October 10, 2008
digital
21 Comments
Full disclosure: I am a Canonical employee and a GNOME Foundation member.
Caveat: The opinions expressed in this post are solely my own, and should not be construed as representative of Canonical’s corporate policy or ethos, nor as representative of the Ubuntu or Kubuntu projects’ ideals or policies.
This recent post is not the first time that the Ubuntu project and its sponsor, my employer, have been accused of neglecting Kubuntu. And it may not be the last. But please allow me to make some points.
First, Ubuntu is a project. If Ubuntu “ignores” Kubuntu, the reason is simple. They are different projects. I’ll be attending the GNOME Boston Summit 2008 this weekend. If I don’t find a lot of KDE developers there, can I then posit that KDE “ignores major trends and issues related to the free Unix desktop?” Clearly not. And I wouldn’t expect to find large numbers of GNOME developers at Akademy. Although GNOME and KDE have similar aims, there is no reason to expect the two projects to mutually support each other in absolutely everything they do. When such mutual support happens, it’s very, very nice. I value my friendships with many people in the KDE community, but I wouldn’t seek out a KDE developer when I have issues with GNOME. By extension, I wouldn’t blame Ubuntu developers and packagers when things break in Kubuntu. If Kubuntu is broken, then Kubuntu developers, MOTUs, bug triagers, and all Kubuntu community members are responsible for fixing it.
Second, looking at the issue of Konqueror and the Ubuntu wiki, I am unable to find Jonathan Thomas’ reports, suggestions, or potential fixes. In fact, I can’t even see that he’s subscribed to the bug. It’s one thing to complain about an issue not being addressed. It’s quite another to complain about an issue you yourself have not taken the time to address. If the issue is that important to you, get involved. Not to belabor the “separate projects” point, but it’s not the responsibility of GNOME developers to make sure their stuff works in KDE (and vice versa). Thus, at the desktop/UI level, it’s not the responsibility of Ubuntu developers to ensure their stuff works in Kubuntu. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s fantastic when this happens, and we should always strive to allow this kind of cooperation. But demanding that one project alter its needs and the needs of its users based on the requirements of a different project does a disservice to both projects involved, never mind the users that depend upon them. Now, be aware, if the Linux kernel deployed in Ubuntu breaks KDE functionality for Kubuntu, that’s the responsibility of the kernel team. But if GNOME features do not translate well to another desktop environment, that’s not necessarily GNOME’s, and by extension the distros that use GNOME, problem.
Finally, I don’t see any suggestions from Jonathan as to how things might be improved in the future. Criticism is always difficult to hear, but when such criticism is in no way constructive, it’s difficult to find a reason to listen at all. Not to mention that unconstructive criticism probably violates the spirit, if not the letter, of the Ubuntu Code Of Conduct. Simply put, “lead, follow, or get out of the way.” It’s also especially interesting that two-thirds of the issues Jonathan cites (Konqueror vs. Moin, KNetworkManager vs. NetworkManager) are actually already fixed, and were prior to his post.
I apologize if this post comes off as somewhat harsh, it is not my intention to be so. But clearly it is not the responsibility of the Camry assembly plant to ensure the Prius meets delivery requirements, despite both being owned by Toyota. In the case of Ubuntu and Kubuntu, this distinction is even more clear, as no single company “owns” either. Kubuntu belongs to you, the Kubuntu community of users and developers. If something is missing, broken, or needs polish in Kubuntu, it is the responsibility of the Kubuntu community to address these issues. While it’s always desirable for the different desktop environment projects to work together, this obviously cannot happen all of the time. And GNOME is not going to ask “How does this affect KDE?” every time a feature is added to GNOME. Conversely, I wouldn’t expect KDE developers to worry much about GNOME’s needs.
