Shark Nibbles

Timing!

2011-03-12T20:32:00.000-08:00

It's been a few months since I posted. Funny... It weeded out my collection of asian spambot worshipers.

Mind you, it's not that I didn't want to post. Here's a bit of a breakdown:

Up until very late December last year, I was busy with my thesis. It's done and I'm a fully fledged master engineer. Onwards to new conquests.

The last week of December was spent in London, and, as usual, it made up for every last little bit of bitterness along the other 51 weeks. As a neat little bonus, I got to attend "Legally Blonde: The Musical". Watching Sheridan Smith's performance live more than made up for catching the flu from the man sitting next to me. Really, now, would it have been too much to ask that he had swapped places with his girlfriend(/fiancée/wife/"Oh her? Yeah, we're sleeping together")? I'd have gotten to sit next to a pretty young girl and someone else would have caught his flu. Still, totally worth it!

January was my month off (the first in a while). Sorry I didn't post then.

I actually drafted up a post in February. I would have posted it too, but it had been written in anger and didn't deserve to see the light of publication. It went through several re-writes before earning an uncontested position in the bin. Long story short, some publicists aren't doing a very good job, some website designers are joining the trend, IMDb.com isn't infallible and when can I expect "The Sweet Shop"?

Most of February was spent moving from my adopted hometown, where I spent the last 8 years of my life, back to my birthtown. Some of the crates are still patiently expecting my attention, but, at least I have set up my little study and, by Jove, it looks like a picture straight out of my teenage fantasies (the SFW ones). Expect pictures soon (I mean it!).

Then I joined Twitter. Follow me here!

And, lastly, after three years of mostly excellent functioning, my computer had to undergo a radical reset and re-install. On one hand, I managed to clean up and re-organise my partitioning scheme (which was long overdue), but it seems these things always happen at the worst possible time. Sometimes, it just feels like the universe aligns perfectly to drop what might as well be all questions of life and death (sure, "42", but the question is...) right on your lap, but then you decide to sit down just slightly to the left -- YOU (meaning me) MORON!

Oh well...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark wonders why YouTube occasionally suggests that I should look up Stephen Holland. Doesn't YouTube know he's a swindler of the worst kind?

Excuse me!?

2010-10-24T12:12:00.000-07:00

Tonight on Shark Nibbles...

Wouldn't it have been great if I had managed to snag Mr. Clarkson for a one-off introduction to a blog entry like he does on Top Gear?

Tonight we carry on with our great culinary tradition and so we cover yet another topic: Restaurants.

Naturally, you'd be much better off reading AA Gill's column, so instead, let me show you something. That was taken out of the Readers Digest. Entertaining or useful though the majority of the article might be, I ask you now to scroll down to the end section, "Surefire Stereotypes", on page 2, and read item no. 3.

I'll be waiting here.

Still can't be arsed? Alright, I'll transcribe it for you:

"3. If you have a European accent, you are a horrible tipper. Accent = 10 percent. Always."

Now, if there ever were any doubts where this article was taken from, let's take elimination. Its not Europe, for obvious reasons. It's not Africa, because it mentions food. It's not Asia, it's much too rude for that. It's not Oceania, because not once did it employ the words "ute", "barbie", "outback", "spider" or "crikey". Could it then be America?

You see, I don't think it can. America is the place where my mother and I, both European and suitably accented, were charged 5% on top of 15% woth of tips for a maître d' we never so much as met. Where we were asked to leave 15% at the Hard Rock Café for good (but not extraordinary) service. Where we were asked to distribute little "tip slips" to just about the whole crew of a cruise ship, including people we met (exactly) once and only for as long as it took him to fill our glasses with water, which, as it seems, is the entirity of his job description. And we tipped away with a smile on our lips and a kind word on the side.

