蓝采和

踏歌蓝采和，世界能几何？
红颜一春树，流年一掷梭，
古人混混去不返，今人纷纷来更多。
朝骑鸾凤到碧波，暮见桑田生白波。
长景明晖在空际，金银宫阙高嵯峨。

梦想照进现实

白玉满地，分身有术
按惯例，在实验室的日子是一定去马路对面的五食寻食的，顺便再沿路欣赏欣赏
巧的很，玉泉的初春居然开满了白玉兰。不同于zjg那边的白玉路灯，这里和着老房，互相为伴，群群落落。
风起的大，于是地上散满了白玉叶子，层层碎碎，落铺的别致，似投一石于白玉湖中激起的微浪的定格。
我确实是空白了，如同某人说。
好在不是自大引起的，只是被一颗小石子激起的波浪，小滴儿在跃上高空那一刹那被高空的阳光瞬间照的一片空白
常在念想，难道上午的梦想照进现实真起作用了？

哈哈，还好还好，起码，这个也算不上什么梦想，一个机会而以，甚至于不太能让我激动

PM 14:02 一个陌生人的来电，我要开始准备了

推荐

"Wake Me Up When September Ends"

wake me up when dream comes

精心动魄硬盘记

本人室友突然不想玩linux了,决心拿回庞大的20G
于是本人奉命清剿
首先询问伟大的google
google给我第一个推荐,进linux fdisk 然后 进dos fdisk
一切顺利
...
不料! 挂了 进不了了!! grub error!!
在这屏幕闪烁的0.00001秒时间内
我的脑海中刷刷刷闪过无数念头
首先是咯噔一下
接着大怒,不可能!!
然后寻思,我哪里做错了?
不小心在侥幸一下,嘿嘿,还没动完手术,也许就是险中就胜的呢!
...
随即,本人花了N个单位的时间寻找传说中的Dos启动盘.
事后,某人鉴定了一下,认定历史是如此惊人的相似,并认为,我花的时间和今日下午跑上跑下,四处敲门,冒充工作人员以获得阿姨们的行踪所耗的不分上下!!
OK,历史性的时刻到了!
小心的放入光盘
A:fdisk /mbr
磅...
No fixed disk present
...
(鉴于考虑到某些看官的e文能力和专业理解能力的匮乏 还是做以下翻译
"硬盘不存在")
...
一滴冷汗在我额头爬过...(内心想象)
好在尚未失态,不至于自己一把掐了自己脖子....
眉头一琐
这会儿真是,才下眉头 却上心头
抽两下
寻思的试试PQ(可恶的PQ,当年就是它让我凭空少了6个G,捣烂了我的分区表,直接促使我养成了备份的好习惯)
Error144,分区表挂了..... 无法修复....
天那!
此次事件=>分区表灭了=>数据无法简单复原=>给800米找店=>换硬盘....
天使保佑!
虚惊一场,待我机缘巧合,随手一摆,居然好了!!!
呀呀呀呀呀呀,哈!
终于逃过一劫了.

事后查明,天煞的,那帖子把顺序给弄反了,譬如西毒之倒练九阴真经,不走火入魔才怪!!

这个故事告诉我们,千万不要随便照片帖子就对着电脑开刀了!
人家不负责的!

General Patton's Address to the Troops－－看老巴顿怎么激励士兵的

June 5, 1944

Men, this stuff that some sources sling around about America wanting out of this war, not wanting to fight, is a crock of bullshit. Americans love to fight, traditionally. All real Americans love the sting and clash of battle. You are here today for three reasons. First, because you are here to defend your homes and your loved ones. Second, you are here for your own self respect, because you would not want to be anywhere else. Third, you are here because you are real men and all real men like to fight. When you, here, everyone of you, were kids, you all admired the champion marble player, the fastest runner, the toughest boxer, the big league ball players, and the All-American football players. Americans love a winner. Americans will not tolerate a loser. Americans despise cowards. Americans play to win all of the time. I wouldn't give a hoot in hell for a man who lost and laughed. That's why Americans have never lost nor will ever lose a war; for the very idea of losing is hateful to an American.

You are not all going to die. Only two percent of you right here today would die in a major battle. Death must not be feared. Death, in time, comes to all men. Yes, every man is scared in his first battle. If he says he's not, he's a liar. Some men are cowards but they fight the same as the brave men or they get the hell slammed out of them watching men fight who are just as scared as they are. The real hero is the man who fights even though he is scared. Some men get over their fright in a minute under fire. For some, it takes an hour. For some, it takes days. But a real man will never let his fear of death overpower his honor, his sense of duty to his country, and his innate manhood. Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a human being can indulge. It brings out all that is best and it removes all that is base. Americans pride themselves on being He Men and they ARE He Men. Remember that the enemy is just as frightened as you are, and probably more so. They are not supermen.

