I'm sure you remember an entry of days gone by, known only as Daylight Saving Time. Onwards.
Error 1336: Error 1337 Imminent.
My Internal Clock (which, the geekiest among my readers might like to know, is a binary blue led one, not unlike those avaliable at Think Geek) feels much better now. And nothing quite like a 49 hours weekend to celebrate. Now, I really can't help but wonder: Where is all the saved daylight stored? Can everyone help themselves to some? Is it for sale? I suppose it would dramatically reduce my electricity bill if I could just crack open a bottle of 2006 saved daylight instead of flicking on the light switch every night. And whenever some small object rolls under a bed or a couch, who wouldn't like to be able to just unscrew a little hip flask of saved daylight rather than feeling with your fingertips around the dirty floor or finding that the batteries in your torch are dead as can be and you've been trying to get yourself to buy some since forever?
On the not-so-bright side, I have a question for my esteemed readers (both of them): At 1:40 A.M. this sunday, would you have said it was twenty to two or twenty to one? On one hand, forty minutes past one makes it twenty to two, but in twenty minutes it would be one again. See the issue?
Trick or treat? Both, I say, both! Trick me, what a treat wouldn't that be! A little fright for jollies, come, come! Halloween is nigh, and I'll be busy... not trick or treating, but reaping the early benefiths of the impending holliday, so I might as well make my point now. All Hallows Eve, or so it was believed by Saxon druids, was the day when witches and their likes walked the earth, and so one would be wise to look like one of them, so they'd find one akin to them and spare them any harm (or so I've been told). Saxon druids no longer abound, not even in good old UK, but the tradition lives on, as even today in one of their former colonies which shall not be named, little children come out on the streets dressed as ghouls and other fantasy archetypes more or less related to the old superstition to knock on doors and extort candy with the threat of tricks. I judge them no, lest they judge me, and, really, any chance for the little angels (or fiends, if it suits the occasion better) to get their hands on a little treat should ge promtly grasped... by the dentist, at the very least. A few thousand kilometers across the Ocean (and I mean over here, should you need that I spell it out), it hasn't been long since that tradition became popular as well. Sure, kids aren't carying carved pumpkins around and they don't even do it propperly, they just knock on your door all dressed up in whatever most wierd rags they can find and plastered with ridiculous amounts of ghastly make up and drably say "It's like, you know, it's Halloween and so..." and they can be dissuaded with as little as "... so?". What saddens me (very slightly only, mind you) is that we used to have our own similar tradition, although entirely unrelated to any such belief as the wenches of Satan roaming amongst common folk, and the theme phrase which takes the place of "Trick or treat" roughly translates to "bread by God", but that tradittion was forgotten a long time ago. It saddens me (agin, very, very slightly) that kids would rather inherit (poorly) a tradition from beyond the sea than perpetuate a nearly equal tradition deeply rooted in their own history and ancestry. Oh, well, what are you going to do about it... Kids there days...
Speaking of which... having several relatives who are teachers, I'm often confounded with some acts of not-so-brightness (to use a kinder expression) from their students. Now, you should know these are Junior Hgih and High School students only that we're talking about, but seeing how daft these kids can be sometimes, it scares me that someday I might find myself turning to them for medical attention or any other life-or-death sort of service. Immigration... now that's a word with a nice ring to it. Off to...
Do I have an error 1337 yet? No?
New Zealand, which formearly had motto quite similar to my own, is as far as you can get from here without the help of Oxygen-Hydrogen powered engines and a wicked strong heat-proof and air tight hull. For those kind folks Daylight Saving has just begun. Stay strong, it's only six months.
How about now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders if he should start saving Nightlight Time. Ah, good ol' days when I had a nightlight... '94, you'll hardly be forgotten... in spite of all the ugly business therein.
Windows Experience
Hello there!
Thinking about a Windows XP related entry, are we? Well, then, we're plain wrong! Today's entry will be about something far deeper. Far more unfathomable. Far more... senseless. Senseless is good, right? Onwards.
Let's try not to fall into error 1337 agian, shall we?
Staring through a window, the whole world looks and feels so unlike it does through empty air, doesn't it? Much like a movie pales in comparison with reality, so does a window often show a bland and drab world. And yet, what ineffable sensation is it one gets from a window? What magic property does the plain sheet of glass endow? It it transparence? Or is it... invisibility!
