra la krepusko al la hospitalo. Du de la pasejojestis laŭlonge kanaloj, sed si estis longa. Ĉiam, tamen, oni transiris ponton trans kanalo por eniri la hospitalon. Estis la elekto de tri pontoj. Sur unude ili virino vendis kaŝtanarbojn rostintajn. Estas varme stari antaŭ ŝia braĝfajro, kaj la kaŝtanarboj bestis varmaj poste en onia poŝo. La hospitalo estis tre maljuna kaj tre bela, kaj oni eniris tra pordo kaj piediris trans korto kaj el pordo en la alia flanko. Estis kutime funebraĵoj komencantaj de la korto. Preter la maljuna hospitalo estis la novaj brikpavilonoj, kaj tre ni kunvenis ĉiu posttagmezo kaj estis tute tre ĝentilaj kaj interesintaj pri kio misis, kaj sidis en la maŝinoj tiuj estis multe gravi.

La doktoro venis al la maŝino kie mi estas staranta kaj diris: “Kio ŝatis pli bone fari antaŭ la milito? Ĉu vi praktikis sporton?”

Mi diris: “Yes, futbalo.”

“Bona,” li diris. “Vi povos ludi futbalo denove pli bone ol ĉiam ajn.”

Mia genuo ne fleksis kaj la kruro descendis rekte de la genuo al la maleolo sen suro, kaj la maŝino estis por fleksi la genuo kaj igi ĝin tiel rajdi biciklon. Sed ĝi ne fleksis jam, kaj anstataŭ la maŝino skuiĝis kiam ĝi venis al la tasko de fleksado. La doktoro diris: “Tio tute pasos. Vi estas bonŝanca juna viro. Vi ludos futbalon denove tiel ĉampiono.”

En la sekvanta maŝino estis majoro kiu havas malgrandan manon tiel tiu de bebo. Li palpebrumis min kie la doktoro ekzamenis lian manon, kio estis inter du ledaj rimendoj tioj resaltis supre kaj malsupre kaj klakis la rigidajn fingrojn, kaj diris: “Kaj ĉu mi ludos futbalon, kapitano-doktoro?” Li estis jam tre bonega barilaĵisto, kaj antaŭ la milito la plej bonega barilaĵisto en Italio.

La doktoro iris al lian oficejon en malantaŭĉambro kaj portis fotografaĵon kion montris manon tiun estis velkita preskaŭ tiel malgranda tiel tiu de la majoro, antaŭ ĝi estis ricevinta maŝinkurson, kaj post ĝi estis malmulte pli granda. La majoro tenis la fotografaĵon per lia bona mano kaj rigardis ĝin tre zorge. “Vundo?” li demandis.

“Industria akcidento,” la doktoro diris.

“Tre interesa, tre interesa,” la majoro diris, kaj donis ĝin ree al la doktoro.

“Ĉu vi havas fidon?”

“Ne,” diris la majoro.

Estis tri knaboj kiu venis ĉiun tagon kiu estis ĉirkaŭ la sama aĝo tiel mi estis. Ili estis tute tri de Milano, kaj unu de ili estos advokato, kaj unu estos pentristo, kaj unu estis intencinta estos soldato, kaj post ni estis finintaj kun la maŝinoj, iam ni piediris kune al la Café-o Cova-o, kiu estis apud la pordo de la Scala-o. Ni piediris la mallongan distancon tra la komunisma kvartalo ĉar ni estis kvar kune. La homoj malamegas nin ĉar ni estis funkciuloj, kaj de la vinbutiko iu kriis, “A basso gli ufficiali!” tie ni pasis. Alia knabo kiu piediris kun ni iam kaj faris nin kvin portis nigran silkan naztukon trans lia vizaĝo ĉar li havis ne nazo tiam kaj lia vizaĝo estos rekonstruita. Li estis irinta far al la fronto de la milita akademio kaj estis vundita ĝis post horo post li eniris la frontan linion por la unua fojo. Oni rekonstruis lian vizaĝon, sed li estis de tre maljuna familio kaj oni ne povis refari la nozon ĝuste. Li iris al Sud-Ameriko kaj laboris en banko. Sed ĉi tioj estis longa tempo jam, kaj tiam ni ne tuta de nin scias kiel estos poste. Ni nur sciis tiam ke estis ĉiam la milito, sed ke ni ne estis ironta al ĝin plu.

Ni tuta havis la samajn medalojn, krom la knabo havanta la nigran silkan bandaĝon trans lia vizaĝo, kaj li ne estis jam ĉe la fronto por sufiĉa tempo por havigi iojn medalojn. La alta knabo havanta tre palan vizaĝon kiu estos advokato estis jam leŭtenantode Arditi-o kaj havis tri medalojn de la speco ke ni nur havis unu. Li estis loĝinta dum tre longa tempo kun morto kaj estis iomete indiferenta. Ni tua estis iomete indiferentaj, kaj estis nenio kiu tenis nin kune krom kiu ni kunvenis dum ĉiu posttagmezo ĉe la hospitalo. Kvankam, dum ni piediris al la Cova tra la gansterejo de la urbo, piediranta en la mallumo, dum lumo kaj kantado elvenanta de la vinbutikoj, kaj iam devanta piediri en la la strato kiam la viroj kaj virinoj rampis kune sur la trotuaro por ke ni devis ŝanceli ilin por transmovi, ni sentis kuntenita pro esti io kiu okazinta kiu ili, la homoj kiu malŝatis nin, ne kompredas.