Jonathan, I understand your frustration. But be aware, Kubuntu is not a product as much as it is a project. You’re able, at any time, to get involved and make the changes you deem necessary. If you don’t, it’s a bit unfair to ask other people to address your specific needs and issues without your involvement. I’m aware of this because I often have to censor myself when I encounter a piece of missing or broken functionality. For instance, the UPnP browser plugin in Rhythmbox simply does not work with MediaTomb UPnP shares. It really annoys me, as I have to run both MediaTomb and Firefly/mt-daapd on my media server. But I don’t have the time or skills necessary to address this issue myself, so I find myself having to squelch my dissatisfaction to some degree. I’d love to file bug reports, participate in triaging of these bugs, and test potential fixes. But my work and personal commitments have thus far prevented me from doing so. Thus, since I’m not part of any potential solution, complaining about this broken functionality simply would make me part of the problem.
Personally, I don’t think that’s helpful or constructive. Flame on.
July 25, 2008
digital
5 Comments
I’m in Minnesota this week doing some work for Canonical. The hotel I’m staying at outsources their networking, like most hotels do.
I have always maintained that the only people that know less about Internetworking than hotel IT departments are the outsourced firms they use. And the Oak Ridge Hotel and Conference Center is no different.
I don’t know what company the hotel outsources to, but they have made some horrible decisions with regards to guest usability, privacy, and security.
Example 1: You can connect to the wireless network, but you need to visit a page in a Javascript-capable browser to actually activate your network connection. I have a Playstation Portable, and use it while on the road to conduct business and personal IP telephony with Skype. The PSP browser does not support J-script. So I had to call the ISP to get an exception added for the PSP’s MAC address. The PS3, Xbox, and and any other devices (including most handhelds) that do not have Javascript-capable browsers will have similar issues. And I’m in the 5% of hotel guests that understand the root cause and know how to ask the ISP to engineer around it.
Example 2: This is the killer. The hotel’s website sets a cookie in your browser. This cookie has two effects. First, it repeatedly opens pop-up windows. Repeatedly. Like, several per minute. Here’s an example:
Pop-ups are irritating, a harbinger of malware to the technically unsavvy, and very, VERY 1997. Don’t do that.
The second effect is that the cookie places interstitial pages as you browse! I noticed it when I clicked the “Back” button in Firefox and instead of my previous URL I was directed to
http://216.167.216.11/superclick/popup.php?popup=2&url=http%3A%2F%2Fbmneptok.com
After a few seconds, my “Back” request was honored, and the page I expected in the first place was loaded.
Needless to say, I am not amused by hotel ISPs playing traffic cop with my browsing habits. I certainly don’t want a hotel ISP’s cookies monitoring my URL visitation habits. I phoned the ISP, who told me “Yes, we could monitor browsing habits, but we don’t. Trust us.”
OK, how about I pay my room bill when I get home? Trust me, I’ll call you with my credit card number. Since you assume I’ll trust you, I think I’ll make the same assumption.
To their credit, they disabled the cookie for my IP. But thank whatever gods your family worships that I actually noticed. If I hadn’t, I’d be relying on the ISP having no disgruntled or morally deficient employees during my stay.
Look, I’m your customer. I don’t expect CCTV cameras in my room, peepholes in my shower, or invasive browser cookies that monitor my web surfing habits. And I certainly expect that IP-capable devices that work at home and with coffee shop access points to work in a premium hotel without the need for a phone call and request for MAC exemption in their routing tables.
Needless to say, I won’t be staying at any Dolce properties any time soon, if I can help it. And I recommend you avoid them, as well. At least until someone can explain this invasion of my privacy to my satisfaction.
Dolce, you listening?
July 4, 2006
analog
Comments Off on Le Grand Voyage A Montreal
Thrill as your host drives across a continent!
Marvel at the beauty of the American nation!
Gasp at the stultification of the populace!
Read on to learn more about five days of heat, sleep deprivation, and breakneck speeds!
Day 1 (June 28): Portland, Oregon to Rock Springs, Wyoming
Although I’m a night owl I manage to get on the road at 8am. Traffic on Route 26 from Beaverton to Portland is heavy with the morning commuters. People sealed in their cars preparing for another day of routines as I start a routine of long distance driving that will last the next few days. The Portland skyline greets me as I travel on I-405 and connect to I-84.
Playing on the stereo is “Be In” by The Dandy Warhols, Portland natives themselves. It’s my farewell to Portland, a city that has been a home, refuge, and friend for six years. Almost to the day, actually; I moved from Connecticut to Portland over the July 4th weekend in 2000.
