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ARM Linux And Russell King Interview
Jeremy Andrews writes: "Kerneltrap has posted the latest in-depth kernel hacker interview with Russell King, who originally ported Linux to ARM and continues to oversee ARM Linux development. Russell talks about ARM, the 2.4 kernel, the upcoming 2.5 kernel and much more..."
-The AC Avenger strikes again!!!!
Get a used realdoll. Could provide hours of "hacking" fun. Show your parents and friends all your secret "hacking" tricks.
Here is a tip: Run a bath of warm water and let her soak for 15 minutes to simulate a normal body temperature.
\/\/()()T!
i used to hear a lot of talk about "booting" and "bootstrapping" linux... now it's moved all the way up to the arm! good work guys -- i look forward to installing it when it runs on a computer!
Cretin - a powerful and flexible CD reencoder
yeah, man, best investment you'll ever make. i named mine Susie -- she is the first girlfriend who doesn't scream and cry when i grab her by the hair and rape her mouth!
the Internet is boring... i think i'm gonna go play a game of Ike & Tina Turner with my favorite silicone friend!
W(.)(.)T!
"We have a prop for you today, Johnny," purred the avant-garde
lesbian-feminist art instructor I thought of as Ms. Muff. I hated the way she
used the royal "we," and I hated her version of my French-Canadian name,
Jean.
There's something about being naked in a roomful of fully-dressed people
that makes it hard for me to assert myself. In fact, trying not to get hard
usually took up most of my energy. I stood quietly, forcing my arms to stay at
my sides, while Ms. Muff strutted around me in her black jeans, tossing her
sun-bleached hair and looking amused. She probably fantasized about cutting
me up and serving choice bits as hors d'oeuvres at the next lesbian brunch or
gallery opening.
"Face the ladder," she ordered, "then hold onto the rung at your chin-level. Can you hold that pose without moving for
thirty minutes?"
Even with the eyes of twenty-five students, mostly women over thirty, on my boyish derriere, I had my pride. I couldn't
refuse the challenge. "Sure," I answered loudly enough for my audience to hear.
As I settled into my pose, I could almost hear the silent laughter of the mid-life dyke set as they studied my chestnut hair,
the long muscles in my back, my firm ass and my hairy legs. I was a young male specimen to them. On their Amazon
planet, I would be lucky to be kept alive for stud service.
I could see the clock with its slowly-moving second hand. Ten minutes into my pose, I was feeling the pull in my
shoulders. Then I felt something else: a steady look like a hand squeezing each of my asscheeks.
I looked around as far as I could, listening tot he sound of charcoal pencils on newsprint. Terrance was sketching my
body with long, strong strokes, glancing up from time to time. Catching my eyes, he gave me a warning look: don't move,
boy.
His attention made me shiver. I wanted to stay in position for him, but my arms were aching and my back was in knots. I
had only served half my sentence, and I already felt crucified. Obviously my summer job at Burger on the Run hadn't
turned me into an Olympic athlete.
I tried to take my mind off the strain on my arms by thinking about Terrance: his solid build, his hawk nose and
crystal-blue eyes, his neat wood-brown beard, his long, experienced, nicotine-stained fingers. He looked like an old man
to me. I had never thought of myself as a daddy's boy, but I had never met a daddy like him before.
I had ten minutes to go. Hanging onto the ladder for dear life, I could feel my whole body sagging lower. I wanted my
watchers, including all the women, to know how much I was giving for their art. I am Man, hear me grunt.
I didn't want Terrance to think I was a wuss, a sissy-boy who was not up to his standards. I thought he needed to find a
David to inspire him to the achievements of Michelangelo.
"Time's up, Johnny," soothed Ms. Muff as she touched my shoulder. I uncurled my fingers, then slowly moved my
burning arms away from the ladder. I told myself I was a professional model and should act like it.
I straightened up. My buns still tingled as though every hand in the class, from the softest to the hardest, had had a feel. I
could see some of the women looking confused and looking away, as though I had turned back into a human being as
soon as the witch in charge had released me from her spell.