Ni mem tuta kompredis la Cova, kie estis riĉe kaj varme kaj ne tro hele lumita, kaj brue kaj fume je certa horoj, kaj estis ĉiam knabinoj ĉe la tabloj kaj la ilustritaj ĵurnaloj en rako sur la muro. La knabinoj ĉe la Cova estis tre patriotaj, mi konstatis ke la plej patriotaj homoj en Italia estis la knabinoj de la kafejoj—kaj mi kredas ke ili estas ankoraŭ patriota.
La knaboj komence estis tre ĝentilaj pri miaj medaloj kaj demandis de mi kion mi faris por havigi ilin. Mi montris ilin la ĵurnalojn, kiu estis skribitaj en tre bela lingvaĵo kaj plenitaj de fratellànza kaj abnegazione, sed kiu vere diris, kun adjektivoj foritaj, ke mi estis donita la medaloj ĉar mi estis Usonano. Post tio ilia manieroj ŝanĝis malmulte al mi, kvankam mi estis ilia amiko kontraŭ la eksteranoj. Mi estis amiko, sed mi estis neniam vere unu de ili post ili estis legintaj la alvokojn, ĉar estis malsame kun ili kaj ili estis farintaj tre malsamajn aferojn por havigi iliajn medalojn. Mi estis vundita, estis vere; sed ili ĉiuj sciis ke esti vundita, post ĉiuj, estis vere akcidento. Mi hontis neniam pri la rubandoj, tamen, kaj iam, post la koktelhoro, mi imagis min finitan ĉiojn kiujn ili faris por havigi iliajn medalojn; sed piedirante hejmon tra la malplenaj stratoj kun la malluma vento kaj ĉiuj de la butikoj fermitaj, penante resti apud la stratlumiloj, mi sciis ke mi neniam estus farinta tiajn aferojn, kaj mi tre timis mortiĝi, kaj ofte kuŝis en lito je nokto sola, timanta mortiĝi kaj scivolanta kiel mi estus kiam mi reiros al la fronto.

La tri havantaj la medalojn estis tiel caŝadfalkoj; kaj mi ne estis falko, kvankam mi eble sajnas tiel falkoal tiuj kiuj neniam caŝis; ili, la tri, sciis pli bonaĵon kaj tiel ni drivis aparte. Sed mi restis bone amike al la knabo kiu estis vundita je lia unua tago ĉe la fronto, ĉar li neniam scios nun kiel li estus; tial li povas neniam esti akceptita ankaŭ, kaj mi ŝatis vin ĉar mi pensis ke li ne estus falko ankaŭ.

As part of the "Three-Pronged Plan" I have officially jettisoned Maxwell's generous contribution of the Message Board, and will soon be installing a replacement based off the PHPbb interface.

"The five major figures of Soviet history were on a train together when it suddenly halted in a remote region where the tracks had abruptly stopped. What to do? Lenin was the first to speak, and in his revolutionary enthusiasm he issued a call for a voluntary day of work for local folk to extend the tracks. Stalin objected and ordered the leaders of the railroad ministry shot and the train engineer exiled to Siberia. The always exuberant and impulsively reformist Khrushchev had yet another idea: tear up the tracks behind the train and lay them in front and thus proceed to their destination. Brezhnev's contribution was to order the shades drawn while all the travelers rocked back and forth pretending to move ahead. Finally it was Gorbachev's turn. The architech of the glasnost had the windows thrown wide open and asked everyone to stick their heads out of the train and shout loudly, 'There are no tracks! There are no tracks!'"

--A widely told Soviet joke about the USSR's five main political figures

If you have a blog, or know anyone who has a blog, tell me (via comments or adam@appmagic.com) the URL for their site and I will put a link to it here. I'm planning on making a side menu with recommended blogs to read.

I've quickly moved on to a new style which I like better than the previous two. It is based off MovableType's "Rusty" style, with numerous modifications that I made. I still have a copy of the modified stylesheet for the old modified "Trendy"style, so you can still give your input on how you want this site to look. Just think! You could have a hand in the appearance of Adams Blog for years to come!!

I have a question for whatever readers I have. I cannot decide between these two basic styles for the look and feel of this site. I will of course make several modifications, but these are the two main styles:
Rusty: http://www.movabletype.org/images/rusty.gif
or
Trendy: http://www.movabletype.org/images/trendy.gif
Post a comment to tell me what you think!

As you can see, Adams Blog is now sporting a more edgy and riskay look, if I may say so myself. It's all part of a new revival campaign that includes goals of raising readership two-fold (so now instead of having two regular readers besides myself, the goal is for four! Daring? Yes, I know.). For those of you who don't know, there has been a coup d'état here at Adams Blog, and the old inferior moron who who ran this place has been replaced by fresh and less stubborn and stupid leadership willing to fix things for the better. The mode of attaining our goals of popularity is three-pronged. Hence it is called "The Three-Pronged-Plan". The first prong is is a comprehensive redesign of the site to be more visually appealing (I extend my thanks to the staff of MovableType for this style called "Trendy", upon which I have made several modifications for the purpose of it better fitting the needs of Adams Blog). As you can see that has already begun. But note that I use the word "begun". Indeed I plan to be experimenting with several other visual improvements as well. Prong Two is a massive publicity campaign to raise awareness of the existance of Adams Blog. Hence we have put a great deal of people on the notifications list. If want to receive notifications of new posts, put your email address in the field for adding email notifications on the sidebar to the right. If you've received notifications before, then you're on the list. If you just want to be sure, you can add your email address anyway, and no harm will be done. Tell all of your friends about us!! We need readers! If you want to be removed from the notifications list at any time, just send an email to adam@appmagic.com with something in the subject or body making reference to removal from this list. Prong Three is a revitalization of content. As you can see, our predecessor had quite the knack for making grotesquely crappy posts, and we're here to fix that. The Constitution of Adams Blog will remain unchanged despite the coup however. If you have any suggestions regarding new content ideas, etc. we will be (unlike our inferior predecessor) highly willing to listen. Simply post a comment or send us an email at adam@appmagic.com, and we will try to find a home for your ideas here at Adams Blog where the sane people of the world ARE finally united.

At 12:48 PM, 25% of my AIM buddy list was online. That's a new record for that time of day.

By: Ernest Hemingway
Taken from "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

"No," the waiter who was in a hurry said, rising from pulling down the metal shutters. "I have confidence. I am all confidence."

"You have youth, confidence, and a job," the older waiter said. "You have everything."