And now, for a bit of context: regarding tips, my mother and I aren't exactly alike, you see. When I forst noticed tipping, she told me she didn't like to tip because it made her feel as though she was rubbing some pretense of superiority in the faces of servers. I, on the other hand, have no such qualms with tipping, but despise the notion of unduly tipping. Sure, many restaurants and their like pool the tips, meaning that, if I don't tip as much as I would because service was sloppy, I'm unduly punishing all the other waiters, whose job, for all I know, might have been absolutely flawless, but whose fault is that? I submit to every single waiter who ever felt robbed of a well deserved fraction of a tip because the waiter who collected it performed subparly, drag the offending colleague out back behind the restaurant, perform even an half-hearted job of kicking his/her head in and I'll gladly tip as much as I would have had for good service, tuice as much if you promise to cut the offender out of the pool.

In fact, I'd like to tell you a little story that happened just short of a year ago. My mother and I had gone for dinner at Pizza Hut in Leicester Square. Our waiter was a young woman with mediterranean features and a distinctively Italian acccent. That was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most appaling service I ever had. She brought my mother a warm cider with ice. She came by our table to tell my mother they were out of the fish she ordered, but never bothered to ask what she'd like instead (in fact, judging by the expression on another waiter's face when I explained what had happened and placed another order on my mother's behalf, he was even more shocked than we were). Then she brough our entrees before the apetizers. Need I say our entrees, by the (second) time she brought them were cold and stale? And then, at the very end, she had the gall to calculate a standard 12% tip and remind us, on the bill, that it was not included, which I rewarded with the reminder that neither had it been deserved and my mother rewarded with a 10% tip.

Lousy tippers, aren't we?

And in one fell swoop, there goes every little bit of trust and admiration I ever had for Readers Digest.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to remind his readers from Asia, Africa and Oceania that the bit up there where some fun is poked at them is intended for comic purpuses only and bears no resemblance to my feelings towards them. Any americans who were offended by the rebutal of the stereotype that Europeans are poor tippers can suck it.

Moose

2010-10-19T15:57:00.000-07:00

No, that's not the word...

Mousse

Much better. Onwards, now.

As a new entry on the Shark Nibbles Cook Book, here's my recentely developed Quadfactor Mousse, so called because I couldn't come up with a better name for it. But stick around and the mousse might prove better than it's name. So, off to the ingredients:

      - 200 grams of chocolate (I used half sugar free plain chocolate with about 50% cocoa and half 99% cocoa chocolate, because I couldn't get regular sugar free cooking chocolate with 70% cocoa, which I'd recommend);
      - 4 eggs;
      - 200 mL heavy cream (any cream suited for whipping will do);
      - 5 tablespoons of sweetner (or the equivalent amount of sugar, if you think your teeth and your waistline are worth the puritanism of carbon hydrates);
      - 2 tablespoons of creamy peanut butter;
      - 100 grams of grated coconut;
      - 200 grams of chopped roasted salted peanuts;
      - A few shots of your favourite liqueur (I like either mint or anise. Coffee Liqueur should work nicely, as will Bayle);

Now, if you've ever made a chocolate mousse before, you can imagine what comes up next. If you don't, well, then, Uncle Shark's here to help. So:

Melt your chocolate. I like the purism of a bain-marie, but a microwave will do just fine. If you take the latter choice, hold off this step for a bit; otherwise go on and start melting. Meanwhile...

Separate the yolks from the whites. Add a pinch of salt you the whites, if you like (I do) and beat them to soft peaks. Rinse your beaters and whip the cream to stiff peaks.

Combine the yolks, sweetener and peanut butter in a bowl. Cream them together until you obtain a smooth light caramel coloured mixture. Add the whipped cream and the coconut and mix thoroughly.

If you choose to melt the chocolate in the microwave (which is much faster than the bain marie), do so now. If you chose the bain marie, then your chocolate should be melted by now. Add the liquid chocolate to the eggs, butter, sweetner, coconut and cream mixture and mix thoroughly.