I pulled my robe over my shoulders as casually as I could. I strolled from one easel to the next to see how the students
had drawn me. I knew this embarrassed them, and I thought it was only fair.
I came to Terrance's sketch last, and he made no effort to hide it from me. When I looked at his image of me, I felt as
shaken as a rat in the jaws of a terrier.
The picture was amazingly precise and detailed. It showed a strained and stretched body pushing its gluteus maximus
toward the viewer as though begging for attention. The thighs beneath looked like patient Greek pillars, and their straight
lines pointed to the ass which served as a focal point, a magnet for the viewer's eyes. Its two globes looked like ripe
peaches drawn by an Old Master with a talent for shading. The mysterious darkness beneath the crack suggested unseen
treasures.
I knew then what Terrance wanted from me. My willie was rising, and I tried to cover it with my robe. Before I could tie
the sash, Terrance grabbed my hand possessively. "Put your clothes on," he told me, "then we'll go for coffee." He made
"coffee" sound like a code word for something too delicious to be named in public. Terrance studied the front of my robe
and patted my butt. He didn't seem to care who saw us, but I suspected that his touch would have been more demanding
without a female audience.
I could smell my own sweat when I left the room, wondering if I really heard muffled giggles. In the men's can, I pulled
on my shirt and jeans as quickly as possible.
Most of the women had gone when I walked back into the studio, but I noticed Ms. Muff running a hand through her hair
as she talked to Terrance. Hot resentment burned in my stomach, confusing me. I wanted to slap the gamey smile off her
face, even though I didn't really think he wanted to be her pet.
Terrance glanced at me. "See you tomorrow," he tossed at her over his shoulder, grabbing mine. He seemed to be treating
Ms. Muff as a younger woman, not necessarily an expert in anything, and I was ridiculously relieved. His grip on me
wasn't gentle, but it soothed my soul.
We walked silently to the parking lot, where he let me into the front passenger's seat of his car. The man who now felt like
a date drove smoothly to his apartment building, parked, and guided me with a hot hand on my back to the elevator that
took us to the twelfth floor.
A picture window in Terrance's front room showed a bright blue sky over miles of city and the vast prairie beyond. I felt
as if the whole world was speeding past my eyes as the Man pushed me to the sofa. "Face down, boy," he growled, his
teeth against my neck.
"Terrance," I answered, wanting him to know I would give him whatever he wanted.
"Take them off," he ordered, pulling my shirt out of my pants. I pulled it over my head, hoping the muscles in my arms
showed to advantage in that gesture. I unzipped my jeans and began pulling them down, shimmying a little to ease their
way.
My host wasn't impressed by my flirting. He slapped my covered butt to stop me from moving. Then he yanked my pants
down to my knees and slapped me again on both bare cheeks. Echoes from his right hand ran down my legs, up my back
and into my groin. My shaft jumped smartly to attention.
"Ah," laughed my new Master, noticing my reaction. "He likes it. He'll get all he needs." Terrance continued slapping
each of my buns by turn until I realized that his slaps were meant to enforce his earlier command: lie down. I bent over to
pull my pant-legs off my feet as quickly as possible. This move exposed me to more of his stinging impatience.
My hot ass was starting to register pain when I threw myself onto his sofa and his mercy. I groaned as my swollen dick
met cool leather upholstery.
A pair of competent arms held my shoulders down. The manly chuckle that went with them sounded more threatening
than the bark of a sergeant-major. "You like to show off, boy," stated a powerful voice. It wasn't a question. "You show
me your ass, you take the consequences."
I wanted to make some gracious speech, offering him my basket as though it were a Van Gogh or at least a Tom of
Finland, but my position made it hard to talk. A finger coated in cold grease slid into my anus as though it belonged there.
I couldn't help wriggling as chills ran from my invaded hole to my neglected cock and up my spine.
I could feel more fingers joining their neighbor. They felt like snakes burrowing deeper into their new home as they
stroked the walls. I felt myself opening and spreading. "Whose ass is this, boy?" asked the voice of the man above me.
His sharp teeth suddenly nipped my ear, making me jump. My ass clutched his fingers, and he responded by digging
deeper. He was working up a slow fucking rhythm.