"And what do you lack?"

"Everything but work."

"You have everything I have."

"No. I have never had confidence and I am not young."

"Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up."

"I am of those who like to stay late at the cafe," the older waiter said.

"With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those who need a light for the night."

"I want to go home and into bed."

"We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was now dressed to go home. "It is not only a question of youth and confidence although those things are very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the cafe."

"Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long."

"You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant cafe. It is well lighted. The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves."

"Good night," said the younger waiter.

"Good night," the other said. Turning off the electric light he continued the conversation with himself, It was the light of course but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread, It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine.

"What's yours?" asked the barman.

"Nada."

"Otro loco mas," said the barman and turned away.

"A little cup," said the waiter.

The barman poured it for him.

"The light is very bright and pleasant but the bar is unpolished," the waiter said.

The barman looked at him but did not answer. It was too late at night for conversation.

"You want another copita?" the barman asked.

"No, thank you," said the waiter and went out. He disliked bars and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted cafe was a very different thing. Now, without thinking further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it's probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

Far: Ernest Hemingway
Enesperantigis: Adamo Andersono
Traduko © 2003 Adam Andersono
Prenata de "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

"Ne," la kelnero kiu estis hastema diris, leviĝanta de mallevanta la metalajn ŝutrojn. "Mi havas fidon. Mi estas tute fido."

"Vi havas junecon, fidon, kaj oficon," la pli maljuna kelnero diris. "Vi havas ĉion."

"Kaj kion malhavas vi?"

"Ĉion krom oficon."

"Vi havas ĉion ke mi havas."

"Ne. Mi neniam havis fidon kaj mi ne estas juna."

"Ek. Vi haltu paroli sensencaĵon kaj ŝlosu la kafejon."

"Mi estas de tiuj kiu ŝatas resti malfrue ĉe la kafejo," la pli maljuna kelnero diris. "Kun ĉiuj kiu ne deziras enlitiĝi. Kun ĉiuj kiu bezonas lumon dum la nokto."

"Mi deziras iri hejmon kaj al lito."

"Ni estas du malsamaj specoj," la pli maljuna kelnero diris. Li estis nun vestinta por iri hejmon. "Estas ne nur demando pri juneco kaj fido kvankam tiuj aĵoj estas tre bela. Dum ĉiu nokto mi estas malvolonta fermi ĉar estas eble iu kiu bezonas la kafejon."

"Hombre, estas bodegas malferma dum la tuta nokto."

"Vi ne komprenas. Ĉi tio estas pura kaj agrabla kafejo. Ĝi estas multlumita. La lumo estas tre bona kaj ankaŭ, nun, estas ombroj de la folioj."

"Bonan nokton," diris la pli juna kelnero.

"Bonan nokton," la alio diris. Malŝaltanta la elektran lumon li daŭradis la konversacion kun sin. Estas la lumo ja vere sed estas necese ke la loko estas pura kaj agrabla. Certe oni ne deziras muzikon. Nek povas oni stari antaŭ la drinkejo digne kvankam tio estas tute provizita por ĉi tiuj horoj. Kion timis li? Ĝi ne estis timo aŭ timego. Ĝi estis tute nenio kaj viro estis nenio ankaŭ. Ĝi estis nur tio kaj lumo estis tute tion ĝi bezonis kaj certa pureco kaj ordo. Iuj loĝis en ĝi kaj neniam sentis ĝin sed sciis ke ĝi estas nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Nia nada kiu estas en nada, nada estas cia nomo cia regno nada cia estos nada en nada tiel estas en nada. Donu nin ĉi tio nada nian ĉiutagan nada-n kaj nada nin nian nada-n dum ni nada nian nadas-n kaj nada nin ne en nada sed liveru nin for nada; pues nada. Aklamas nenion plena da nenio, nenio estas kun ci. Li ridetis kaj staris antaŭ drinkejo kun brilanta vaporprema kafmaŝino.

"Kio estas de vi?" demandis la drinkejmastro."

"Nada."

"Otro loco mas," diris la drinkejmastro kaj forturnis.

"Taseto," diris la kelnero.

La drinkejmastro verŝis ĝin por li.

"La lumo estas tre hela kaj agrabla sed la drinkejo estas malpolurita," la kelnero diris.

La drinkejmastro rigardis lin sed ne respondis. Estis tro malfrue en la nokto por konversacio.

"Ĉu vi deziras alian copita-n?" la drinkejmastro demandis.

"Ne, dankon," diris la kelnero kaj foriris. Li malŝatas drinkejojn kaj bodegas-n. Pura, multlumita kafejon estis tre malsama aĵo. Nun, sen pensanta plu, li irus hejmon al lia ĉambro. Li kuŝus en la lito kaj fine, kun taglumo, li dormus. Post ĉio, li diris sin, estas kredeble nur sendormeco. Multoj devas havi ĝin.

In all of my grand blogging days I have never fallen victim to such a horrible ill!! I post regularly and often with material of the highest content (I'll have you know that this is my 161st post since this blog's inception on December 30th, 2002), although I have learned that occasionally words here fall slightly to the contrary of those bounds... but let not that now trouble you!! Come along!! Vi venu laŭ!! ¡¡Venga adelante!! Kömolsöz ve!! HIghoS!! Yes, I will resort to nothing less than the use of Klingon in this kind of situation. True, even having such an innumberable number of readers all enjoying the wonderful content we put forth, we here at Adams Blog get our share of riffraff, but never before have I witnessed such sacrilege against the sacred bits that compose this html world. At 12:02 AM, July 10th, 2003 (as I'm sure so many of you already know!), a post was made saying "This is all stupid."!!!! What is so hideously offensive of the nature of this post is not entirely its content, but that no one (besides myself of course) has issued a denunciatory response after more than 16 1/2 hours!!! Knowing that teeming crowds of readers are digesting the words on this page every second, there is no other conclusion but that of conspiracy. There is a mass conspiracy to undermine Adams Blog!! As a reletively new occupant of the position of The Author, I have never witnessed such troubling times during my tenure, but Adams Blog will fight back these peevish online poltergeists who are, no doubt, quibbling amongst themselves at this very moment about how to wreak havok with their hordes of coconspirators—but they WILL NOT SUCEED. Hear me you flapping, winged, virtual miscreants: YOU WILL NOT SUCEED. May I remind everyone to stay calm and conduct "business as usual" around this blog, but to be on a "hightened state of alert". This is a constitutional offense, under Article 4, Section 1, Item 4 of The Constitution of Adams Blog as declared and enacted by The Author in the universal absence of popular opposition on April 24th, 2003 anno Domini.

