Google Goodness

First of all, this is not an ad for Google or even a praise. Well, a tiny bit of a praise, in a way, I suppose... but that's it!

So I, like just about everyone else, have a Gmail account. Most of the time, the default spam filter does a pretty good job (and sometimes, it doesn't), sending nearly all of my spam to an aptly named spam folder. Mails in said folder are even automatically deleted after some time, just so I don't have to bother with that chore. Ripper! I still like to go there and delete them manually, at any rate. One of them, however, I've been saving up for this entry.

I didn't dare to open it, but the snippet (and thus I disclose what makes Gmail so good) is plentiful enough for material for this entry. It reads, and I quote, "hey darling arabianshark bad news buddy, you got a small dickie!(...)". The sender identifies herself as Chasity Subbert. Now I'd like to take a close look at the snippet, step by step. Join me, if you will.

      "hey darling..."

Don't call me darling.

      "... arabianshark..."

That's "Lord ArabianShark" to you.

      "... bad news buddy,... "

a) What on earth is a "bad news buddy"?
b) I'm not your buddy.

      "... you got a small dickie!"

a) No, I don't.
b) How would you know?
c) You, on the other hand...

So, on the whole, learn to punctuate, mind your manners, capitalise, think your words through and bugger off, "Chastiy Subbert". And get yourself some of your own remedy.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark wishes you all a very merry All Hallows' Eve. And please don't come round my door in your most wierd costumes stammering for a "trick or treat". It's the wrong side of the Atlantic for that.

How sad...

I've been meaning to post this for some time now. Now's a good a time as any other.

A week or so ago I was having dinner at the usual place, by myself, as usual (turns out not many people like the place where I usually go for dinner). A young woman caught my sight.

Nothing much was so remarkable about her. Plain clothes. Plain bluish sweater. Jeans. Red high heels, which she dangled from one foot as she kept her legs crossed at the knees. A shopping bag from some well known designer label. So what's to say?

She hardly touched her salad. So I hear the most caloric salad at this place has as many calories as a hamburger (mind you, there's no way it has as much fat, though, so it's probably far better calories, if such thing exists, and the portions are well beyond a single hamburger), but dieting didn't seem a factor. Ever so often she'd reach for her mobile, check for messages or calls, then rest it on her chin and stare off into the distance, as though expecting a message or a call that wouldn't come.

She left before I did. All the time she just looked so sad... she just had "Lonely Heart" plastered all over her. How sad is it, that I, the lonliest heart I know (likely ex aequo with several others, but still), take pitty on someone for this same reason?

I had never seen her before, haven't since, and if I do, chances are I won't recognise her, but, for her especially (and all of you as well)

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would have thought Snow White would have caught at least one voter's fancy. Time for a new poll, I see...

Now Paging Dr. Freud

Today we're going to take a trip into the deepest corners of my psique. OK, some deep corners of my psique. Deep-ish. We're going there. Pack light.

So last night I had the strangest dream. Right off the bat, has it ever happend to you to see something or someone in a dream and even though it looks little or nothing like someone or something that actually exists in real life, you just know it's a depiction of that? Hold on to that thought, it'll become significant soon.

So I'm at this house, which looks familiar, terribly familiar, like I know every corner of it, yet I don't recall ever living or even being to any house like the one in the dream. I'm at this large hall with dark orange tile flooring (you think it's relevant?), and I know some friends I'm working with are in a nearby room. Suddently, red tinted watery drops (not blood, not by a long shot) dribble onto the floor. The drops turn to lines, and I can see quite the intricate pattern. It's quite pretty, really, until there's just so much of the stuff it's covering the entire floor. That's about when I realise it's red gelatin, before it solidifies. It just keeps coming and coming until I'm standing in a good inch or two of red goo. That's when I realise another mate of mine lives there, and I knock on his door to tell him what's going on. So he says, "Do you think I have a leaky pipe?". OK, who on Earth has gelatin pipelines running through their walls? Certainly not that friend of mine.

Later, I find myself in a somewhat post-coital moment with... how to put it? Do you know when there's someone you really lust after in an unrealistic way, because there's really no way your lustful fantasies, whatever they may be, would come to fruition? I'm talking about fantasising about some really hot actress or model or maybe your extremely attractive next door neighbour who's happily married - at any rate, the (potential and) unattainable object of your lust. So there's she is, pressing her lovely nude body against mine under the sheets, only she doesn't really look like her, yet I know who she's supposed to be.

And why did my very unused first name sound so right when she said it?