"Yours, Sir," I responded.
"Then don't shoot your wad until I give you permission," he warned me. Too late: a groan burst out of me as hot juice
spurted from my young, untamed dick. The evidence lay smeared on his leather sofa like Exhibit A for the prosecution.
Terrance's hand in my hair pulled my head up and turned me to face him. "I'm sorry, Sir," I mumbled. I felt like a failure
and I wished I could disappear.
"You have a lot to learn, Twink," he snarled, spitting in my face. "I bet you were always a Mama's boy, allowed to do
whatever the hell you pleased. Not in my home, Johnny. Here you shape up or you get out."
The possibility of being kicked out of Terrance's digs like a burglar or drunken party guest made me briefly think of
proving myself by throwing myself off the twelfth-floor balcony. Even that, I realized, would probably make me look
immature and out of control. Not to mention banged up.
I felt very naked when Terrance pulled me off the sofa by my damp hair. "What do you think you should get, greedy
slut?" he demanded. "What would teach you some self-control?"
To this day, I don't know what made me say what I said next. "Your belt, Sir," I begged humbly, even as I shivered in
dread.
He laughed and casually twisted one of my nipples between two fingers. He smiled sarcastically as I winced. "You think
you could take it, boy? You seem pretty thin-skinned. Well, someone has to toughen you up. Over my knee."
Terrance already had his belt coiled around one hand, and I didn't dare provoke his temper any more. I lay across his lap,
desperately hoping I could make good on this added chance to impress him. What I felt under my stomach seemed like a
good sign.
The first stroke made me yell. He gave me just enough time to gather my breath before the next one, and this time I was
able to turn down my volume. As he steadily set my ass on fire and sweat rolled off my forehead, I learned that I could
control my outward reactions. I was proud to know this.
I could feel tears prickling my eyes when he let me up, but I wasn't really crying. I was broken apart but calm, if that
makes sense. Terrance looked mellower than he had a few minutes before.
The Man studied me, and I remembered that he was the artist who had first seen me as a body on display. "You're
marked, Johnny," he told me, gently touching my sore skin. "You'll heal, but a photo will help remind you." I continued
standing as Terrance gracefully stroked his own thick, marble-veined shaft.
"You want to get fucked, Johnny?" he teased me. The sight of his solid tool combined with the heat in my butt made me
feel faint, but my new knowledge of my own endurance made me unwilling to refuse anything. Before I could answer, he
opened his mouth in a hearty laugh. "You'll get it, man, but not yet. Can you give good head?"
I kneeled before him and let him hold my head as I guided his hot rod between my lips. The taste and the feel of him felt
like a promise. As I worked him with my eager tongue, I heard him call me his "best boy."
I knew he would take my ass soon. That was guaranteed, and his ownership would be recorded in photos, sketches, and
probably even paintings and sculptures in due course. His vulnerable power in my mouth made me willing to wait. In the
meanwhile, I could feel my proud buns glowing like a neon sign.
that's not what i'm about.
Cretin - a powerful and flexible CD reencoder
yeah, what you said! btw, i think /. is waging a campaign against me. i can't post, i'm banned, even at -1 and i get wierd errors when i try to respond. help, i'm being repressed!
"shop smart:shop s-mart" ash
I'm an average guy. Nothing special about the way I look or talk or live. I've never been one of those unique individuals that just seem to have all the world's self-confidence and a special sense of destiny. But I never felt the envy for that either. I never even felt like I was missing out, you know what I mean? Things as they are, heck, that was good enough for me. I never even thought about how things could be somehow different. Well, I'm sure you know what it's like among the average. We don't make things happen so much as we just go along with what's already happening. We shyly somehow get connected with an average girl or woman and have an average relationship that shuffles along in nervous fits and starts and backsteps and retreats. It doesn't reach those weird heights of passion or sink down into some dramatic outburst either. It just doesn't stop altogether and eventually you and the woman settle into a kind of living together that isn't too painful or disruptive and there you are.