For information on Article 4, Section 1, Item 4 and a copy of the constitution: http://www.appmagic.com/adamsblog/archives/000078.html
For the offending comment: http://www.appmagic.com/cgi-bin/MovableType/mt-comments.cgi?entry_id=163

By: Ernest Hemingway
Taken from "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

"I know.

"I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing."

"Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling. Even now, drunk. Look at him."

"I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He has no regard for those who must work."

The old man looked from his glass across the square, then over at the waiters.

"Another brandy," he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter who was in a hurry came over.

"Finished," he said, speaking with that omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners. "No more tonight. Close now."

"Another," said the old man.

"No. Finished." The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a towel and shook his head.

The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leather coin purse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip. The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old man walking unsteadily but with dignity.

"Why didn't you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried waiter asked. They were putting up the shutters. "It is not half-past two."

"I want to go home to bed."

"What is an hour?"

"More to me than to him."

"An hour is the same."

"You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle and drink at home."

"It's not the same."

"No, it is not," agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust. He was only in a hurry.

"And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?"

"Are you trying to insult me?"

"No, hombre, only to make a joke."

Far: Ernest Hemingway
Enesperantigis: Adamo Andersono
Traduko © 2003 Adam Andersono
Prenata de "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

"Mi scias.

"Mi ne dezirus esti tiom maljuna. Maljuna viro estas malpurega aĵo."

"Ne ĉiam. Ĉi tio maljuna viro estas pura. Li trinkas sen disverŝanta. Eĉ nun, ebria. Rigardu lin."

"Mi ne deziras rigardi lin. Mi deziras lin irus hejmon. Li havas ne respekton por tiujn kiu devas labori."

La maljuna viro rigardis for lia glaso trans la placo, tiom trans al la kelneroj.

"Ankoraŭ brando," li diris, indikanta al lia glaso. La kelnero kiu estis hastema venis.

"Finis," li diris, parolanta per tiu elaso de sintakso ke stulaj homoj utiligas kiam parolanta al ebriuloj aŭ fremduloj. " Ne pluo ĉi-nokte. Fermas nun."

"Ankoraŭ," la maljuna viro diris.

"Ne. Fininta." La kelnero viŝis la randon de la tablo per viŝtuko kaj skuis lian kapon.

"La maljuna viro stariĝis , malrapide kalkulis la pladeton, prenis leda monermonujon el lia poŝo kaj pagis por l' alkoholaĵoj, lasanta duonan peseta-on da gratifiko.

La kelnero observis lin foriras per la strato, la maljuna viro piediranta malstabile, sed digne.

"Kial vi ne lasis lin resti kaj trinki?" la malhastema kelnero demandis. Ili were aranĝanta la ŝutrojn. "Ne estas jam duono post du horoj."

"Mi deziras iri hejmon al lito."

"Kiom estas horo?"

"Pli al min ol al li."

"Horo estas la sama."

"Vi parolas tiel maljun aviro mem. Li povas aĉeti botelon kaj trinki ĉe hejmo."

"Ne estas la sama."

"Ne, estas ne," konkordis la kelnero kiu havanta la edzinon. Li ne deziris esti maljusta. Li estis nur hastema.

"Kaj vi? Ĉu vi havas ne timon pri iranta hejmon antaŭe via kutima horo?"

"Ĉu vi penas insulti min?"

"Ne, hombre, nur fari ŝercon."

"This is all stupid."

--Some foolish person who did not reveal themself making a comment on this blog

Liguists and students of foreign languages will like this: http://www.esperanto-usa.org/posters/Smash_Crush.pdf

There is a great hubub within the entomological community that has recently taken form. A new order of insect was classified (the last order to be discovered was Grylloblattodea in 1914) last year. It is being called Mantophasmatodea because its members have many characteristics in common with the orders Mantodea and Phasmatodea, but several entirely unique characteristics as well. All specimens have come from a massif in Namibia, and specimens preserved in amber from 45 million years ago show that little evolutionary change has occurred.
The Scientific American article on Mantophasmatodea is at: http://www.sciam.com/article.cfm?articleID=000C4A73-7799-1D9B-815A809EC5880000

"'We are certain,' declared Mikhail Gorbachev, at that time one of the candidates for the post of general secretary and at fifty-two years of age in 1984 the youngest member of the Politburo, 'that social progress cannot be stopped, that it is impossible to impede the historical progress of mankind's transition to socialism. And socialism means peace.' But 'peace', according to the party's new concepts turns out to be war! While rejecting thermonuclear war as a means for attaining its global aims, the USSR has by no means abandoned any of these aims. As Admiral Sorokin, director of the Main Political Directorate of the Soviet army and navy, declared, one of the most important missions of the Soviet armed forces is 'to defend peace throughout the world.' This is in fact a legitimization of military intervention wherever the interests of a 'just peace,' as interperated by the Soviets, require it."

--Mikhail Heller and Aleksandr Nekrich in "Utopia in Power" pg.723 © 1982

By: Ernest Hemingway
Taken from "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

"He'll stay all night," he said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now. I never get into bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last week."

The waiter took the brandy bottle and another saucer from the counter inside the cafe and marched out to the old man's table. He put down the saucer and poured the glass full of brandy.