Now fold in the egg whites. Don't use beaters, or you'll just ruin the whites; use a woodden spoon instead. Try not to be too rough, but you don't have to treat them like they're made of lace.

Finally add the liqueur and the chopped peanuts and stir them in. Taste the mousse and adjust the quantities until you find the right balance of flavours.

You're done! Let the mousse set in the fridge for about six hours before serving.

As ever, I'd like to know your opinion on this idea. Remember the quantities are not set in stone. Fiddle about as much as you like until you find what tastes right to you. Suggest some changes too; if you have some ideas, I'd love to know them.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark bids his readers sweet farewells for now and urges you to have sweets in moderation (except for eye candy. Have as much of that as you'd like).

eBay

2010-09-28T06:36:00.000-07:00

eBay (and Amazon) can't go for a week without trying to flog their stuff on their registred users. Hardly surprising. It's what they live on. One could make the point that the way they (especially Amazon) figure out what their customers might like is a bit less accurate than you'd think. So one day I looked for mezzalunas on Amazon and, sure enought, the next newsletter (if you can call it that) tried to sell me just about everything they had that could be in some way related to - wait for it - Nigella Lawson. Figures. So once I let them know I own an Xbox 360, and now a game can't come out without them telling me, never you mind that it is perfectly in league with some games which I've rated as "loathsome" on their site (not in so many words). So once I rated some films, and now they keep advertising to me their extensive collection of DVDs... and BluRays... which I can't do anything with. Perhaps they should have noticed I never ordered, looked at or put a BluRay on my Wish List. Lastly, I'd just like to make it perfectly clear I have no idea how they figured out that I might like a book on wearing latex. That's really not what floats my boat (but, it floats yours, drop me a line, I have some Amazon endorsed suggestions for you).

And now on to eBay. Their advertising e-mails are a bit different. They flog you some items pertaining to your last purchase and then go on about not what they think you might like to buy but what they would like you to buy. Can't say that I blame them, but it doesn't really but much ice with me. At least Amazon look like they're trying to please me.

Which brings me to the cherry on top of the eBay cake. The last I heard from them, they were trying to flog their stock of Halloween related stuff. And, to make the whole e-mail more in line with the season, they thought they'd kick it off with a slight fright. And so, the first few words of their message read thus:

"arabianshark, boo! Get your ghoul on at eBay (...)"

Now look here, eBay: Firstly, you'll see I never really forget to capitalise the B in your name; maybe, just maybe, as a courtesy, you wouldn't mind, just once or twice, to properçy capitalise my name as well. There's a reason why I made it ArabianShark (which does not concern you any more than it concerns me why on Earth you chose eBay over Ebay, ebaY or bUyfRomuSpLeasepLeasepRettypLease).
Secondly, "boo" isn't a scary word. It really isn't. What it does is, when heard unexpectedly, startle you. If you call out to me first, than "boo" is about to scare me as much as "soft supple breasts".

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark begins to wonder how wise it really was to join eBay... I don't think I've ever made a purchase there that would turn out to have been a good choice (except perhaps the very first one and the one I made on behalf of a friend).

Narrow sight

2010-07-17T15:16:00.001-07:00

Today I was having a quiet bout with my conscience when, rahter unexpectedly, even for myself, I argued:

"What have you done for me lately?"

A bit calloes, perhaps. I apologised, but my conscience had decided to sulk and threw the match, as it were. However, I was left wondering that, in retrospect, my would-be winning argument was inheritantely flawed. However much or little a conscience does, one is invariably left never knowing of it, for even if one can plainly see the effects of the options he's taken, one can never see an iota of the effects which any other option pertaining to the same decision would have had.

So now I wonder:

What good is having a conscience?
How much do you think it would go for on eBay?

Just wondering...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark wonders what the voices of your respective consciences sound like. Mine sounds rather like... strawberries. You know, with cream.

Masquerade Magic & Stephen Holland

2010-07-06T08:24:00.000-07:00

Alright, so here's something new. Usually I come here to complain, muse or glorify something. Today, I'll mix things up a bit.