All through your Army careers, you men have bitched about what you call "chicken shit drilling". That, like everything else in this Army, has a definite purpose. That purpose is alertness. Alertness must be bred into every soldier. I don't give a fuck for a man who's not always on his toes. You men are veterans or you wouldn't be here. You are ready for what's to come. A man must be alert at all times if he expects to stay alive. If you're not alert, sometime, a German son-of-an-asshole-bitch is going to sneak up behind you and beat you to death with a sockful of shit!" The men roared in agreement.

There are four hundred neatly marked graves somewhere in Sicily. All because one man went to sleep on the job. But they are German graves, because we caught the bastard asleep before they did. An Army is a team. It lives, sleeps, eats, and fights as a team. This individual heroic stuff is pure horse shit. The bilious bastards who write that kind of stuff for the Saturday Evening Post don't know any more about real fighting under fire than they know about fucking!

We have the finest food, the finest equipment, the best spirit, and the best men in the world. Why, by God, I actually pity those poor sons-of-bitches we're going up against. By God, I do. My men don't surrender. I don't want to hear of any soldier under my command being captured unless he has been hit. Even if you are hit, you can still fight back. That's not just bull shit either. The kind of man that I want in my command is just like the lieutenant in Libya, who, with a Luger against his chest, jerked off his helmet, swept the gun aside with one hand, and busted the hell out of the Kraut with his helmet. Then he jumped on the gun and went out and killed another German before they knew what the hell was coming off. And, all of that time, this man had a bullet through a lung. There was a real man!

All of the real heroes are not storybook combat fighters, either. Every single man in this Army plays a vital role. Don't ever let up. Don't ever think that your job is unimportant. Every man has a job to do and he must do it. Every man is a vital link in the great chain. What if every truck driver suddenly decided that he didn't like the whine of those shells overhead, turned yellow, and jumped headlong into a ditch? The cowardly bastard could say, "Hell, they won't miss me, just one man in thousands". But, what if every man thought that way? Where in the hell would we be now? What would our country, our loved ones, our homes, even the world, be like? No, Goddamnit, Americans don't think like that. Every man does his job. Every man serves the whole. Every department, every unit, is important in the vast scheme of this war. The ordnance men are needed to supply the guns and machinery of war to keep us rolling. The Quartermaster is needed to bring up food and clothes because where we are going there isn't a hell of a lot to steal. Every last man on K.P. has a job to do, even the one who heats our water to keep us from getting the 'G.I. Shits'."

Each man must not think only of himself, but also of his buddy fighting beside him. We don't want yellow cowards in this Army. They should be killed off like rats. If not, they will go home after this war and breed more cowards. The brave men will breed more brave men. Kill off the Goddamned cowards and we will have a nation of brave men. One of the bravest men that I ever saw was a fellow on top of a telegraph pole in the midst of a furious fire fight in Tunisia. I stopped and asked what the hell he was doing up there at a time like that. He answered, "Fixing the wire, Sir". I asked, "Isn't that a little unhealthy right about now?" He answered, "Yes Sir, but the Goddamned wire has to be fixed". I asked, "Don't those planes strafing the road bother you?" And he answered, "No, Sir, but you sure as hell do!" Now, there was a real man. A real soldier. There was a man who devoted all he had to his duty, no matter how seemingly insignificant his duty might appear at the time, no matter how great the odds.

And you should have seen those trucks on the road to Tunisia. Those drivers were magnificent. All day and all night they rolled over those son-of-a-bitching roads, never stopping, never faltering from their course, with shells bursting all around them all of the time. We got through on good old American guts. Many of those men drove for over forty consecutive hours. These men weren't combat men, but they were soldiers with a job to do. They did it, and in one hell of a way they did it. They were part of a team. Without team effort, without them, the fight would have been lost. All of the links in the chain pulled together and the chain became unbreakable.

Don't forget, you men don't know that I'm here. No mention of that fact is to be made in any letters. The world is not supposed to know what the hell happened to me. I'm not supposed to be commanding this Army. I'm not even supposed to be here in England. Let the first bastards to find out be the Goddamned Germans. Some day I want to see them raise up on their piss-soaked hind legs and howl, 'Jesus Christ, it's the Goddamned Third Army again and that son-of-a-fucking-bitch Patton'."

"We want to get the hell over there, the quicker we clean up this Goddamned mess, the quicker we can take a little jaunt against the purple pissing Japs and clean out their nest, too. Before the Goddamned Marines get all of the credit.