"You should have killed yourself last week," he said to the deaf man. The old man motioned with his finger. "A little more," he said. The waiter poured on into the glass so that the brandy slopped over and ran down the stem into the top saucer of the pile. "Thank you," the old man said. The waiter took the bottle back inside the cafe. He sat down at the table with his colleague again.

"He's drunk now," he said.

"He's drunk every night."

"What did he want to kill himself for?"

"How should I know."

"How did he do it?"

"He hung himself with a rope."

"Who cut him down?"

"His niece."

"Why did they do it?"

"Fear for his soul."

"How much money has he got?" "He's got plenty."

"He must be eighty years old."

"Anyway I should say he was eighty."

"I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o'clock. What kind of hour is that to go to bed?"

"He stays up because he likes it."

"He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed for me."

"He had a wife once too."

"A wife would be no good to him now."

"You can't tell. He might be better with a wife."

"His niece looks after him. You said she cut him down."

Far: Ernest Hemingway
Enesperantigis: Adamo Andersono
Traduko © 2003 Adam Andersono
Prenata de "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

"Li restos por la tuta tago," li diris al lia kolego. "Mi estas dormema nun. Mi neniam enlitiĝas antaŭ tri horoj. Li devus esti mortiginta sin pasintsemajne."

La kelnero forprenis la brandbotelon kaj alian pladeton de la tablo de la maljuna viro. Li demetis la pladeton kaj verŝis la glaso plena da brandon.

"Vi devus esti mortiginta vin pasintsemajne," li diris al la surda viro. La maljuna viro gestis per lia fingro. "Poka plia," li diris. La kelnero verŝis plu en la glaso por ke la brando versaĉis super kaj kuris malsupre la fuston en la supra pladeto da l' amaso. "Dankon,"la maljuna viro diris. La kelnero reprenis la botelon internen la kafejo. Li sidis ĉe la tablo kun lia kolego denove.

"Li estas ebria nun,"li diris.

"Li estas ebria ĉiu nokto."

"Por kio li deziras mortigi sin?"

"Kial devus mi scii."

"Kiel li faris tion?"

"Li pendis sin per ŝnuro."

"Kiu tranĉis la ŝnuro?"

"Lia nevino."

"Kial ŝi faris tion?"

"Timo por lia animo."

"Kiom monon estas li haviginta?"

"Li estas haviginta abundon."

"Li devas esti okdek-jaraĝa."

"Iel mi devas diri ke li aĝas okdek."

"Mi deziras ke li irus hejmon. Mi neniam enlitiĝis antaŭ tri horoj. Kia horo estas tio por enlitiĝanta?"

"Li restas sendorme ĉar li ŝatas ĝin."

"Li estas soleca. Mi ne estas soleca. Mi havas edzinon atendantan en lito por mi."

"Li havis edzinon antaŭe ankaŭ."

"Ezdino estus ne bono al li nun."

"Vi ne povas distingi. Li eble estas pli bone kun edzino."

"Lia nevino prizorgas lin. Vi diris ke ŝi tranĉis la ŝnuro tio estis pendanta lin."

Well, I've tried something new for a change. Netscape 7.01 (Mozilla 1.1 or something ancient like that) was getting a little obsolete for my tastes so I was looking at upgrading. As the wild rumors go, AOL is dropping support for Netscape, but Mozilla is still being supported by temporary sources, so I decided to go with Mozilla 1.4 instead of Netscape 7.1. And besides, Netscape does some annoying things to Mozilla by integrating AOL things into Netscape, like adding a watered-down, bug-ridden, integrated version of AIM (but at least it doesn't have ads). So anyway, I was surfing on the Mozilla site and was thinking about how big and slightly unwieldly Mozilla is when I came across something interesting. There is a project at Mozilla called Firebird, which is a standalone browser based off a redesigned version of the Mozilla browser component. I'm using it right now, and I must say that it seems much simpler and more usable than Mozilla, and perhaps even a hair faster. Someone did several tests of load times vs. several other browsers and Firebird seemed to be competitive with the speed of Safari. In addition, I am trying out a mail client by Mozilla that is designed along the lines of Firebird, called Thunderbird. It is a standalone redesign of the Mozilla mail component and is also simpler and a bit more elegant. So far I like both apps better than Mozilla and (of course!) better than the Microsoft alternatives. One of my favorite parts however is the install process. Once you download the zip archive off the web, you just unzip to your directory of choice and you're ready to go.

Firebird project page: http://www.mozilla.org/projects/firebird/
Thunderbird project page: http://www.mozilla.org/projects/thunderbird/

By: Ernest Hemingway
Taken from "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

It was very late and everyone had left the cafe except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the day time the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference. The two waiters inside the cafe knew that the old man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client they knew that if he became too drunk he would leave without paying, so they kept watch on him.

"Last week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said.

"Why?"

"He was in despair."

"What about?"

"Nothing."

"How do you know it was nothing?"

"He has plenty of money."

They sat together at a table that was close against the wall near the door of the cafe and looked at the terrace where the tables were all empty except where the old man sat in the shadow of the leaves of the tree that moved slightly in the wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street light shone on the brass number on his collar. The girl wore no head covering and hurried beside him.

"The guard will pick him up," one waiter said.

"What does it matter if he gets what he's after?"

"He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him. They went by five minutes ago."

The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his saucer with his glass. The younger waiter went over to him.

"What do you want?"

The old man looked at him. "Another brandy," he said.

"You'll be drunk," the waiter said. The old man looked at him. The waiter went away.

Far: Ernest Hemingway
Enesperantigis: Adamo Andersono
Traduko © 2003 Adam Andersono
Prenata de "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

Estis malfrue kaj ĉiu estis foririnta la kafejon krom maljuna viro kiu sidis en l' ombro ke la folioj de l' arbo igas kontraŭ l' elektra lumo. En la tagtempo la strato estis polva, sed nokton la roso sinkigis la polvon kaj la maljuna viro ŝatis sidi malfrue ĉar li estis surda kaj nun je nokto estis silente kaj li sentis la diferencon. La du kelneroj internen la kafejo sciis ke la maljuna viro estis ebrieta, kaj kvankam li estis bona kliento, ili sciis ke se li iĝus tro ebria, li forirus sen paganta, tial ili plenumis observon sur li.