Once you clear Portland and its suburbs on I-84 you’re in the Columbia River gorge, and on this bright, clear June morning it’s gorgeous. It reminds me of what I will miss about Oregon’s landscapes. A bittersweet moment. The Dandy’s discography continues to play.
Eastern Oregon is very different. Like the Palouse in eastern Washington it’s steeply rolling hills covered with tree farms or tall, dry grass. The 75mph speed limit chews through the distances and soon I’m climbing the mountains of eastern Oregon into Idaho.
Southern Idaho is, to my eye, very beautiful. The Wasatch range is in view, its sawtoothed peaks still holding some snow. The immediate landscape is again steeply rolling hills, but less populated, less touched by the hands of man, and framed by these pretty mountains. I like southern Idaho.
A couple of hours spent in this scenery drops me into Utah. I stop for gas and a family from California strikes up a conversation,
“Where are you headed?” asks the patriarch.
“Montreal.”
“Is that near Salt Lake City?”
Yay, America. No wonder we’re seen as somewhat backwards and isolated by the rest of the world. Depressing.
Utah passes quickly, and I turn from I-84 east to I-80 east. I’ll be on I-80 now until Pennsylvania. It’s a long road ahead.
The 100F temperatures begin to take their toll as I cross into Wyoming. I’m determined to drive as far as I can, but I won’t compromise safety for additional mileage. I begin to see signs for Rock Springs (126 miles ahead!) which strikes me as odd. I remember Rock Springs from my trip from Connecticut to Portland, and remember it as little except a gas station, convenience store, bank, and a motel or two. It seems as good a place as any to stop for the night, though, so I resolve to press on until I get there.
Flashing lights in the median ahead signal police and fire activity. As I pass, I notice that in one of the emergency vehicle turnarounds there’s a disabled vehicle. A Cessna. A light aircraft parked on the highway. Welcome to the deserted west.
It’s a shock when I arrive. Rock Springs now has multiple gas stations, 8-12 motels, a Wal-Mart, banks, and has turned from a dusty nowhere south-central Wyoming town into a bustling little metropolis. There are no vacancies at any of the motels. Not a room to be had anywhere, not even a manger. An employee at the Holiday Inn tells me that oil and gas exploration has exploded in southern Wyoming in the past few years, and that since there are not enough homes for the influx of workers, the fossil fuel companies are housing their contractors in motels. Next potential available room is in Laramie, 3 hours up the road. There’s no way I can make it. Fortunately, a very nice employee of the Super 8 motel allows me to use their restroom for face washing and tooth brushing.
After 900 miles of driving in 100F temperatures I spend my first night on the road sleeping on the back seat of my Subaru Impreza in the parking lot of the Wal-Mart. Not fun. Not relaxing. But 900 miles are done, and I’m well on my way.
Day 2 (June 29): Rock Springs, Wyoming to Des Moines, Iowa
I awake at 5:30AM cramped and sweating. The sleep has been worse than the drive. So I resolve to start driving again.
I pull into a Rock Springs gas station to get my tank filled and discover the station requires pre-payment. I walk inside and tell them I want to fill my tank, show them that I have money to pay, and assure them I’m not going to steal gas. “You still have to give us some money,” the surly female clerk barks at me. I’m in no mood for this crap after my long drive and poor sleep. “Fine,” I say, “Here’s $400 dollars. Will that cover it?” She gives me a withering glare and says, “You don’t have to be like that about it.” “Well, you don’t have to treat honest people like potential criminals, either, but there we are. You made your choice, live with it. Garbage in, garbage out,” I say. I pump my gas and get the hell out of Petrochemical, Wyoming.
Southern Wyoming has a desolate beauty. High desert with nothing but sagebrush and snow fences. Occasional nowhere towns with gas stations and not much else. Again the 75mph speed limit (which means 85mph actual speed) eats the great, barren distance. Nothing but my Subaru, big rigs, and 3 mile long Union Pacific trains to show that humanity exists.
