Hey, take a look at this, from Alan Graham:

I normally don’t ask for help, but this is a situation where all I can do is make an appeal. My friends could make all the difference in the world. My wife recently became the Director of a non-profit art program that serves thousands of children . . . in a major budget crisis. They have no usable computing gear (their ONE Dell is ready for pasture). So I donated a lot of my personal gear and time . . . including one of two computers I plan to donate (we’re not rich, but I do have some stuff I can spare).
Well this morning my wife fell and injured herself . . . and the clamshell iBook I donated . . . which now has a cracked screen. Cannot be used and cannot be fixed (screen is more than the machine is worth). We’re not asking for one penny . . . but are looking for some folks who might help, out there in the blogosphere, to turn those lemons into some lemonade. I don’t have the money to repair the machine (and not asking for any), but I could use a little word of mouth.

Alan is a great guy, and it would be really cool to help out. Take a look at his page, and learn about the program (The Children’s Art Network) his wife is directing. It’s fantastic.
If you know someone who has some extra Apple computer stuff they don’t want or need, or maybe have a connection to a Dickensian Mysterious Benefactor, pass it along, okay?

My pal Sean brought this lovely photo to my attention.
It should give the restless WWdN reader something to do for, oh, six or even eight seconds today!

I had the strangest dream last night: I was working in my office, and there were hundreds of Dreams standing in my hallway, making a cacophonous racket as they fought with each other to be the first through the door.
I got up from my desk, threw my glasses down in disgust, and flung the door open so I could tell them to quiet down.
The hallway was empty and silent, and that’s when I woke up.
Here’s part two of The Exciting Adventure of Wil-man and Nolan-boy and the Strange Case of The 2004 Los Angeles Auto Show:

“So where should we start?” I said. My answer came in the form of Nolan running toward the biggest SUV I’ve ever seen. Seriously. It was a few feet shorter than a Star Destroyer.
I caught up with him as he climbed into the back seat.
“Wil! Look at how much room there is in here!” He said as he bounced and extended his legs to barely touch the back of the seat ahead of him.
“Yeah, but the power to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of The Force.” I reminded him.
He looked at me with a furrowed brow. “What?”
“Sorry,” I said, “I was having a nerd moment.”
“Oh, good. I hope we can have lots of those today.” He said, dryly.
“I find your lack of faith disturbing.” I said, and twitched my fingers.
He shook his head and laughed, “Whatever, Wil . . . ”
He hopped out of the truck, a Bvlgari-styled Cadillac Escalade, (which, I must admit, while being quite possibly the most environmentally irresponsible vehicle on Earth, was pretty damn sweet. Its interior was more like a Gulfstream jet than a car) and took my hand.
“Let’s go see the GTO,” he said.
“Do you think it’s going to look any less ugly than last year’s?” I asked him.
“I sure hope so!” he said, and we were off.
We made our way through the crowd, which was quite similar to the 405 on a Friday afternoon, and landed at the Pontiac booth. The 2004 GTO turned slowly on a raised platform in front of us.
“Oh –” he began, and looked up at me. “Can I say a cuss word?”
“What word?”
“The cuss word version of ‘dangit.'”
I looked at the abomination that is Pontiac’s “updating” of the GTO, and heard thousands of voices cry out in disgust, only to be suddenly silenced.
“Yes,” I said, “yes, you may.”
“DAMMIT!” He said, emphatically. “What an ugly pile that is!”
I nodded. “It sucks the most,” I said.
“Aren’t muscle cars supposed to be cool?” He said.
“Yep.”
“Like mom’s Mustang. That’s cool.” He said.
“Yeah. This isn’t a muscle car. It’s like a Taurus that is pretending to be a muscle car. Let’s get out of here before anyone sees us and thinks we’re admiring this thing.”
We hurried out of the Pontiac booth, past a middle-aged couple.
“Oh my god,” the man said as we passed, “I can’t believe they did this to my car.” His wife put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
(More next week. Have a great weekend, everybody!)

Today would have been the 75th birthday of the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.
To honor his memory, his legacy, and his dream, I offer the following wisdom from Dr. King himself:

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

Remember the Dream.

I haven’t had a haircut in almost two months, even though I am married to a hairdresser. I guess it’s like the shoemaker’s kids being barefoot.
As a result, my hair is huge. It stands up about four inches off my head, and sort of curls around like Wolverine . . . and not in a cool way.
Yeah. Scary.
Anne got a good look at my Marge Simpson-lite hair this morning.
“Holy crap,” she said, “your hair is wearing you!”
“Yeah. I can’t seem to make a goddamn appointment with my hairdresser, and despite the Logan look, I can’t snikt it off.”
I flexed my hands to show the lack of Adamantium claws.
“You lost me there,” she said, “I don’t speak nerd, remember?”
“So if I told you that my huge hair is a 5 point CHA disadvantage, that wouldn’t mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“And you wouldn’t know that I’d mixed D&D rules with GURPS?”
We looked at each other for a moment. “That’s right, baby, you’re married to this!“ I thought, mentally making a saving throw vs. Irritated Wife.
“May I please have a haircut?” I asked, politely.
“Yes you can,” she said. “Let me get the hedge clippers.”