I'll start this off by making a clear distinction. While it may look like all I'm trying to accomplish with this entry is a bit more whining (there'll be a bit of that too), I'd like this to serve as a bit of a warning to you all. Also, I'll stick to the facts, so you can draw your own conclusions.

Late last year I was under the influence from Assassin's Creed II (non-fact alert), which is, in shoer, bloody awesome. It features, among other things, doctors who you can pay to have your wounds healed. Now, since the game takes place in the 1400s, the doctors depicted don't exactly wear lab coats or canes and stubbles, but rather black cloaks and a distinctive mask. This mask is plainly made of leather, with large round eyeholes and a long bird-like beak shaped protusion. You see, in the 1400s (certainly not the whole century, but I'm not really that good with dates... or history, for that matter) Europe was taken by the plague, and these doctors sought to shield themselves from inhaling the plague airs by stuffing the beaks of those masks with pungent herbs, so as to counter the effects of the smell of plague. Incidentally, some of the herbs used were able to neutralise the pathogen in some measure, but I digress.

My mother's birthday is in mid-December. She also happens to be a doctor and a mask enthusiast. Naturally, I thought I'd give her one said mask for her birthday. So I began searching. I managed to find a few plague doctor masks, but the vast majority of them were kept in the US by American traders. Jest though I may, I have nothing against shopping from American traders, but the toll costs are real killers, so I was quite pleased when I managed to find a masks dealer based in the UK.

Masquerade Magic is a commercial site that deals in venetian and dress-up masks. It is run by Stephen Holland, who can be reached at xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk. This e-mail address is also used to identify him in PayPal land. And now you've met the villian of our story.

I ordered the mask in early December. Mr. Holland and I spoke via e-mail many times while I waited for the mask. In said conversations, he demonstrated chronical incompetence, which I suppose my be misconstrued as shameless thievery (or the other way around). Over six months after I ordered and paid for the mask to be delivered, I am still yet to see it. For some time, he tried to blame it on the Royal Mail, caliming that they had lost or delayed the package, but he never told me the tracking number for the parcel. Because I waited for too long to complain to the people who run PayPal (sorry to take you from the story for a minute, but let me just say the people I dealt with at PayPal were absolutely impeccable. Though I certainly hope I never have to go through this vicious cabaret again, I wouldn't mind having to deal with them), there was nothing they could do. I kept trying to talk to Holland, but, when (speculation alert) he ran out of excuses (done speculating, thank you for your patience), he simply began to ignore me.

Enter a good friend of mine, whom I won't name, who realised I was feeling a bit blue. I always get retrospective after my birthday, and this year I couldn't shake the thought that if I hadn't been swindled out of nearly 90 quid, I wouldn't have had to go through some financial hardship earlier in the year. When I told him about my dealings with Holland (not the country, but you don't need to be told that), he took it upon himself to impersionate a potential buyer and badger Stephen on my behalf. He got less than 5 e-mails out of him, but that was enough for what he quallified broadly as "bollocks, the lot of it". Having been privy to the conversation, I can tell you that Stephen claimed it was not his fault, as he only claimed ownership of the site after my order had been placed, but before he "ran out of excuses", as it were. He claimed the previous owner used his name because he knew he was going to sell his business.

Now, here's where the fact ends and the questioning begins, so correct me if I'm wrong, but when this Stephen knave bought the company (assuming he bought the company after I was swindled, which, for some reason, I find unlikely. I just have a hard time taking his word), didn't he acquire all of the company's debt? Isn't it his responsability to refund me? Seeing as I paid directly to his PayPal account (see, here's where I think this gets tricky: the PayPal account I paid to didn't belong to "Masquerade Magic" or whoever the previous owner was; it was Stephen Holland's), doesn't that make him directly responsible for seeing that I either get my goods and/or services or my money back?

