It’s one of my daughter’s birthday this weekend, she’s 9. The days go by!
At VMware Explore last week, Alex Williams and I did seven interviews. They were actually a presentation and then an interview. Check them out!
First, I’m hosting a panel talk this week, online, with three people - we’ll be discussing the use of metrics for all that digital transformation, software development, DevOps stuff. Based on our conversations ahead of time, this will be a fun, useful talk. You should register for it. YES. IT IS A “WEBINAR.” Watch live or the recording. The part I’m looking forward to it how metrics effect people, good and bad. (Or is it “affect”? English really needs to short it’s shit out with respect to “effect” and “affect.” Seriously. Who has time for that, and who does it help? English is great in that we can all just decide to change it by speaking and writing it a different way. There is no grand council of English, it is just us, the people who speak it, who decide.) Anyhow, check out the panel, I am looking forward to it.
Our big developer and cloud conference, SpringOne is coming up December 6th and 8th, in San Francisco. The talks aren’t published yet, but there’s plenty of good ones.
You can get $200 off when registering if you use to code COTE200.
From the Kliko.nl ideas page, text translated by Google Translate.
From “The Spy Who Liked Me: On the set with Richard Burton and Martin Ritt,” John le Carré, August, 2013:
In the Connaught’s dining room, a strict dress code ruled. But by 1963 the Grill had learned, somewhat grudgingly, to stretch a point. Hunched in a corner of the Grill and flanked by four hoary cohorts from the film industry, Martin Ritt, seventeen years and several centuries my senior, wore a revolutionist’s black shirt buttoned to the neck and a pair of baggy pants held up by elastic and nipped at the ankles. And, of all extraordinary things, to my eye, an artisan’s flat cap with the peak turned up where it should have been turned down. But worn indoors, you understand, which in my diplomatic England of those days was about as acceptable as eating peas off a knife. And all this on the bearish frame of an old footballer run to fat, with a broad, bronzed, Middle European face etched with the pain of ages, and thick, swept-back, graying hair, and pitch-dark, watchful eyes and black-rimmed spectacles.
In the making of every film of my work—or in the non-making—there has been the First Flush, followed by the Big Unexplained Silence. This can last anything from a few months to several years, or forever. Is the project dead in the water, or is it steaming forward and nobody’s told me? Safe from the gaze of the unwashed, huge sums of money are being bandied about, scripts are commissioned, written, and rejected, agents joust and lie. In sealed rooms, beardless boys in ties strive to outshine each other with gems of youthful creativity. But outside the walls of Camp Hollywood hard intelligence is impossible to come by: for the good reason that, in the immortal words of William Goldman, nobody knows anything.
I have a trip to Warsaw this week, which I have not been to for awhile. A webinar too