Today I had the time of my life in distributed computing. I mean, there have been other times of various kinds in my life, of course, and there's nothing about this particular one that makes it stand out as something more profound or more enjoyable than any of the others, but it afforded me not a little exhilaration, in light of our recent disagreeable run-in with General Abbu al-Hadin of the Kingdom of Distributia. Nicky didn't come to class today, because the two of us had stayed up till 8 AM last night, trying to see if we stood a chance in this course, and for a few minutes before class started I was the only one in the room with the great General Abbu. Abbu set up the slides on the screen, and then wafted over to my side of the classroom like a dandelion in the wind. He flashed me a strained smile as he approached (to the extent that it was possible for a smile to creep onto General Abbu's obdurate face), conscious, no doubt, that he may have been a tad too harsh with us last week, and said in an unexpectedly gentle tone, "How is the project going?" I said we very optimistic that we'd have something by next Monday. Very optimistic indeed. "Good," said Abbu, clearly not believing a thing I was saying. "How many computers are you going to use?" he went on to ask, adding with the hint of a scoff before I could respond, "One?" I stammered that we'd managed to get a few brave souls to volunteer their computers for our project, and that, failing that, we were thinking of using virtual machines or something like that. You know: words. Any words that sounded like they might be connected to computers in any way. "Okay, okay," Abbu said, more to himself than to me, and then wafted off back to his station at the front of the classroom, clearly satisfied that exactly one of the following two things was true: 1) that, contrary to what he had thought during last week's outburst at Nicky and me, there was still hope for us; or 2) that I was truly, genuinely retarded.
The dynamic of the class today was somewhat different from what it had been throughout the semester. John Galt was explaining to his bemused international project partner in his quaint blue-collar New England accent that such-and-such was called tiger shark ("tiger shahk"), because it looked like a tiger shark. 3:15. No sign of Casper. Had he perhaps been sucked into a passing wormhole, as often happens to ghosts that are not mindful enough of their surroundings? "Let's start," General Abbu said at length with a small cough. Though outwardly his features were as impassive as ever, I imagined that he was seething on the inside. He would take Casper to task later.
I noted with some dismay that Speedy had failed to show up today. He hadn't shown up at Software Engineering yesterday either, which leads me to believe that he must be off interviewing somewhere or other. He's not sick, because people like Speedy are immune to ailments of the body. Someone in my SE team is also off interviewing on the West Coast for the entirety of this week, and he's graduating in December. I think it safe to assume that Speedy might be graduating then as well. Which would mean that he won't be here next semester. What ever are we to do? In Speedy's usual seat at the First Table (as I suppose it ought to be known) sat smug little Murali. Murali was a bit late to the nickname game, because he had never done anything up until last week to merit so much as a thoughtful glance in his direction, let alone a nickname. Last week, for some reason, he apostatized from the Indian Table, and took a seat at the First Table without invitation. It was as if he had read a book over the weekend, and all of a sudden he was an authority on distributed systems. Ever since then he has been steadily drawing the eyes of the class away from Stripes, who likes being the center of attention, with the result that Stripes was forced to act out today. "Does anyone else not understand this?" he asked the class at large, after engaging in a lengthy argument with none other than General Abbu on why the topic he was presenting sucked. The rest of the class tut-tutted disapprovingly, and Casper, who, by the way, had burst into the classroom a short while earlier, apologizing profusely to General Abbu for being late, was forced to come out of his pensive silence to shut Stripes up with his superior wealth of knowledge. A few minutes later Stripes was all, "Ohhh! They're in the same process!" He might as well have made a silly face and declared that he was a dummy. Casper once again apologized to General Abbu at the end of the class, and we adjourned into the pastel sunset that bespoke only death and nothing else.
The dynamic of the class today was somewhat different from what it had been throughout the semester. John Galt was explaining to his bemused international project partner in his quaint blue-collar New England accent that such-and-such was called tiger shark ("tiger shahk"), because it looked like a tiger shark. 3:15. No sign of Casper. Had he perhaps been sucked into a passing wormhole, as often happens to ghosts that are not mindful enough of their surroundings? "Let's start," General Abbu said at length with a small cough. Though outwardly his features were as impassive as ever, I imagined that he was seething on the inside. He would take Casper to task later.
I noted with some dismay that Speedy had failed to show up today. He hadn't shown up at Software Engineering yesterday either, which leads me to believe that he must be off interviewing somewhere or other. He's not sick, because people like Speedy are immune to ailments of the body. Someone in my SE team is also off interviewing on the West Coast for the entirety of this week, and he's graduating in December. I think it safe to assume that Speedy might be graduating then as well. Which would mean that he won't be here next semester. What ever are we to do? In Speedy's usual seat at the First Table (as I suppose it ought to be known) sat smug little Murali. Murali was a bit late to the nickname game, because he had never done anything up until last week to merit so much as a thoughtful glance in his direction, let alone a nickname. Last week, for some reason, he apostatized from the Indian Table, and took a seat at the First Table without invitation. It was as if he had read a book over the weekend, and all of a sudden he was an authority on distributed systems. Ever since then he has been steadily drawing the eyes of the class away from Stripes, who likes being the center of attention, with the result that Stripes was forced to act out today. "Does anyone else not understand this?" he asked the class at large, after engaging in a lengthy argument with none other than General Abbu on why the topic he was presenting sucked. The rest of the class tut-tutted disapprovingly, and Casper, who, by the way, had burst into the classroom a short while earlier, apologizing profusely to General Abbu for being late, was forced to come out of his pensive silence to shut Stripes up with his superior wealth of knowledge. A few minutes later Stripes was all, "Ohhh! They're in the same process!" He might as well have made a silly face and declared that he was a dummy. Casper once again apologized to General Abbu at the end of the class, and we adjourned into the pastel sunset that bespoke only death and nothing else.
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