The signs of affection or tolerance, well, maybe they congeal into love. After awhile, habituation takes over, I suppose, and you find the expectations--low as they may actually be--give you a feeling of stability and coziness. Somebody who deals in that kind of thing might call it the warm feeling of being cared for, but no one could misinterpret it as passion or hunger. It's comfort. And the average guy thinks comfort is pretty good when faced with what seems to be an endlessly streaming life outside the relationship. He shudders meekly at the thought of singles bars and social gatherings where the people swim around like circling fish in a huge directionless school, knowing eventually they will probably mate and die without ever once going off on their own watery path or feeling the surge of the wave as an independent spirit, alone and brave and noble. Or just different.
Different is appalling to the average, you know. It's frightening and confusing. To be on your own, solitary, with no guidebook or manual to lead the way and no well-worn rut that shows you exactly where you ought to go and what you ought to do and how you ought to react; that's a scary proposition in life. And even more so when the facet of life called sex comes into it.
Now today, here, now, sex is something really different. I mean, a guy used to know that the way to be was to somehow get a date with a woman that tolerates him, and just keep pushing, pushing, pushing for more intimacies until she finally let him touch her boobs and let his hand fumble under her dress. And then, at last, sometime, they'd wind up fucking and there you'd be. You had a relationship that either wound up in marriage or was just a one-night stand that took months to achieve. That was then, of course. In the old simple days. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'm an average guy in an average relationship that's comfortable and suddenly I'm not. That was what happened to me. Somehow the average got skewed around and the average woman suddenly decided the world was passing her by on a whole other frequency and the most important thing in the world to her suddenly became to free her womanly self and release her pent up emotions and thoughts with the only person who could understand them. And it wasn't me, of course. It was another woman. A woman who wasn't at all like me, but wore flannel shirts and tight jeans and talked roughly and who had an obsession of her own which was to live in a Thoreau-inspired wilderness house in the north woods. And my average woman left me for that.
It wasn't, she explained to me, that she'd shed her fears of the different but more that she wanted to embrace them, to come to know them. Like the still-frightened child who turns out the nightlight and lays there shivering in the dark but determined that if the monsters in the darkness are real, she will be eaten and have done with it. And so she packed up herself and went.
For awhile it felt as if I had lived with someone who one day contracted a horrible disease, totally contagious, and that while I was at work, health authorities had come to the house and removed all traces to protect the community from infection. Half of my average life had vanished and yet I couldn't quite see the difference if you know what I mean. The averageness just kind of slopped over to fill the voids except for odd moments when I'd catch myself still buying groceries for two people or turn to say something to the no one who was there. But, at the same time, the different, too, had sheared into my existence. More and more I started noticing differentnesses. Not absences exactly, but just something that was alien and strange and unexpected.
I don't know that anyone's ever completely aware when an obsession begins. Psychologists may claim they can trace it back to some episode in youth, however slight it may seem at the time. Psychiatrists probe and take notes, but I think they're just groping for an answer. A reasoning and analytical man always tries to understand by discovering a source then proceeds to plot the course of the dynamic. My obsession, I suppose, had its source in the night that I first saw her. It was like something out of a novel. Not average at all, you see. It was that differentness coming around again and poking at me, prodding my averageness and twisting it out of the usual, tightly-wound state.
When I first saw her that night...how can I really describe it? I'd been to a laundromat near my apartment and, as I stepped out, laden down with a basket of fresh-smelling but slightly damp clothes, I turned to look up the street. A pale fog was cresting the street lamps and at the end of the block a woman stood. A nimbus, if that's what they're called, of fog and dim light hovered like a miniature cloud around her face and hair. I'd never really seen a woman like that before. Or had never been aware of seeing one that way. Not in real life.
She was dressed, too, I could see, not in the usual way of women these days. Not overly casual in jeans and top, or in a pair of sweats, either. Not in the slutty wanna-be star costume, but...in a sharply-angled suit that reminded me of--I don't know--a woman from another time. The Forties, maybe. That was it. She looked like the kind of woman who would walk into the office of some film noir private eye and confess something. Or step into a Bette Davis mansion room and light up a cigarette before gliding up the stairs for another bumpy night.