If any of my readers would like to tell me I'm wong and why, I'd love to know about it. All my other readers, please beware of this crook. It's a bit cliché that a conman would run a mask business (O, the irony), but it didn't stop the wretched Stephen Holland from picking my pocket with this scam of him. Additionally, I will personaly give a one free internet voucher to anyone who can prove to me that he or she has insulted this prick Holland and told him to return my money*.

And now that I have addressed my human readers, here's something for my asian flavoured spambots (you know who you are...):

- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs herbal pills for larger breasts;
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs cheap V14GR4 (or however you spell Viagra theses days);
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs his penis enlarged. By a factor of 10^5. Just so he can see it;
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs nude pictures of underage boys;
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk would like to buy replica Rolex watches (but he doesn't care about receiving them, just pocket the money and carry on);
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs to be sent staggering amounts of e-mails in non-roman writing, just so his mailbox is thoroughly jammed up;
- ArabianShark has never deleted any of your scantly-clad women filled comments and hopes you'll be nice to him in turn.

Right, now to address the Cylons. Oh, right...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

* ArabianShark would like to remind you that "a one free Internet voucher" refers to a single voucher, good for one free Internet, which is a token of appreciation and cannot be cashed in or redeemed anywhere, as there is only one Internet that I know of and a great many people are using it, so you can't have it, least of all for free (sorry about that). ArabianShark would also like to remind you that this is not in fine print as there is no fine print to be found at all, as ArabianShark, unlike some cowardly cutpurses out there, is most unwilling to deceive you.

Film theory

2010-06-08T05:38:00.000-07:00

My relationship with movies is a rather colourful story. When I was very very young, they were something well beyond my reach, as hardly any children appropriate movies ran at my local theatre. However, occasionally, another, smaller theatre (an auditorium, if that's the hair you want to split) ran cartoon deature films on Saturdays and distributed flyers around schools, prompting me to get my first taste of what a cinematigraphical experience should be like.

I remember the first non-animated feature film I ever watched at a cinema was "RoboCop 3", in 1994 (shortly followed by "Jurassic Park", in the same year). "The Mask" would follow soon enough, and then I had a spat of a rather strange phobia. It struck for the fist time in 1996, if memory serves (it hardly ever does...), and went on for a good three years, until in 1999 I would conquer it by watching "Pink Nightmare" (the things teenager boys won't do for a crush on Catarina Furtado...) and several others not consequential enough for me to even remember them. Minf you, for those three years I was scared of the movies, I was absolutely terrified of the very notion of a cinema screen. Even the very sight of what would become my favourite theatre was enough to make my heart race and my stomach turn (mind you, despite there being a small theatre within the confines of a small shopping centre, we were nowhere near the multi-screen cinema complexes you can't not find at any self respecting shopping centre, and The Theatre was a venerated building, which is now, rather sadly, been demolished to make way for a pharmacy. Not so good for what ails you, if you ask me).

Long story short, I now love the movies. As such, you'd understand that if I spend what really is a trifle (compared to what people in civilized countries spend) to watch a movie at a proper cinema and the experience turns out not to be at least as satisfying as I expected it to be, I should feel at least a bit ripped-off. Usually, this could serve as a stepping stone towards an apology of piracy and a demand that corporate advertising be removed from cinema screens and (especially) DVDs, but not today.

I'll assume everyone here knows there is such a thing as a school for people who want to make movies (and no, this is not me setting you up for a special education pun; I have a great deal of respect for the good people delivering my high-grade entertainment). Sadly, I have never attended such a school, and so my theories might sound strange, silly or downright idiotic, but I'm allowed to, as I don't expect anyone to be made to pay to watch some movie loaded with what I should think are great ideas that would turn out to be absolute crap.

So today I submit to you one such crazy idea: Drama relief.

The concept of comic relief should be familiar to just about everyone: in the middle of a tense or sad movie, one bumbling character keeps the whole thing from being entirely too depressing or a despair-wracked character delivers one well turned pun or makes a joke of his dire straits (no, not the band) to lighten up the mood.