Sure, we want to go home. We want this war over with. The quickest way to get it over with is to go get the bastards who started it. The quicker they are whipped, the quicker we can go home. The shortest way home is through Berlin and Tokyo. And when we get to Berlin, I am personally going to shoot that paper hanging son-of-a-bitch Hitler. Just like I'd shoot a snake!

When a man is lying in a shell hole, if he just stays there all day, a German will get to him eventually. The hell with that idea. The hell with taking it. My men don't dig foxholes. I don't want them to. Foxholes only slow up an offensive. Keep moving. And don't give the enemy time to dig one either. We'll win this war, but we'll win it only by fighting and by showing the Germans that we've got more guts than they have; or ever will have. We're not going to just shoot the sons-of-bitches, we're going to rip out their living Goddamned guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. We're going to murder those lousy Hun cocksuckers by the bushel-fucking-basket. War is a bloody, killing business. You've got to spill their blood, or they will spill yours. Rip them up the belly. Shoot them in the guts. When shells are hitting all around you and you wipe the dirt off your face and realize that instead of dirt it's the blood and guts of what once was your best friend beside you, you'll know what to do!

I don't want to get any messages saying, "I am holding my position." We are not holding a Goddamned thing. Let the Germans do that. We are advancing constantly and we are not interested in holding onto anything, except the enemy's balls. We are going to twist his balls and kick the living shit out of him all of the time. Our basic plan of operation is to advance and to keep on advancing regardless of whether we have to go over, under, or through the enemy. We are going to go through him like crap through a goose; like shit through a tin horn!

From time to time there will be some complaints that we are pushing our people too hard. I don't give a good Goddamn about such complaints. I believe in the old and sound rule that an ounce of sweat will save a gallon of blood. The harder WE push, the more Germans we will kill. The more Germans we kill, the fewer of our men will be killed. Pushing means fewer casualties. I want you all to remember that.

There is one great thing that you men will all be able to say after this war is over and you are home once again. You may be thankful that twenty years from now when you are sitting by the fireplace with your grandson on your knee and he asks you what you did in the great World War II, you WON'T have to cough, shift him to the other knee and say, "Well, your Granddaddy shoveled shit in Louisiana." No, Sir, you can look him straight in the eye and say, "Son, your Granddaddy rode with the Great Third Army and a Son-of-a-Goddamned-Bitch named Georgie Patton.

The Dreamtime

太平洋上有个奇特的土著，有个奇特的传说。
世界不是由某个上帝在六天内创造出来的，
也不是由盘古开天辟地化生而来的，
更不是某个天父和某个地母的结晶，
当然也不会来自于遥远的某个时刻，无中生有
－－－世界诞生于梦中

每个人都有自己的dreamtime
所以每个人的世界都是他/她自己创造的
所以每个人的世界都是属于他/她自己的

这个世界独为你而生
这个世界也只奉你为主

温泉关墓志铭

过客啊，
请带话给斯巴达人，
说我们踏实地履行了诺言，
长眠在这里

祝福所有丢了心爱之物的朋友

我想我是太在乎了，不加掩饰的表现。
不料却碰到了一个朋友（朋友的朋友，允许我这里简称一下），安慰了我半天，才发现原来对方也是丢了心爱之物的人。
不知道是不是也曾像我这般魂不受舍，总之也祝愿她尽快开心。
时间。。。
呵呵，安慰人的话，永远都安慰不了自己，呵呵。

钱包发泄贴

这次看来是被否鸟人在食堂摸走了.
无比郁闷.
没有所有积下的名片,一张礼物纪念卡,一张图书证,一张信用卡,几张普通卡.郁闷.
最郁闷的是我挂念的钱包.
不知道哪个混蛋,干吗不 偷我手机呢?
哎,也只剩下了四个硬币 3元5毛了.
上天保佑,如果你还能回来,我一定藏得好好得,再也不敢用了.

两度摘词

Msn上碰到了朋友哦,闲聊寒暄,不觉就提到了"纳容".
猛然想起映象中有个似乎叫"纳兰容措"的女人,百思不得正名,google之,不料被我发现了一个清时文人的词.词不错,就是软了点,却是可看.只是我的纳兰啊,你到底在哪里呢?

梦江南
昏鸦尽，小立恨因谁?急雪乍翻香阁絮，轻风吹到胆瓶梅，心字已成灰。

偶然有联想到了那个爱佛主更爱美人的六世达赖,寻得一曲,各位鉴赏:

那一月我摇动所有的经桶，
不为超度，只为触摸你的指尖；
那一年磕长头在山路，
不为觐见，只为贴着你的温暖；
那一世转山，
不为修来世，只为途中与你相见