Ninja!!! ... OK, let's not do that again.
This magically wondeful effect hardly ever works on a ground floor window. But part of the magic of it is that... it does work, on occasion.
Staring through a window, a small window, likely a dirty one, smudged with dirt and dust, high atop on a third floor, looking down at people on the street, going about their lives... it all can seem so surreal at times. Partially because you can't (usually) listen to them, partially because you can see a larger picture than when you're among them... it feels quite different. But most importantly, you know, or at least feel like they can't see you, that they're unnaware that you're there... looking at them... watching them... And so, while it should hardly strike you as surprising that a window, when looked through from the outside should become quite the voyeuristic object, isn't it strange that it should become just as voyeuristic an object when looked out of? But most strikingly, isn't it funny how invisible one can feel when just looking out a window?
Have no clue what the hell I'm talking about? Just look out any old window and wave at someone. And then at someone else. And then wave at some more people. Then count how many waves back you got.
Can you feel it now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to take this opportunity to discourage most other sharks to do any such thing. If, by any chance, there's a window a shark can look out of, most likely the people on the other side are indeed able and most willing to see it.
Thinking about a Windows XP related entry, are we? Well, then, we're plain wrong! Today's entry will be about something far deeper. Far more unfathomable. Far more... senseless. Senseless is good, right? Onwards.
Let's try not to fall into error 1337 agian, shall we?
Staring through a window, the whole world looks and feels so unlike it does through empty air, doesn't it? Much like a movie pales in comparison with reality, so does a window often show a bland and drab world. And yet, what ineffable sensation is it one gets from a window? What magic property does the plain sheet of glass endow? It it transparence? Or is it... invisibility!
Ninja!!! ... OK, let's not do that again.
This magically wondeful effect hardly ever works on a ground floor window. But part of the magic of it is that... it does work, on occasion.
Staring through a window, a small window, likely a dirty one, smudged with dirt and dust, high atop on a third floor, looking down at people on the street, going about their lives... it all can seem so surreal at times. Partially because you can't (usually) listen to them, partially because you can see a larger picture than when you're among them... it feels quite different. But most importantly, you know, or at least feel like they can't see you, that they're unnaware that you're there... looking at them... watching them... And so, while it should hardly strike you as surprising that a window, when looked through from the outside should become quite the voyeuristic object, isn't it strange that it should become just as voyeuristic an object when looked out of? But most strikingly, isn't it funny how invisible one can feel when just looking out a window?
Have no clue what the hell I'm talking about? Just look out any old window and wave at someone. And then at someone else. And then wave at some more people. Then count how many waves back you got.
Can you feel it now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to take this opportunity to discourage most other sharks to do any such thing. If, by any chance, there's a window a shark can look out of, most likely the people on the other side are indeed able and most willing to see it.
Never blog in anger...
Today's post wasn't going to be even remotely simillar to what it'll turn out to be. Nor will it be even slightly similar to the wide majority of all entries. Live with it!
Sir Austin Danger Powers, KBE's father, Nigel Powers (thank you very much, Mr. Caine), hated (or is it "hates"?) only two sorts of people: people intolerant of other cultures and the Dutch. I myself am yet to meet any Dutch person, nor have I ever been to the Netherlands, thus, I cannot possibly tell what might Mr. Powers hold against the Dutch. Now the French, however, are a pet peeve of mine.
Is it pollitically incorrect to say such a thing? I'm sure it is, but, really, I can't bring myself to lie on this. I've seen the French tourists in my country be nothing but obnoxious, refusing to even attempt to speak the native tongue (or any other tongue besides their own, not even any one the natives might be fluent in or at least familiar with. "English, motherfucker, do you speak it!?" Thank you, Mr. Jackson), I've seen the French being obnoxious abroad (Dominican Republic, Summer of 1999 and the UK, last week of 2005. Appearentely, it was my fault that I had a breathing condition and I was struggling and gasping for breath and thus I should take lip from some French snot because I was "ruining" her otherwise perfect evening at the opera.) and, needless to say, I've seen the French be obnoxious in France, where I should never return unless heavily (and, ironically, I mean heavilly) coherced. The French can have all of France to themselves, for all I care, and, by all means, never, ever leave. And really, I ask of you, what good things have come from France? Champagne? I'd very much settle for (prefer, actually) fine Itallian sparkling wine. Cognac? What's wrong with brandy? French movies? The endless futility of French fashion and cosmetics? Prolog? Oh please...