Which brings me to a though I had a while ago. Often that which we desire the most is, ultimately, unattainable. Not only would the fruitless pursuit of such goals result in nothing but frustration but also devotion to such purpose would invariably bring about distraction from all which we might not really desire, for we had never lacked, yet does indeed bring us great joy. But what about dreams and ambition? I say this as someone whose ambition does seem rather daunting, yet I've seen others succed at what I desire the most. It seems doable, even if it might not be easy, but in this light, I wonder if I'm not setting myself up for disgrace here. Where does one draw the line?

Also, today, and I definitely did NOT dream this up, but when I was walking to class, at a road cross, this car comes up slowly and stops at the (yellow) traffic light. Then the light goes red, then my light goes green, I step onto the tarmac and the driver takes aim and drives off - and at me. Is there a hit on my head I should know of?

Tonight I was asked why I write about vampires. I had really never thought much about it, but now that I do, I realise that the myth of the human being turned into a vampire is a magnificent, although easy and unlikely, as esoterism usually presents itself at first glance, means to stave off pretty much everything that I fear: ageing, death, weakness, mediocrity, failure... never you mind that it comes at the (said to be terrible) price of never again be let into sunlight or that of needing a constant supply of human blood; I really don't regard that as much of a punishment.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to draw your attention to the fact that this is the 101st entry of my little blog that could. Thank you all for sticking with me through 101 rants of joy, rage and other silly stuff. You've been a wonderful crowd. Let's make it to 1001 together.

DHL Argh

Last time I posted I was a bit angry. Come to think of it, just as I am now.

So you might remember my tale of a laptop of mine which has had quite the colourful tale of trips to the warranty repair shop. A couple of weeks ago I thought of sending it for yet another run.

DHL picked it up as schedulled, no worried there. Repairs took as long as I expected, and since my complints were exacly as the previous time, I expect repairs were adequate and successful. Delivery by DHL, however, hasn't gone quite as smoothly.

Last Monday they tried to deliver it, but, alas, I wasn't home. So they left a notification slip in my mailbox, telling me to call their customer support line so that a delivery could be schedulled. I didn't read it until after 7:00 p.m., when I arrived from class, and, sure enough, it was far too late to schedulle a delivery for that day. The young lady on the other end of the line (whose name, even though she told me, I can't, for the life of me, recall. Let's call her Tania, which I'm fairly sure wasn't her name, but is a pretty name nonetheless) offered to schedulle a delivery for the next day, which I declined, for I wouldn't be able to take it either, so I asked her to schedulle it for Thursday morning, as I had some free time.

Come Thrursday morning, I was quite eager to get the delivery business over with swiftly, for the previous Wednesday had been far busier than I had antecipated, and some items of my "to do" list had found their way to that very same Thursday morning. But come 1:00 p.m. DHL people were nowhere to be seen. As I returned home that evening, late at 8:00 p.m., I checked my mailbox for more notification slips, from Tuesday and Wednesday. So they tried to deliver Monday, when I couldn't be there, Tuesday and Wednesday, when I told them I wouldn't be able to be there, but come Thursday, when I had schedulled it, they skip it? Sure enough, I called them.

The gentleman who ansewred (whose name, again, I didn't memorise. Let him become, for now, known as Paul) apologised profusely (not really... briefly is more like it) and stated that the package hadn't been delivered "by mistake", and promptly schedulled delivery for the folowing day, i. e., yesterday morning. Now, Friday is usually when I make a very dreary trip back to my hometown for the weekend, and much as I detest the trip itself, I just want to make it early so it can be over with as quickly as I can, yet I had to wait again until the early afternoon for it. When at 12:30 p.m. I had heard nary a peep from DHL I called them (for the third time that morning), and after two empty promises that they'd call me as soon as they had more information (or, in reality, any information at all), they tell me the package hasn't been dispatched. I demanded to speak to someone who might be able to dispatch it, or at least tell me why, for the second time in as many days, they're missing their schedulle. So this young lady (whose name I do recall, for a change) explains to me that Tania did schedulle a delivery for the 11th... of November! And Paul made no attempt to rectify this mistake. The result: two days wasted for me, plus a whole weekend of not working on that laptop and a promise (really, how much weight do DHL promises carry right now?) that my laptop will be delivered Monday morning.

Really, November 11th? I get it, 10 and 11 are similar numbers. After all, we can't all be so fortunate to have such a huge difference in the numbers of our fingers and our brain cells. And what, do you suppose, will become of Tania and Paul? A slap on the wrist? Not literally, I trust. Their salaries docked? Unlikely. A permanent pay cut? Even more unlikely. To be strapped naked by the wrists and ankles to a St. Andrew's cross and flogged with a coarse leather flogger while jumper cables are attached to their nipples and fiery hot coals smoulder just inches from their bottoms? Tremendously more so.