Striking are the number of signs warning of high winds, and the relative lack of wind farms. There are a few, but nothing that would seem to truly tap the potential energy of the place. I guess it’s tough to get the energy out, as someone would have to string untold miles of high-tension power lines. But still, the money being poured into fossil fuel exploration could be used to harness an energy source we know exists here, no? I guess I’m not overly surprised it’s not on the radar in the current political climate.
Wyoming is long. Long and hot. The sun beats on me like I stole something from it. The desolate beauty begins to wear thin, and by the time I get to Laramie I’m just aching for the Nebraska border. I make a long, steep ascent and find myself on the highest point in Wyoming on I-80; about 8,000 feet. Wyoming may be boring, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to cross the Rocky Mountains with a 300 mile climb and 300 mile descent than it is in, say, Colorado.
At last I pass Cheyenne and barrel on toward the Nebraska border. When I cross the elation is palpable, and I yell at the top of my lungs with gratitude to Nebraska for just being there.
I stop in Kimball for gas. Given the day’s previous experience I walk inside to pre-pay. “Just go ahead and pump,” the woman says, “we trust you.” Welcome to Nebraska.
I plow along at 85mph and watch the high grasslands of Nebraska give way to the flat fields that yield the nutrients of a nation. Nebraska, I think, gets a bad rap. Yes, it’s flat. Yes, the road is straight as an arrow. Yes, the landscape changes little for 400 miles. But it has its own beauty if you’re willing to see it. The huge fields. The lines of trees that mark the Platte and other rivers. The sky that truly feels like a canopy above you that stretches into infinity. I would probably hate being a teenager out here with “nothing to do,” but as an adult I can appreciate the quiet beauty of the place. It doesn’t take much imagination to see oceanic herds of bison coursing across these plains with groups of nomadic humans, perfectly attuned to the environment, giving chase and building a culture around the movements of a species.
As I approach Kearney and the Great Platte River Road Archway Monument I’m reminded of my experience seeing it six years ago. My friend John was driving his shift, but I was awake. We were both tired and stoned. Looming up out of the early morning Nebraska mist was the archway. Surreal and impressive. I stop and buy a postcard to send to John.
For the next two hours I watch a supercell develop over northern Kansas out my left-hand window. Awe inspiring, it stetches miles into the atmosphere. As I begin to wonder whether it will spawn tornados, it loses coherence and slowly dissolves. No doubt, I’m in the midwest.
About a hundred miles later I’m on the four lane highway through Omaha. Omaha, for a city of its size, must have the largest and best highway system. It’s worthy of a city four times its size. Across the Missouri River and I’m in Iowa. Nebraska has been a long, hot drive. I’m tired, but resolve myself to make it to Des Moines before I stop, making Day 2 another 900 mile day.
The difference between Nebraska and Iowa landscape is striking. It’s as if someone has flipped a switch and turned flat, fertile prairie into gently rolling, equally fertile hills. Iowa is a beautiful state. Period. And you have to love any state with a town named What Cheer.
I get to Des Moines and get my first bed and shower of the trip. Never has a shower felt so good. I can feel layers of sweat and sebaceous matter washing off me, and it is cathartic. Another 900 miles done. I feel a sense of accomplishment.
Day 3 (June 30): Des Moines, Iowa to Toledo, Ohio
I awake to gray skies and rain. Other motel guests must think me a madman as I stand in the parking lot packing my car and laughing, dancing, and yelling “Thank you!” to the heavens. But that cruel star that has turned me from a human into a meatsack piloting a Subaru has been obscured, and my joy is unrestrained.
That joy does not last long. As I cross the Mississippi River at Davenport, Iowa the sun returns, and not long after I realize this will be the most gruelling, yet most unproductive day of the trip.
I-80 in Illinois is a toll road. There is a single toll station in the southern suburns of Chicago. I have timed it so that I will pass through the tolls around 2pm. It’s a holiday weekend, and I figure 2pm will avoid the morning rush commute while still avoiding the post-work exodus of holiday vacationers. And it does.
The problem is that Illinois is building a new toll plaza, and instead of just closing the tolls during construction, or opting to waive tolls during peak activity, they have reduced I-80, the major east-west conduit for traffic through the central part of the USA, to two lanes of toll booth traffic. Lunacy. I crawl four miles to the toll booth in three hours. I could have walked it in half the time. Or less. The sun is beating down, sweat is pouring off me, and there is no breeze. It’s maddening. I realize that there’s no way I’m going to make central Pennsylvania (my goal of the day).