This, however, takes the cake. How is it that non-French scientists have never thought of this? Well, I suppose one could say they're all fatter than the French scientologists... ahem, scientists. I'd never think I'd say this, but now I very much support the Americans' decision of deprecating the phrase "french fries" in favour of "freedom fries". As for me, I'll never eat another francesinha until they change its name.
Well, then, my BMI, once of 34.259, is now 27.778 and I dare this bold statement: my overwheight tummy is smarter than all of your skinny French arses combined. Come prove me wrong!
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless you're French, that is, in which case "vale" won't really apply, would it? And "Pax"...
ArabianShark would like to take this chance to advertise to all man-eating sharks out there that Frenchman meat is, it would appear, extremely lean and quite the smart food. Get them while they last.
Sir Austin Danger Powers, KBE's father, Nigel Powers (thank you very much, Mr. Caine), hated (or is it "hates"?) only two sorts of people: people intolerant of other cultures and the Dutch. I myself am yet to meet any Dutch person, nor have I ever been to the Netherlands, thus, I cannot possibly tell what might Mr. Powers hold against the Dutch. Now the French, however, are a pet peeve of mine.
Is it pollitically incorrect to say such a thing? I'm sure it is, but, really, I can't bring myself to lie on this. I've seen the French tourists in my country be nothing but obnoxious, refusing to even attempt to speak the native tongue (or any other tongue besides their own, not even any one the natives might be fluent in or at least familiar with. "English, motherfucker, do you speak it!?" Thank you, Mr. Jackson), I've seen the French being obnoxious abroad (Dominican Republic, Summer of 1999 and the UK, last week of 2005. Appearentely, it was my fault that I had a breathing condition and I was struggling and gasping for breath and thus I should take lip from some French snot because I was "ruining" her otherwise perfect evening at the opera.) and, needless to say, I've seen the French be obnoxious in France, where I should never return unless heavily (and, ironically, I mean heavilly) coherced. The French can have all of France to themselves, for all I care, and, by all means, never, ever leave. And really, I ask of you, what good things have come from France? Champagne? I'd very much settle for (prefer, actually) fine Itallian sparkling wine. Cognac? What's wrong with brandy? French movies? The endless futility of French fashion and cosmetics? Prolog? Oh please...
This, however, takes the cake. How is it that non-French scientists have never thought of this? Well, I suppose one could say they're all fatter than the French scientologists... ahem, scientists. I'd never think I'd say this, but now I very much support the Americans' decision of deprecating the phrase "french fries" in favour of "freedom fries". As for me, I'll never eat another francesinha until they change its name.
Well, then, my BMI, once of 34.259, is now 27.778 and I dare this bold statement: my overwheight tummy is smarter than all of your skinny French arses combined. Come prove me wrong!
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless you're French, that is, in which case "vale" won't really apply, would it? And "Pax"...
ArabianShark would like to take this chance to advertise to all man-eating sharks out there that Frenchman meat is, it would appear, extremely lean and quite the smart food. Get them while they last.
Psyched
After a rocky start, it's one of those days. What sort of days, you ask? The sort of days when the fluffy sky blue tinted sunstruck cluds look all the more pretty and one feels ten feet tall and utterly unstoppable with as little encouragement as Beethoven's Fifth randomly popping up on his MP3 player. notice how I used a generic "MP3 player" instead of an all too common "iPod" and the likes.
You could say I'm high. You could then ask what I'm high on. Well, love, two words for you: Job Satisfaction. Nothing quite like it. Instant, long lasting high with no sided effects and perks upon perks.
Cue in guest voice: Mike Myers's Austin Powers.
"Yeah, baby!"
Back on track, then. What got me this high? And why do I ask all these questions? Well, one thing at the time, won't you! Firs things first. Do you know Magic: the Gathering? It's a Trading Card Game set in a mystical environment where two (or more) sorcerers battle amongst themselves with magic spells. If you'd like to know more about the game, here, have a link, they don't pay me to advertise their game for them. I'll merely state it's an aquired taste and not for the very meek, for it takes time, practice and preserveerance to get the hang of it, but once you do it's countless hours of fun. It's not for the very poor either, unless you find a casual circle where you can just scribble the cards' names on any old piece of paper you can shove into a propper card sleeve and call it a playable proxy. Either that or Apprentice. And here's the kicker: I managed to make my Systems Analysis project, which should carry on to Databases Handling next semester, be about that. Job satisfaction, love!