"Pasintsemajnon li penis mortigi sin," unu kelnero diris.

"Kial?"

"Li estis malesperanta."

"Kio pri?"

"Nenio."

"Kiel vi scias ke ĝi estis nenio?"

"Li havas plenan monon."

Ili sidis kune ĉe tablo tio estis apud la muro proksimen la pordo de la kafejo kaj rigardis la terason kie la tabloj estis ĉiuj vaka krom ke la maljuna viro sidis en l' ombro de la folioj de l' arbo tiu movis iomete en la vento. Knabino kaj soldato iris pretere en la strato. La stratlumilo brilis sur la latuna nombro en lia kolumo. La knabino portis ne kapkovraĵon kaj rapidis apud li.

"La garisto trovos lin," unu kelnero diris.

"Kio gravas se li havigas tion ke li estas postkuranta?"

"Li prefere foriru la straton nun. La gardisto kaptos lin. Ili iris pretere antaŭ kvin minutoj."

La maljuna viro sidanta en l' ombro frapis lian plateton per lia glaso. La pli juna kelnero iris al li.

"Kion deziras vi."

La maljuna viro rigardis ĉe li. "Alia brando," li diris.

"Vi estos ebria," la kelnero diris. La maljuna viro rigardis ĉe li. La kelnero foriris.

Forget whatever I said about normally used verb forms, each Volapük verb has 505,440 different forms.

By: Ernest Hemingway
Taken from "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

He came into the room to shut the windows while we were still in bed and I saw he looked ill. He was shivering, his face was white, and he walked slowly as though it ached to move.

"What's the matter, Schatz?"

"I've got a headache."

"You better go back to bed."

"No. I'm all right."

"You go to bed. I'll see you when I'm dressed."

But when I came downstairs he was dressed, sitting by the fire, looking a very sick and miserable boy of nine years. When I put my hand on his forehead I knew he had a fever.

"You go up to bed," I said, "you're sick."

"I'm all right," he said.

When the doctor came he took the boy's temperature.

"What is it?" I asked him.

"One hundred and two."

Downstairs, the doctor left three different medicines in different colored capsules with instructions for giving them. One was to bring down the fever, another a purgative, the third to overcome an acid condition. The germs of influenza can only exist in an acid condition, he explained. He seemed to know all about influenza and said there was nothing to worry about if the fever did not go above one hundred and four degrees. This was a light epidemic of flu and there was no danger if you avoided pneumonia.

Back in the room I wrote the boy's temperature down and made a note of the time to give the various capsules.

"Do you want me to read to you?"

"All right. If you want to," said the boy. His face was very white and there were dark areas under his eyes. He lay still in the bed and seemed very detached from what was going on.

I read aloud from Howard Pyle's 'Book of Pirates'; but I could see he was not following what I was reading.

"How do you feel, Schatz?" I asked him.

"Just the same, so far," he said.

I sat at the foot of the bed and read to myself while I waited for it to be time to give him another capsule. It would have been natural for him to go to sleep, but when I looked up he was looking at the foot of the bed, looking very strangely.

"Why don't you try to go to sleep? I'll wake you up for the medicine."

"I'd rather stay awake."

After a while he said to me, "You don't have to stay in here with me, Papa, if it bothers you."

"It doesn't bother me."

"No, I mean you don't have to stay if it's going to bother you."

I thought perhaps he was a little lightheaded and after giving him the prescribed capsules at eleven o'clock I went out for a while. It was a bright, cold day, the ground covered with a sleet that had frozen so that it seemed as if all the bare trees, the bushes, the cut brush and all the grass and the bare ground had been varnished with ice.

I took the young Irish setter for a little walk up the road and along a frozen creek, but it was difficult to stand or walk on the glassy surface and the red dog slipped and slithered and I fell twice, hard, once dropping my gun and having it slide away over the ice.

We flushed a covey of quail under a high clay bank with overhanging brush and I killed two as they went out of sight over the top of the bank. Some of the covey lit in trees, but most of them scattered into brush piles and it was necessary to jump on the ice-coated mounds of brush several times before they would flush. Coming out while you were poised unsteadily on the icy, springy brush they made difficult shooting and I killed two, missed five, and started back pleased to have found a covey close to the house and happy there were so many left to find on another day. At the house they said the boy had refused to let any one come into the room.

"You can't come in," he said. "You mustn't get what I have."

I went up to him and found him in exactly the position I had left him, white-faced, but with the tops of his cheeks flushed by the fever, staring still, as he had stared, at the foot of the bed. I took his temperature.

"What is it?"

"Something like a hundred," I said. It was one hundred and two and four tenths.

"It was a hundred and two," he said.

"Who said so?"

"The doctor."

"Your temperature is all right," I said. "It's nothing to worry about."

"I don't worry," he said, "but I can't keep from thinking."

"Don't think," I said. "Just take it easy."

"I'm taking it easy," he said and looked straight ahead. He was evidently holding tight onto himself about something.

"Take this with water."

"Do you think it will do any good?"

"Of course it will."

I sat down and opened the 'Pirate' book and commenced to read, but I could see he was not following, so I stopped.

"About what time do you think I'm going to die?" he asked.

"What?"

"About how long will it be before I die?"

"You aren't going to die. What's the matter with you?"

"Oh, yes, I am. I heard him say a hundred and two."

"People don't die with a fever of one hundred and two. That's a silly way to talk."

"I know they do. At school in France the boys told me you can't live with forty-four degrees. I've got a hundred and two."

He had been waiting to die all day, ever since nine o'clock in the morning.

"You poor Schatz," I said. "Poor old Schatz. It's like miles and kilometres. You aren't going to die. That's a different thermometer. On that thermometer thirty-seven is normal. On this thermometer it's ninety-eight."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," I said. "It's like miles and kilometres. You know, like how many kilometres we make when we do seventy miles in the car."