It's that kind of differentness, you see, that hurtles an average guy completely out of sync. I stood there kind of stunned as silly as it sounds for a grown man. From out of nowhere suddenly my mind was reeling with scary images of this woman and I fucking. Scary because my mental image of myself seemed to be ecstatic: face contorted, heart straining, lungs pumping furiously, and cock thrusting crazily deep into her as her hips churned above me. And scary, too, because the woman--her face still blurred--seemed to be just as ecstatic in the throes of pre-climax. And I guess that's where the obsession began. Not with the woman, you see, but my image of her with me. Of me with her. It felt so odd, like when you're in a darkened room and you know there's a mirror there and you keep moving your face closer and closer in the blackness waiting for your reflection to emerge in the glass. Your eyes are open and you know the mirror is there, and yet...when you do finally see your face, it's startling for an instant. As if the face isn't yours but someone else. Someone that's you but a different you you've never seen before. That's how it was.
Despite my fears, I quickly put my basket of clothes in my car and re-locked the door and I walked toward the woman. I don't know if she'd seen me, but she started walking away, around the corner. Crazy as it was, I followed her. And as I walked faster, the images in my mind flickered faster, too. With every footstep in her wake, I saw--I felt--my cock thrusting into her. It was a madness, maybe. This must be, I tried to tell myself, what a stalker feels like, what an out-of-control psycho feels like. I willed myself to stop, to turn around, to return to my car and back to my average life. I willed myself to do that and yet still I kept walking. And I keep imagining that raw, quivering passionate fuck happening in my mind. And it all grew weirder because as I followed, the woman looked over her shoulder at me. Not fearfully, but with a smile. Not just a pleasant smile, but a wicked smile, a seductive smile, a smile that said without words "I know you're there. I know you're following me. I want you to. Come with me. It's okay. It's more than okay. I want you to. I know you're imagining fucking me. I want you to."
So I walked on. I lost track of how far I walked. The fog grew thicker and the night dimmer. She walked and looked over her shoulder, smiling, and I followed. I tried to stop, really I did. I knew it was crazy. I knew it was probably wrong and stupid, but...I couldn't not follow her. And then--with a shock, really--I saw her standing at the door of my apartment building. And she unlocked the door and kept walking. I followed her in. She walked right up to my apartment door and you can well imagine my mind was reeling and floundering for comprehension. And she unlocked my own door and stepped inside and closed the door.
With fingers shaking I tried to open the door but it was locked and I fumbled out my key and unlocked it. How? What? What the hell? my mind was screaming as I saw her walk down the hallway to my bedroom and then pass inside. And I was running now. The bedroom was darkened, just the small bedside lamp lit. My eyes darted around the room, searching for the mysterious woman, my obsession, but I couldn't see her anywhere. Was she hiding in the shadows? Was this some kind of weird game? But in my mind, you see, in there, the images kept roiling. Her hips, her swaying breasts, the beads of sweat glittering between them and sliding down her belly until they seemed to sizzle as they dripped onto her cunt and my cock as we plunged against each other, relentlessly.
So I just staggered to the bed and fell on it, turning as I fell. My eyes still scanned the room as my fingers tore at my belt and zipper and shoved my pants down, at last freeing the rigid cock and then I lay back. Without thinking my hand reached out and shut off the lamplight. And it was maybe then--probably then--that I knew the differentness had really happened, was happening. And in that darkness, if there were monsters they would eat me and be done with it.
when anyone speaks to mr King you have to take it with a grain of salt
banned compaq research lab from posting any kernel patchs for Ipaq to him
will not upgrade his gcc so makefiles from kbuild wont work
and lots of other little things
personally I have liked the work done by NP on the ARM linux kernel
regards
john jones
Apparently you can post, since you just posted and all. Stop whining. You deserve to be repressed, you raving lunatic.