And now, for the novelty: amidst a comedy, one certain character, likely perfectly useless, as far as the plot is concerned (and, then again, maybe not...) does asolutely nothing funny. Despite madness and pantomine all around him (or her), they keep perfectly level headed, handle every situation in a most sensible manner and manage to avoid every situation that would make for a risible setting.

Case in point: well, there aren't any that I've noticed, but picture a comedy set in an English girls boarding school. (Oi! I said comedy, you perverts!) I can think of two I watched last night, one of them quite good, on spote of a not-so-great sequel (pro tip: You don't cast Russel Brand in a movie only to leave him out of the sequel! That would be akin to Mr. George Lucas deciding he'll be making three more Star Wars films, but none of them will feature any Force users.) Each film has a perfectly sensible, albeit bumbling, teacher who manages to be bullied or otherwise caught in some setting made to tickle a larf out of your sense of schadenfreude. Even their appearence (especially their apparel) is made to indicate a gentleman of tranquil reason, but not much fortune.

Consider instead, in keeping with the theme here, Professor Snape of Harry Potter fame, transplanted from Hogwarts to whatever boarding school the film is set at, leaving behind his magical prowess, his knowledge of both potions and the Dark Arts and any semblance of relevance to the grand scheme of things (a. k. a., the plot) and instead gaining the uncanny ability of teaching math (well, you try it, then).

Much as I like Alan Rickman, I wonder if the man has ever said anything funny in his career. He does, however, make great dramatical characters, and his seemingly out-of-place presence in an otherwise irreverent and inconsequent comedy might oerhaps act like that pinch of salt in your merengue or that dash of vineagre in your Pavlova (assuming that does do anything for taste, rather than just help with the consistency of the egg whites) that makes the dominant sweetness seem all the more intense by contrast.

You know, just a thought. I'll be banging this drum much harder the day I make a major grossing film featuring my concepts. Don't hold your breath.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is still waiting for an English chef to suggest an asian recipe featuring Spam to blatantly rip off here, where it would be most adequate. Now who would like to see Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsey compete for the priviledge? We only need a Drama Relief character to make a comedy out of that, now. Until then, let's have a new poll.

Fast food

2010-05-05T12:58:00.000-07:00

Before we get to the meat (no pun intended. Yeah, right...) of this post, I'd just like to thank Blog Interview, to whom I have recentely submitted an interview (a sensible redundancy, it seems) for awarding me yet another follower. As they have asked me nicely to mention them, don't forget to visit Blog Interview as soon as you're done here. They would have liked a badge on my sidebar, but they have failed to provide me with one.

Onwards, then. When Nigella Lawson speaks of fast food, she usually means lemon and egg spaghetti, which sounds absolutely delicious and she makes it look so easy to prepare. Now, my standards are quite a bit lower, so when I speak of fast food, I mean McDonald's and their ilk.

Today I would like to take the time to tell you about a little treat I discovered recentely. Credit should go to Cracked.com, probably the only good thing to come out of America aside from Scarlett Johansson (1). This particular article mentions something called "the McGangBang". You should read it for what it is, and, if not, for some backgroung into this entry, but here's the highlights: The McGangBang is the unofficial name for a McDonald's sandwich composed of a McChicken inside a McDouble, both off the dollar menu. With the name being less than family friendly, not only is this combination not on the menu but also most employees won't recognise it, although some will have heard of it and will prepare it for you.

And now, for a hop over the pond.

So here I was, a few days ago, my mind adamantly set on having one of those, when a few differences would have thrown some flies in the ointment. So, to address them:

      - There is no dollar menu, which should hardly come out as a surprise, seeing as we don't use dollars at all.