"Oh," he said.

But his gaze at the foot of the bed relaxed slowly. The hold over him relaxed too, finally, and the next day it was very slack and he cried very easily at little things that were of no importance.

Far: Ernest Hemingway
Enesperantigis: Adamo Andersono
Traduko © 2003 Adam Andersono
Prenata de "The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories" © 1927 Ernest Hemingway

Li venis en la ĉambro por fermi la fenestrojn dum ni estis ankoraŭ enlita kaj mi vidis ke li aspektis malsana. Li estis tremanta, lia vizaĝo estis blanka, kaj li marŝis malrapide kvazaŭ movado dolorigas sin.

"Kio estas la gravo, Schatz?"

"Mi estas haviginta kapdoloron."

"Vi devus pli bone iri liton."

"Ne. Mi estas en ordo."

"Vi iru liton. Mi vidos vin, kiam mi estas vestinta."

Sed kiam mi venis malsupren la ŝtuparon, li estis vestinta, sidanta apud la fajro, rigardata tiel tre malsana kaj mizera knabo de naŭ jaroj. Kiam mi lokis mian manon sur lia antaŭkapo, mi sciis ke li havis febron.

"Vi iru supre liton," mi diris, "vi estas malsana."

"Mi estas en ordo," li diris.

Kiam la doktoro venis, li mezuris la tempaturon de la knabo.

"Kioma estas ĝi?" mi demandis lin.

"Cent du."

Fundŝtupara, la doktoro lasis tri malsamajn medicinojn en malsamaj kolorhavaj kapsuloj kun instruktoj por doni ilin. Unu estis malsuprporti la febron, alia laksigo, la tria superveni acidan kondiĉon. La mikroboj de gripo povas nur ekzisti en acida kondiĉo, li klarigis. Li ŝajnis scii ĉiujn pri gripo kaj diris ke estus nenio pri kiu ĉargeni se la febro ne irus super cent kvar gradoj. Ĉi tio estis milda epidemio da la gripo, kaj estus ne danĝero se oni evitus pneŭmonion.

Reen la ĉambro mi skribis la tempaturon de la knabo kaj faris noton kiu enhavis la horon por doni la diversajn kapsulojn.

"Ĉu vi deziras min legi al vi?" mi demandis lin.

"Okej. Se vi dezirus," diris la knabo. Lia vizaĝo estis tre blanka kaj estis mallumaj areoj sub liaj okuloj. Li kuŝis senmove en la lito kaj ŝajnis tre aparta de kion estis okazi.

Mi legas laŭte de la Book of Pirates de Howard Pyle; sed mi povis vidi ke li ne atentas kion mi estis legantan.

"Kiel sentas vin Schatz?" Mi demandis lin.

"Ĝusta la sama, ĝisnuna," li diris.

Mi sidis ĉe la litfinaĵo kaj legis lin dum mi atingis por esti la tempo por doni alia kapsulon. Estus estinita natura por li dormiĝi, sed kiam mi rigardis supre, li estis rigardanta la litfinaĵon, aspekti tre strange.

"Kial vi ne penas dormiĝi? Mi vekigos vin por preni la medicinon."

"Mi preferas resti maldorma."

Post tempo li diris al mi, "Vi ne devus resti en ĉi tie kun mi, Paĉjo, se ĝenus vin."

"Ne ĝenas vin."

"Ne, mi volas diri, ke vi ne devus resti se ĝenus vin."

Mi pensis eble ke li estis kapturniĝa kaj post doni lin la preskribaj kapsuloj je dek unu horoj, mi iris for dum tempo.

Estis luma, malvarma tago, la tero estis kovranta kun grajlo tiu estis frostiĝinta por ke ŝajnis kvazaŭ ĉiuj da la nudaj arboj, l' arbetoj, la tranĉintaj veproj, kaj ĉiuj da la herboj kaj la nuda tero estis vernisita kun glacio. Mi prenis la junan Irlandhundon por promeneto supren la vojo kaj laŭ frosta rojo, sed estis malfacile stari aŭ marŝi sur la glasa surfaco kaj la ruĝa hundo glitis kaj rampis kaj mi falis dufoje, servere, unufoje lasante mian pafilon kaj devante gliti for super la glacio.

Ni akvumis gregeton da korturno sub alta argila riverbordo kun superpendanta vepro kaj mi mortigis du dum ili iris for de l' okulo, super la supro de la riverbordo. Iuj de la gregeto kaŝis en arboj, sed plejmulto da ili disis en vepramasoj kaj necesis salti plurmultfoje sur la glacikovraj altaĵetoj da vepro antaŭ ili kaŝus. Veni ekster, dum oni estis ekvilibra malstabile sur la glacia, elasta vepro ili malfaciligis la pafadon kaj mi mortigis du, maltravis kvin, kaj ekrevenis plaĉa pro trovi gregeton proksiman la domon kaj feliĉa ke estis iom ceterajn trovi je alia tago.

Ĉe la domo oni diris ke la knabo rifuzis lasi iun enveni la ĉambron.

"Vi ne povas enveni," li diris. "Mi ne devas ricivi kion ke mi havas."

Mi iris lin kaj trovis lin en l' ekzakta sama pozicio ke mi enforiris lin, blankvizaĝan, sed kun la suproj de liaj vangoj ruĝiĝis per la febro, fiksrigardanta malmova, tiel li fiksrigardis, la litfinaĵon.

Mi mezuris lian tempaturon.

"Kioma estas ĝi?"

"Io tiel cent," mi diris. Ĝi estis cent du kaj kvar dekonoj.

"Ĝi estis cent du," li diris.

"Kiu diris tiel?"

"La doktoro."

"Via tempaturo estas en ordo," mi diris. "Ĝi estas nenio pri kiu por ĉargreni."

"Mi ne ĉargrenas," li diris, "sed mi ne povas rezisti pensado."

"Ne pensu," mi diris. "Ĵus malstreĉiĝu."