And don't let me catch Tania and Paul uttering a peep of complaint about how stressful it is to deal with irate customers on the phone; they wouldn't know irate if it stabbed them in the genitals with a red hot poker.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark just got his hands on a recording of Mozart's Requiem in D minor by the Munich Choir with organ, his very latest fetish...

Eleanor Rigby

... is a song by 1960's famous Fab 4, The Beatles. Sad, although beautiful, and accompanied by a most fabulous combination of only violins and cellos. Oh, and look, it's time for a blog entry.

I can't help to wonder why is it that the day our Republic was born is marked by a day off to just about everyone. What does this imply? That our Republic is borne of sloth and mediocrity? That the archetypal attitude of our regime is inaction? Or is it something a little more intricate, such as "Republic says: Up yours, citizen!"? How so? read on... I have you hooked now... or have I?

So I need a new pair of trousers. The one I had since before the summer finally became worn off to the point of tearing (and it's always the same spot...), and I think it's safe to assume that we all agree that I should wear trousers. Think of the implications of the contrary... So I figure, there's a store I use to go to get them, I'll use my free time on Friday (go figure, I couldn't possibly assign any classes to Fridays this semester...). It's a bit far away, meaning not even in the same city where I live, but I was going to go up north for the weekend anyway, it's just a small detour from my originally intended route. Before I call it in for the weekend, however, I should go to the launderette to drop off my dirty laundry for the weekend, go to the copy shop to get some papers copied and go to the courthouse to drop off said copies (appearentely I'm something along the lines of an "accidental intervenient" in something I could hardly care any less about; it doesn't concern me at all, yet I must draw from my personal time and resources to help the powers that be. My tax money at work. I pay so that some institution can send crude letters to my home demanding that I work for them for free and at my own expense. Thanks, lads). Only when I found myself before a very closed launderette did I realise it was an institutional holiday. Meaning "Sorry, old chum, so much for the best laid plans of mice and men. And yours, too."

So what are the implications of this? Well, right off the bat, I still need trousers, and I had to make do with some hedious rag I had bought I-forget-how-many-months ago just to make do with (rather figures, doesn't it?), which I can't wait to get out and rid of. But that will have to wait until no sooner than Wednesday (when, go figure, I couldn't manage to squeeze a single class either). Same goes for just about everything else, meaning I'll run out of clean clothes, meaning yet another otherwise unnecessary expense. Make no mistake, I have nothing against unnecessary expense; I buy stuff I don't need, as we all do, and it doesn't bother me for as long as I get some enjoiment out of my purchase, a little tick for my tack, but it absolutely revolts me to be forced or as much as coherced into buying when I really don't want to. Which brings me to...

My shirt. It's fabric (cotton, I think. Doesn't look or feel like polyester), it's got little buttons and a collar. Nothing remarkable about it. I need another shirt, because they come clean from the store (right?). So I set about to buy one. Now, I'm not too picky about shirts, I only have two rules: it mustn't be outrageously designed (think something along the likes of a big scrape or a taer or gash across the back or one long sleeve and a short one or flaring sleeve cuffs... you get the picture) and it must be black. So where does this leave me? What stores carry non-outrageous, black shirts? Plenty, really, nothing too remarkable about that. It does make me wonder exacly what message or inkling lurks behind the fact that no store has a menswear section at least as large as a womenswear section (one store in particular had male manequins and male clothes on the window, yet carried only ladies clothes. Go figure...). So what am I going to complain about? Fitting!

OK, so I'm fat. I'll be blunt about it, I am fat. I was quite lean last December, but my hernia and all the implications there of made me gain a lot of weight. Now I do understand that it might be far more fun and far easier to design clothes for very tall and slim models, such as Tricia Helfer than the likes of me, but here's a little nibble of fact for all clothes designers out there: Fat people need clothes too! I tried on what felt like a dozen different shirts until I found one that fit in some five different stores, under blazing hot halogen lamps in cramped little dressing rooms to hardly any avail. So here's a hint t designers, the next time you're enjoying your fine Coq au Vin or Vol au Vent or whatnot-UHN, ficture some fat bloke sitting across the table from you, stark naked, with rolling flabs of fat stacking on his sides like puncured tyres and man-boobs bigger than the firm supple breast of any female model you've ever worked with. Ficture the sweaty grime collecting in the furrows of their chins (If they're going to walk agout naked, i's bound to happen), and the lint gathering in their navel. then after you choke to near asphixiation and make a mess with fine spilt red wine on the otherwise immaculate white tablecloth of whatever gourmet diner you were, make me a suitable shirt, you pompous buffoon!

I'm sorry, I'm just still a bit angry about this...

Requiem aeternum dona eis et lux perpetua luceat eis

I mean

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark thought that last entry was worth at least a single ton comment... I guess mechanical watchmaking isn't as popular as I thought it to be. But the poll just got an extension.