      - The names are a bit different, which is to be expected. Naturally, ordering a McGangBang in a non-English speaking country will get you either slightly more or slightly less confused and judgemental looks than ordering a McGangBang on a native English speaking country depending on whether yhe cashier knows what a gang bang is. So ordering it by name is off the table (or is it off the counter?).

      - Meat is a bit more expensive here. It's been said that, pound for pound (mass measuring pounds, not sterling pounds), McDonald's hamburgers are more expensive than American new cars. It doesn't help that American cars are cheap buckets of bolts (2). Let it just be said that even an Euro (that's as much as 1.2889 American dollars) won't get you a McDouble here. It will get you a McSingle, which, obviously, isn't called a McSingle and will get you nowhere near a McChicken.

So I got around those issues easily. It didn't cost me $2.5778, however. In fact, it cost me over €7.00, but, then again, I went for fries, a beverage and, to make matters worse, a supersize. Oh, and fries dip, which I got under the guise of "mayo"... which it isn't.

But I thik it was worth it. Eating a sandwich that tall is a task more suitable for a python (not Monty Python, the sort of python that can dislocate it's jaw at will to swallow large prey whole), but, with a bit of effort, it's manageable. combining the two sandwiches at home was simpler than I expected, but I kept all the buns, which might have helped. I now believe removing at least one of them would have been best. All the more reason to have another sometime soon.

The chaser: having a chaser after this monstrosity of a meal might sound mad (right up my alley, then), but anything worth foing is woeth overdoing, so I chased it with a screening of Iron Man 2 in great company for some balance, because I'm rather sure among the likes of Robert Downey Jr., Scarlett Johansson, Don Cheadle and Gwyneth Paltrow there are very few McGangBangs to be known of.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to remind his most recent follower that the McGangBang contains no mango, but it still might not do wonders for her complexion. Or her waistline. Still, only one can't hurt...

(1) Shark Nibbles and their associates recognise the existence of other good things and stemming from across the pond. They're just not as frequent as the other stuff.

(2) Shark Nibbles and their associates recognise that the new Ford GT-40 is a superly constructed piece of machinery and not quite as cheap as it might be made to seem. Mind you, not only is it based on a British car, but also it includes a fair share of other European bits.

Oh what a treat!

2010-04-13T10:20:00.000-07:00

Alright, that title wasn't the best thing since sliced bread. Boo-bloody-hoo.

And now you probably think I'm in a bit of a foul mood. Quite the contrary, really; this has been a rather good day so far, and the evening looks promising for matters of a rather secret nature right now (i. e., it's a surprise).

So far: I nearly ran out of kitty treats. Even if I don't much care for them myself (mind you, I never tried them, but the smell alone rather makes me want to. Besides, they're made of malt and salmon, none of that nasty ground fish flour dog biscuits are made of... if you want to call those foul things biscuits), my cat loves them. She likes them so much she is willing to learn tricks for treats as a reward. I was, therefore, a bit aprehensive to find out they were sold out at the pet shop, and had to bring plain malt treats instead. Now, I knew Kunoichi (like you're pet's name is any better) loves salmon, and was a bit afraid she wouldn't care much for plain malt treats, but, as it turns out, she loves them just as much (or at least she's managed to spare my feelings much better than a human female would in that manner they all alledgedly try to spare a man's feelings... you know who you are).

Also today I got a delivery for some manga I had ordered from Amazon. Again, I don't much care for manga myself (mango, on the other hand, I rather like... if only I could have some and not spoil my diet), but my teenage cousin has succumbed to the current vampire craze.

A short (riiight...) parenthesis here: my long-time readers know I liked vampires before the current craze. They know I liked propper vampires before those abominations portraied by "Twilight" made vampires as a whole popular and should bloody well know I spurn "Twilight" and have done so even before I realised it was also almost a cool as vampires themselves in the current conjuncture.