"Mi estas malstreĉiĝanta," li diris kaj rigardis rekte antaŭe. Li estis evidente tenadi streĉe sin pri io.

"Prenu ĉi tion kun akvo."

"Ĉu vi kredi ke ĝi bonfaros?"

"Kompreneble ĝi bonfaros."

Mi sidiĝis kaj malfermis la Pirate libron kaj komencis lagi, sed mi povis vidi ke li ne estis atentanta, tial mi haltis.

"Ĉirkaŭ kiam pensas vi ke mi mortiĝos?" li demandis.

"Kio?"

"Ĉirkaŭ kiom da horo estos antaŭ mi mortiĝas?"

"Vi ne estas mortiĝonta. Kio estas la gravo de vi?"

"Ho, jes, mi estas. Mi aŭdis ke li diris cent du."

"Populoj ne mortiĝas havi febro da cent du. Tiu estas fola maniero por paroli."

"Mi scias ke oni faras tion. Ĉe lernejo en Francio la knaboj diris min ke oni ne povas loĝi kun kvardek kvar gradoj. Mi havas cent du."

Li estis atingata mortiĝi dum la tuta tago, ekde naŭ da horoj en la mateno.

"Vi, povra Schatz," mi diris. "Povra maljuna Schatz. Estas tiel mejloj kaj kilometroj. Vi ne mortiĝos. Tiu estas malsama termometro. Je tiu termometro tridek sep estas normala. Je ĉi tiu speco, normalo estas naŭdek ok."

"Ĉu vi certa?"

"Absoluta," mi diris. "Estas tiel mejloj kaj kilometroj. Vi scias, tiel kiomajn kilometrojn veturas ni kiam ni veturas sepdek en la aŭto?"

"Ho," li diris.

Sed lia rigardado la litfinaĵon malstreĉiĝis malrapide. La teno je li malstreĉiĝis ankaŭ, fine, kaj la sekva tago ĝi estas tre malstreĉita kaj li kriis tre facile je malgrandaj aĵoj tiu estas de ne graveco.

At binos Volapük. Binos pük das äkömos büfu Esperanto. Volapük binos veretik pük lenadön. Kanob penön setis ole in Volapük, ab binos veretik badik pük. Pük labos lul klemis, e tumis de velibias fomis. Lenadolsöz Volapüki! E okosobs ko klänäd.

My previous statements about the number of forms for each Volapük verb may have been inaccurate, I'm working on figuring that out. However I do know that there are 34 form of the infinitive for each Volapük verb, one for each tense and mood. It is probably legal to form additional infinitive verb forms, but not very common.

It all began about 1 month ago. About that time, the the company upon whose server this site is hosted was switching appmagic.com to a new server machine and they lost some information and modified the permissions information for appmagic.com. As a result I lost several of my entries for a time until they were restored. However, at this time the problem with the permissions was still not rectified. In fact, it was not until about a week and a half ago that the permissions were fixed. But alas, there is more. When I arrived here in California on June 22nd, our internet connection abruptly halted due to the fact that one of our routers blew up. After using a neighbor's computer, we finally acquired another router via eBay. We bought a used one because a microwave WiFi connection is almost ready to deliver high-speed access to our area, but the project had been delayed because the owner of land on which the last repeater needed to be placed could not be contacted. When the router came in the mail we thought that finally, after 1 grueling weeklong marathon of running the entire corporate center of AppMagic Inc. without an internet connection, we were saved. I must permit myself the use of another cry of "But alas!" here. The seller had charged us $18.50 for shipping and had sent us the wrong model of router! He had also failed to understand the rules of the type of auction that he had used, but that is a moot point compared to the saga at hand. This model of router would still work, but it would not be without its drawbacks as you will see. It took nearly a week of heavy work to configure and troubleshoot the endless problems of the router, while all the while I could see, even from the heralded, over-heating server closet that constitutes my computer workspace, that our lack of connectivity was suffocating everyone. Like one who gasps for air when there is none, we tried to get even the smallest shread of access to the internet where ever we could: library, neighbors... Massive amounts of work have now fixed and restored our livelihoods to their full potential, and we rest in peace with dreams that perhaps have a glint more happiness than before.

For those people who claim that Esperanto (the second major constructed language) is too terribly difficult to learn and use, consider the case (no pun intended) of the first-ever constructed language Volapük. It has 19 consonents and 8 vowels (roughly corresponding to German vowels). Not so bad... yet. Now let's look at the verb. Volapük verbs are totally regular and take on different forms based on number, gender, person, tense, mood, and voice. There are a possible 505,440 forms of each verb, although only 351 simple forms ("Blueprints for Babel: the web geek's guide to artificial languages and why you've never heard of them" calls the Volapük system of verb conjugation "one of the most complicated ever devised"). Now let's move on to nouns. There are five different declensions for the nominative, accusative, dative, genitive, and vocative cases; and of course, there's a plural for each one of these declensions. This leaves us with 10 different possible formations of each noun. The language is conveniently agglutinative, and derives its vocabulary from primarily Germanic sources. Now let's look at a sample text of Volapük. „Napoleon äbinom son lavogela Bonaparte baonik ab no liegik. Nag ilefulom studis omik su jul militik in Paris, päcälom as liötan känemik. In tim ot älemom oke, de fenigs pespalöl pokagloki silefik, cinüfadi badik e nedelidik, kel äskanom omi levemo in vigs balid. Ven mon ädefom liötane pöfik kelos ofen äzitos, äpanom gloki oma.” from „NAPOLEONA POKAGLOK” To me, this language is the best form of encryption available today.

Well, well... It pains me greatly to see the decrepid state into which this blog has fallen. A somewhat disasterous sequence of incedents has left this blog in a wretched state, and has nearly swept me off the online map (if I was ever on it in the first place). I am in the middle of identifying a particularly confounding member of the the family hesperiidae (Lepidoptera), so I must delay the tale of our struggles here at AppMagic Inc. for a short while. But tell your friends that Adams Blog and its author are, no matter what it may have seemed in the past several months, alive.