So, keeping with the spirit of change, here's another update on my changing life style.

I no longer live alone. I now share my studio flat with a gorgeous black, middle eastern female. She's been enjoying herself immensely, it seems, ever since she moved in, and has been keeping me busy, as she is very very playful and a bit needy, but that's alright, because she really brings out the best in me. Besides, she's the cutest little thing on four legs.

What, you thought it wasn't a cat I was tlaking about? No, of course you didn't, but it was a good effort, right? No? Well, sod off, then, I don't need your approval!

Onwards. I've ben looking for a persian cat for quite some time, and I had imagined a blue male, but Lady Luck had something else in mind, and that's fine, really, I mean, it's just details.

So after what must have been a bit of a stressful trip home, judging by the mewing my little roommate made, I set the carrier on the floor and opened the grate. I thought I shouldn't force her to come out, because she might be very scared and somewhat untrusting of her new surroundings, so I just let her come out in her own time, and when she did (very soon after) it immediately was the cutest thing that ever happened here. The fist few tentarive steps, and the looking around, still a bit scared. Luckily for her, I had already furnished the kitcher with all of her stuff, so it was all waiting for her. I scooped her up and took her to her little bed, and she nestled there for a moment, which I tok to fill her food and water bowl, then hand fed her some pellets of dry food. She lapped at them eagerly, and came out for more, then had a bit of water and immediately started purring. She must have spent most of her time purring since, hopping and running around the kitchen, exploring and playing with me.

I think she must be pretty tired, because I managed to leave her in the kitchen (I'm leaving her confined for her few first days, just in case) and she hasn't called out to me. Tomorrow we'll go to the vet, see what needs be done and what, if any, shots must be given now. She's only about two months old, so I suppose she'll have to have a shot in a month or so.

But you know what's funnier? I could sit in the kitchen, staring at her all I want and it still seems a bit surreal. It's not like I still can't believe there's a live cat there, and she's my cat, it's more like I haven't registred it yet in my brain. Well, we'll just have to see how this goes. It might all seem more clear after the fist night.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark managed to gather some bile just waitning to be spewed over dinner, but his new cat has mellowed him out enough that it can wait until next time.


Not really... but damn near. In fact, it might be a bit soon to tell... In a few days, however, I'll know for sure, and report accordingly, rest assured. At least I'm glad to say it's become an unfamiliar sensation.

Now the last few days have been a turmoil of change. A lot of things have relinquished it's old status quo, so I'll take this wave of change and change my everyday watch. Sure, the Jager-LeCoultre Master Control I've been wearing is fine, but I've worn it for so long all its siblings are crying out for attention, and I've an inkling their tribe is about to grow. I know mine is.

So, firts things, fisrt, practical changes: the clunky not-quite-cellphone and not-quite-palmtop I've had for nearly three years has betrayed me and gone quite amok, devouring texts, dismissing calls or preventing me from placing them, and needs substitution. I'm going to miss the hardware qwerty keyboard on my cell, but I think I can cope. So out with Schroedinger's phone, in with the new.

Summer plans have changed too. So I won't be taking the trip I had in mind, and been looking forward too for over six months now, but don't fret; I have a feeling it's for the best. At least this change was brought about by the vile, everyday enabler and disabler of the best laid plans of mice and men: finance. Better that than falling apart with that mate of mine I'm dreadding to disapoint when I tell him the trip is off.

Most other changes aren't really done yet, but, rest assured, I'll write of them as soon as they're final. But for now

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark might be(come) heartbroken, but lonely will no longer apply in but a paltry few days time.

The mail is here

Here's another chapter for my latest blog saga (Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 are also available). With any luck, this will be the final chapter, and we'll have a nice trilogy to remember.

First off, don't worry, US Postal Service, I'm done knocking you down... for now. Although you silly blunderers managed to mangle my home address, even though I relaied it propperly to "The Shipper", who was able to produce it for me in it's full and correct form.

So customs, nonsensical pricks that they are, held my package for an arbitrary number of days. Then the local Post Service did their number. I really shouldn't knock on them too hard, not only because I find them kind of brittle but also because, within the confines of idiocy, they did rather alright... in a way... a very narrow, twisted way, mind you.

So the address the USPS dispatched my package to could have been any of two flats out of the four on my floor, sixteen on my building and more than I care to count on the whole. All in all, could have been a lot worse, even more so considering one of the two flats they narrowed it down to, by mangling my address, actually is the right one. Enter the mailman (or should I say the mailperson, in case it happens to be a lady doing this route? Oh, like anyone on this blog - including you - bloody cares about politically correctness).

So the mailperson was left with the decision of picking one of two adjacent mailboxes to put the delivery attempt notice (not actually attempt to deliver. That would have been much too troublesome) in. Considering their job consists of merely reading addresses and putting letters and postcards on the apropriate box, a decision must have been quite the thrill. I imagine this meek employe(e) of the almighty entity we refer so merely as The State would have had the need to take a deep breath and lie in the shade for a while before continuing on to the next block. Actually I really shouldn't be so mean to the mailmen and mailwomen out there, more often than not they seem to be really kind and competent people, even though this one made quite a blunder, IMO. Regardless, I've a bit of bile to spew.