I rule!!!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is barely skimming on his territorial waters today. He's practically flying over them.
You could say I'm high. You could then ask what I'm high on. Well, love, two words for you: Job Satisfaction. Nothing quite like it. Instant, long lasting high with no sided effects and perks upon perks.
Cue in guest voice: Mike Myers's Austin Powers.
"Yeah, baby!"
Back on track, then. What got me this high? And why do I ask all these questions? Well, one thing at the time, won't you! Firs things first. Do you know Magic: the Gathering? It's a Trading Card Game set in a mystical environment where two (or more) sorcerers battle amongst themselves with magic spells. If you'd like to know more about the game, here, have a link, they don't pay me to advertise their game for them. I'll merely state it's an aquired taste and not for the very meek, for it takes time, practice and preserveerance to get the hang of it, but once you do it's countless hours of fun. It's not for the very poor either, unless you find a casual circle where you can just scribble the cards' names on any old piece of paper you can shove into a propper card sleeve and call it a playable proxy. Either that or Apprentice. And here's the kicker: I managed to make my Systems Analysis project, which should carry on to Databases Handling next semester, be about that. Job satisfaction, love!
I rule!!!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is barely skimming on his territorial waters today. He's practically flying over them.
Ephemerality
Have I ever told you about the place where I usually go for dinner? I figure now's as good a time as ever. Ergo...
Months ago (nearing twelve of them now) I went searching for a fast food place that wouldn't make my scale go "One at a time, please" or "No livestock!". I'm not much of a cook (or at least can't be bothered to be much of a cook night in and night out) and à la carte is a luxury my budget can't withstand on a daily basis. The fast food chain whose name starts with M, ends with s, contains the letters "cDonald" and shall remain unnamed was very obviously not a choice. Many other places provide a very narrow choice of two or three dishes and are very affordable (because you get no service to pay for, othar than putting the food on the tray you carry to a free table and busing the tray), but they too weren't all that kind to my scale. Enter the salad joint.
This place too offers little service: you pay (a little bit more than you'd like to) upfront, they make your salad (or sandwich) there and then, before your eyes and bus your tray when you're done and, if you're lucky, you get a good glimpse at a pair of the (second) most beautiful blue eyes... but I digress. Onwards.
Why do I go there every night? First off, it's a bit far from home. Now, I don't drive, so I walk, nearly a mile to get there and another on my way back, but, in my book, that's a perk. I love to walk, at my pace, no rush (or wait... my pace has been called "fast-ish"), and I don't get much of a chance to do it. Then, there's the healthy food factor. Salads and fruit do a body good, remember? And there's always the blue eyes...
A few days ago, I got a good snicker out of some character I spotted there. People there are usually like people everywhere: all the same, equal to myself and each other. Sure, they all have that little (or maybe not so little) something that makes them special and unique in their own ways, but you never notice it, unless you try. Not this character. He's prancing around in a brand new designer black pinstripped suit with a broad collar white shirt, top button undone in casual chic fashion, topped off with designer reading glasses, in a place where there isn't as much as a menu to read. Needless to say, he wasn't carying a book with him. I mean, really, where have you heard of a designer book? The only non-designer object about him was his top-of-the-line Nokia Communicator, which he boasted about with broad gestures, talking with his escort. I (almost) wonder why on Earth he was holding his phone if the person he was talking to was sitting right in front of him. Now I could tell you of the broad gestures (which I believe I did) or the arrongant disdain with which he looked around and down on everyone around him or the smugness of his every atitude, but I think you already get the picture of how much better than everyone else this character though himself to be.
Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against a healthy dose of materialism. I myself have some very prized posessions which I like very much and am very proud of, but they don't define me. I created them (um... bought them... ahem). They are mine, not the other way around, and I know, and don't fear, that some day I might just wake up and find that they are no longer what they used to be or not even there at all. Just as easily, they might be replaced. My point? Posession is good, much as the Jedi forbid it, but it's neither the beginning nor the end of the world as we know it. It's not the stake or the teeth, just the spice. (hey, it's a food entry after all)
You know what I realise about the charecter with the world at his fingertips? Someday he'll wake up and find that the suit doesn't fit him, the glasses are nowhere thick enough, the phone is some old piece of junk and his hair, once carefully cut and styled, has all but fallen off his scalp. All his possessions will then mean nothing to him, and the truth that he's not as better than everyone else as he once thought (or at all, for that matter) will strike him as all the more bitter. But, most importantly, and though he might not realise it, the salad he (thought he) bought was only rented, and if he ever logs on to World of Warcraft, he'll be pweend left and right like everyone else. And that's worth a little snicker to me.
In other news, the cat welded my fish to great effect. Thank you!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will go on treasuring his posessions, for he has not all he likes, but he likes all he has.
Months ago (nearing twelve of them now) I went searching for a fast food place that wouldn't make my scale go "One at a time, please" or "No livestock!". I'm not much of a cook (or at least can't be bothered to be much of a cook night in and night out) and à la carte is a luxury my budget can't withstand on a daily basis. The fast food chain whose name starts with M, ends with s, contains the letters "cDonald" and shall remain unnamed was very obviously not a choice. Many other places provide a very narrow choice of two or three dishes and are very affordable (because you get no service to pay for, othar than putting the food on the tray you carry to a free table and busing the tray), but they too weren't all that kind to my scale. Enter the salad joint.
This place too offers little service: you pay (a little bit more than you'd like to) upfront, they make your salad (or sandwich) there and then, before your eyes and bus your tray when you're done and, if you're lucky, you get a good glimpse at a pair of the (second) most beautiful blue eyes... but I digress. Onwards.
Why do I go there every night? First off, it's a bit far from home. Now, I don't drive, so I walk, nearly a mile to get there and another on my way back, but, in my book, that's a perk. I love to walk, at my pace, no rush (or wait... my pace has been called "fast-ish"), and I don't get much of a chance to do it. Then, there's the healthy food factor. Salads and fruit do a body good, remember? And there's always the blue eyes...
A few days ago, I got a good snicker out of some character I spotted there. People there are usually like people everywhere: all the same, equal to myself and each other. Sure, they all have that little (or maybe not so little) something that makes them special and unique in their own ways, but you never notice it, unless you try. Not this character. He's prancing around in a brand new designer black pinstripped suit with a broad collar white shirt, top button undone in casual chic fashion, topped off with designer reading glasses, in a place where there isn't as much as a menu to read. Needless to say, he wasn't carying a book with him. I mean, really, where have you heard of a designer book? The only non-designer object about him was his top-of-the-line Nokia Communicator, which he boasted about with broad gestures, talking with his escort. I (almost) wonder why on Earth he was holding his phone if the person he was talking to was sitting right in front of him. Now I could tell you of the broad gestures (which I believe I did) or the arrongant disdain with which he looked around and down on everyone around him or the smugness of his every atitude, but I think you already get the picture of how much better than everyone else this character though himself to be.
Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against a healthy dose of materialism. I myself have some very prized posessions which I like very much and am very proud of, but they don't define me. I created them (um... bought them... ahem). They are mine, not the other way around, and I know, and don't fear, that some day I might just wake up and find that they are no longer what they used to be or not even there at all. Just as easily, they might be replaced. My point? Posession is good, much as the Jedi forbid it, but it's neither the beginning nor the end of the world as we know it. It's not the stake or the teeth, just the spice. (hey, it's a food entry after all)
You know what I realise about the charecter with the world at his fingertips? Someday he'll wake up and find that the suit doesn't fit him, the glasses are nowhere thick enough, the phone is some old piece of junk and his hair, once carefully cut and styled, has all but fallen off his scalp. All his possessions will then mean nothing to him, and the truth that he's not as better than everyone else as he once thought (or at all, for that matter) will strike him as all the more bitter. But, most importantly, and though he might not realise it, the salad he (thought he) bought was only rented, and if he ever logs on to World of Warcraft, he'll be pweend left and right like everyone else. And that's worth a little snicker to me.
In other news, the cat welded my fish to great effect. Thank you!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will go on treasuring his posessions, for he has not all he likes, but he likes all he has.
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