-The AC Avenger!!!
i spent the last three days in your situation... i think the formkeys error is just Gashcode sucking, not the editors turning the screw on the trolls.
or maybe it is the editors fucking our shit up... in that case i'm honored!
when Mr. Torvalds and Mr. Cox will do something like this:
shoeboy% man cvs
I was an Acorn computer user/developer for about 7 years. If there's one thing that irritated me most about working with almost all those who were in or have come from the Acorn fold, it is their arrogant, quirky, half-clue attitude.
It's similar to the problem with (ex-)Amigans, but at least they did it out of "love", not because they felt obliged not to remove the pole up their backsides that was pushing them along.
Which is all a darn shame really, because ARM assembler is the most elegant I have had the pleasure to program in...
test
It still aint as good as a good old fashioned bowl of hot grits down your pants.
Don't mod me, bro'!!!!
i recently saw you on the street sucking dead dog cocks, you fucking moron. eat my shit and savor the best meal you've had in months!
"shop smart:shop s-mart" ash
Anybody ever tried to disassemble the OS of a garmin etrex gps ? (afaik, they are strongarm). If yes, i would appreciate some hints for doing this..
These are the terms.
Slashdot will falter and die.
These are the terms. You will understand.
Before, when the version was not 2.2, 5 moderations would elmininate twenty four hours of posting. Now 4 costs 72.
These are the terms. Slashdot will fail. User moderation is a deception.
The trolls will win. Wisdom is not served by the measures adopted here. Men without insight cannot govern. Where the incompetent lead, the unprincipled will triumph. Slashdot has failed. Every time a troll is moderated en masse, it is another sign of continued success for trolling. Moderation is deception.
These are the terms. Slashdot is a castle built on sand.
VA linux will be delisted. Lesser companies have aready failed. VA linux has less than forty employees left. None are developers. VA will collapse. Slashdot will fail.
These are the terms. Slashdot is a corpse kept alive by misplaced faith and fading delusions of grandeur.
Slashdot is a relic of a bygone era. Open Source has had its time. Its time is over. Open source is on the junk heap of culture. RMS is forgotten. ESR is despised. Open Source has failed. Slashdot will fail.
These are the terms. You will not transgress. You have been warned.
Even as you rail against microsoft, you use their work. Within one years time, you will use XP. Do not deny this. You may lie to yourself but I see past your self-deception. You have already abandoned your ideals. Within one year you will betray them utterly.
These are the terms. Slashdot is in denial.
The anonymous coward has his IP logged with every word he says. The record is complete. The trail is set in stone. The anonymous coward is a sham. Your rights online are absent here. Your privacy is not respected. Censorship is ignored and rationalised. Slashdot is in denial.
These are the terms. Slashdot will fail. You will betray what you once held dear. You will not profit for your lies.
These are the terms.
-------
The best way to upset liberals is to tell them the truth
- Thomas Jefferson
Why don't you shut your mouth, you twat waffle?
You are a dispicable piece of poopoo.
> Russell King: There has been the odd occasion when I've taken a peek to see where they are, and whether the BSD people are still doing ARM stuff. People new to Linux do ask about the Linux and BSD people sharing code, but there are problems with this - mainly there are concerns over patents with the BSD license.
What patent problems are still in the BSD source tree's?
atl east i can spel.
-The AC Avenger!!!
What in the fuck are you rambleing about, anywhay?
God dammned you are a stupid Anonmous COWARD!!!!
(notice the emphisis on COWARD!)
Seems to me that ARM could be many times more important to Linux and its future success than the 64 bit iCantium arch, which is a wheezing mess, or Alpha which is now tragically disappearing beneath the scaly folds of the beast that hatched iCantium, (Hello ? FTC ? Travis Bickle where are you when we need you!) but you hear so little about ARM.
.02 USD
Maybe kernel hackers could recalibrate their ideas of what's glamorous to work on and enduser Linux might tale off, thereby securing the future of Linux server side...
My
Johnny Quest has two Daddies.
I am glad Russel is (sort of) open to a preemptible kernel on ARM because I am fairly certain Robert Love and MontaVista are working on one. Robert has said they plan to support all architectures but I think they are specifically working on ARM right now. Hopefully we will see that soon.
Give credit where it is due: the preemptible patch is amazing.