Needless to say, they put the slip on the wrong box. Now why should I be angry at this? It was an honest mistake, Shark. You cold have done that, you'll say. Well, not quite. See, my neighbours, who got a misplaced delivery slip, weren't the only ones to recieve correspondance that day. I myself got some, a letter, addressed to me personally, not merely "Resident" or any such non-descript nonsense. So, faced with decision, should this mailperson have put the slip for a package addressed to an "Arabian Shark" on the same mailbox as the other letter, addressed to Arabian Shark, which is one of two likely possibilities for the right mailbox for the slip, or assume a different Arabian Shark lives next door to the Arabian Shark who recieved the first letter? "Oh, heck, Arabian Shark is such a common name... I'd swear at least three cousins of mine and two of my wife's have "Arabian" as their first names and most people in the village my father was born had "Shark" for their last name" is not a sentence you hear very often.

So, alright, my name is not Arabian V. Shark, but it's still fairly uncommon, or at least uncommon enough that you don't mistake it for the name of some shrill-voiced, over-excitable, ever-screaming girl the likes of the ones who recieved my slip on Thursday. So, as it would happen, they didn't notice they had recieved a slip by mistake until Friday, and I don't blame them (for that), and when I noticed it, still on Friday, the Post Office was closed for the weekend, meaning I still don't have my package. But at least now I'll be able to get it on Monday... today, that is.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark will be required to pay tariffs amounting to less than a fourth of the item's value, even though he's once had to pay nearly three times an item's worth in tariffs alone. Now someone please try to convince me tariffs aren't just some scam "The Man" came up with to arbitrarily bleed out private citizens of their hard-earned finance and punish them for wanting more than their lame country is able to provide.


You guys remember the aging floppy disks, don't you? They used to come in five-and-a-quarer inches and later in three-and-a-half inches (and then they weren't quite as floppy) and carry less than 2MB of data. Of course nowadays most files I handle are nowhere as tiny as that, but, for some wierd reason, I still have a floppy drive.

Right, got a little side tracked there. I meant nothing of the sort. I meant I feel floppy. I started going to a new gym, because those sessions with a personal trainer weren't doing what I was looking for. I mean, in six months of that plus a diet I didn't drop one pound (perhaps that's because we use Euros over here, har har). Furthermore, our shcedulle wasn't very nice. Now flextime I like. I also like propperly equipped facilities. And a regular exercise plan, though I might deviate at any time. And you know what else I like, besides pool facilities? Paying just over half what I was paying before.

But, it's true, the workout is nothing like what I uas used to. For one thing it's much longer - why, it's twice as long, if I go through the entirity of the recommended plan - and it's much more intensive. Having just been there this morning, I'm floppy as a damp old sock. But it feels rather nice. Someone will be sleeping like a baby tonight - and sadly, I don't mean pressed against a pair of warm soft plump round loving breasts, but you can't have it all. Baby steps, though.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark noticed the poll on how my readers' lives rate with the MPAA returned no results. One (a very malicious one, at that) would argue that my readers have no lives, but I'd rather think my readers defiantly reject the MPAA rating. Goodonya!

Back at the movies

As some of you (I nearly typed "many of you", but I don't think there are many who actually read this blog to begin with) might know, I like cinema. I probably don't qualify as a "movie buff", but I enjoy watching a movie, both at home (even though my TV needs a serious replacement) and at the theater (even though it seems I can't get through a screening without telling someone to shut up these days). I enjoy not only watching, but also getting some insight on the work that goes into the movie, such as behind the scenes, interviews, gag reels and so on. So today let's talk about movies.

One thing I've wondered for quite some time is how does a movie come about it's rating. Ever since I was a very young infant I used to see what was on display at several theaters (there used to be a TV show that would list this, for theaters all over the country, even though many of the places spoken of sounded indeed very far away and totally foreign at the time). I recall noting every movie was tagged as "ages so-and-so and older" (we use that system as opposed to the MPAA's G, PG, PG-13, R and NC-17, formerly X). I also wonder even today how is it that a movie might be suitable for a 12-year-old pre-teen but unsuitable for an 11-year-old pre-teen, but that's a moot point, seeing as I've had movies rated suitable for ages 12 and over (bit of a mouthful, compared to "PG-13", isn't it?) spoiled by very young children (think age 3 or 4) misbehaving. Enter This Film Is Not Yet Rated.

We could discuss this film extensively, but I choose to merely recommend it and take this opportunity to say the movie is slightly dated, as the MPAA now does allow other films to be quoted on appeal to refute a rating and demographical information regarding the reviewers is now made available to the general public. Nonetheless, it's a brilliant documentary, even more so that it forced a change (which, ironically, made it a period piece in the very short span of one year).

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark will now leave you with the quote of the day: When all is said and done, more has been said than done.