By the time I clear the tolls, cross Indiana, and enter Ohio, I’m done. My body is shutting down, my mind is foggy, and I need to stop before I collapse. A Howard Johnson’s in Toledo gives me a bed, a shower, and a wireless Internet connection that works in the lobby but not in my room. Ah well. I watch the last hour of “Revenge Of The Sith” and fall asleep.
I curse you, Illinois Department Of Transportation. May you be forced to drive your own nightmare. Forever.
Day 4 (July 1): Toledo, Ohio to Glens Falls, New York
Wake up call comes at 9am and I’m on the road by 10. Ohio takes longer than I’d like. Ohio is truly boring. The blandness is suffocating. The Pennsylvania border becomes some sort of parole hearing. No offense, Ohioans, but your state is just not my cup of tea.
At last I cross into Pennsylvania and enter the Allegheny mountains.
I love Oregon. The west coast is beautiful and has landscapes that are breathtaking. But as I enter mountains made smooth and and rolling with age, forests of hardwood trees, and myriad rivers that snake through the landscape I can’t help but feel a sense of homecoming. My heart belongs in these ancient woods, not the new fir growth of the west.
The Susquehanna is far, far over its banks. Apparently there have been torrential rains, and it shows. The river runs mud-brown and submerges the trunks of trees that once stood far back from the riverbank.
After a few hours I approach Wilkes-Barre and the end of my tenure on I-80. As I turn off onto I-81 I can’t help but feel a sense of joy that the long, hot trek across the heartland has ended. Through Wilkes-Barre and Scranton, across the former coal fields of northeastern Pennsylvania and I cross into New York. The last state on my trip. I can feel the end is near.
In Binghamton I pick up I-88. It turns out to be the best road of the trip. It travels through rural upstate New York farming villages, and is deserted. My guess is that I saw a total of 10 other cars traveling in the same direction, most of them local traffic. It’s night and day compared to I-80 in Illinois. I’m in heaven. The landscape is familiar and comforting, the road is mine, and the miles melt away.
In Albany I stop for gasoline turn onto I-87, the Northway. These are truly my old stomping grounds, having lived outside Albany for five years as a teenager.
I realize that although I could easily make it to Montreal before I need to sleep, I’d arrive at almost midnight, making my entry a nuisance for Olivier and Cindy, the current tenants of our new apartment. Not to mention that Kevin, my new landlord, has arranged for his wife Gina to get me keys. So a night in an upstate New York motel is in order.
My time living in New York pays off. I know that there will be no vacant motel rooms in Lake George on the weekend of Independence Day, and know that above Lake George there is precious little in the Adirondack State Park that is easily accessible from the Northway. So I stop in Glens Falls and crash, knowing that tomorrow I’ll be in Montreal within about two hours.
Day 5 (July 2): Glens Falls, New York to Montreal, Quebec
A wake up call at 9am gets me moving. I’m on the road within the hour, and the drive through the Adirondack State Park brings back memories of canoe and sailing camp in the late 1970s. Schroon Lake still looks as I remember it, and the lack of development in the park is gratifying. Most people think Manhattan when you say “New York,” but I think of the Adirondacks. If you’ve never been, I encourage you to see one of the last great wilderness areas of the northeast US.
After a quick stop in Plattsburgh for my last fix of cheap(er) US gasoline, I’m at the border. I present my work permit, answer a few quick questions, and I’m in Canada! Forty minutes later I’m in Montreal, at our new apartment, and getting a set of keys from Gina, our new landlady. Her husband Kevin is out of town on a fishing trip, so she and I have dinner together (she buys the ingredients, I cook the fettucine alfredo). First decent meal in almost a week. The comforts of home, despite living out of boxes.
It was a gruelling trip. Hot, sweaty, maddening at times, but wholly worth it. If you have the opportunity to cross the USA by car, take it. With all its problems (mostly political) it is still a beautiful country filled with (mostly) friendly and decent people.
And now my Canadian adventure begins …