That said, she's said to go ballistic over "Vampire Knight". So, with one fell swoop, my cousin is happy to have the first nine volumes of the thing, my aunt is happy she got to make her daughter happy and I got free vouchers out of the whole deal - oh, and some family members of mine are happy too, so, you know, sunflowes and rainbows, puppies and sunshine and butterflies and so forth (even my most recent readers should note that particular bit of cynicism is meant only for comical purposes, unless they're Twilight fans, in which case, allow me to point you in the general direction of a dictionary so you can look up "cynicism", "comical", "vampire" and "read").

On other news, I seem to have gathered yet another follower. I hope you enjoy your time.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is now typing on a blacked-out keyboard (well, silvered out, as I used aluminium tape), to prove or disprove claims by the manufacturers of Das Keyboard. So far, I have inly realised how hard it is to tell I apart from O.

Second wind

2010-03-20T18:22:00.000-07:00

After what most likely will have seemed like a period of that all too common idleness we mere mortals comfortably came to denote as "death", this blog seems to be alive and once more kicking (meekly, as though not to hurt anyone).

And, speaking of hurt, not long ago I had a sudden bout of the most heart-gripping guilt I have ever bore, for twice I have spoken aloud and ill of what you might now know to be my often sworn foe, Fate (which should not, under any circumstances, be mistaken with Faith, the name of both the protagonist of the (IMO) massively underrated game "Mirror's Edge" and Eliza Dushku's character in the (IMO) massively overrated series "Buffy the (IMO, very very silly) vampire slayer", who lent her voice to the protagonist of yet another (IMO) somewhat underrated game, "Wet".

For the sake of disambiguation, it should be noted that the qualifier "very very silly" should be applied both to the vampires in the show and to their slayer in equal measure. Aside from the particiaptions of Ms. Dushku, as stated above, and Allison Hannigan, there isn't a single redeeming characteristic in the whole show (IMO, mind you).

Now, about undully putting down Fate - would Madam Fate kindly accept a heartfelt apology for my earlier scathing remarks in the face of what I consider to be a peace offering in the form of that most lovely young lady who, after an absence of several months (starting on the very day I was about to propose we should meet outside of the parameters of our regular meeting medium, the theater, thank you for that, Madam Fate) and perhaps even grace me with the good fortune of not becomming thoroughly disenchanted with her after a single outing for coffee (which I don't even drink of my own volition, mind you) as was the case with the lovely (in a purely platonic sense, mind you) girl from the salad bar? Or is she (Ms. Fate, that is, naturally) merely setting me up for a massive disappointment, as was the case with the first incident that drove me to scathing remarks? Really, I have good faith in Fate (no pun intended), but you must make some allowance for my suspicion.

And now, for something completely different. Mr. Idle has the copyright to "a man with three buttocks", so we'll haev to make do with a short story I conceived on the back of a thought, last night (or, technically, this early morning), whilst preparing a sandwich:

"I was quite thrilled to have met you. Your first impression on me was, quite simply, marvellous. I'd venture mine on you can't have been all bad, quite the contrary, for, for some reason, you picked me - imagine, me, exactly me - from the ranks of all the others, my peers, each and every last one of them so much like myself. It must have been love at first sight - I know it was for me.

"Then you took me to your home. I can't say it was all peaches and cream for me - the transition, I mean. I was not accustomed to familiarity, to being cared for, so to speak, and that's exactly how it felt from then on, that you had given me a seat in the bosom of your house, of your own free will, because you liked me. The elation, once I came to terms with my new reality, was more than I can put on words.

"Then, over however long or short as it may have been - truly, it seemed like a lifetime to me, as long as it takes to live out a wonderful life too, mind you, even if clearly it wasn't quite as long, not for you, at any rate - you made me feel things I never thought I'd experience. You showed me what it was like to be liked. You showed me what it was like to be wanted. You showed me what it was like to be appreciated. Seeing you enjoy the fruits of my labour felt oh-so-wonderful I often wondered if I ever performed more out of selfishly wanting to feel like only you could make me feel.

"I never even mentioned - let alone complain about - feeling neglected when you went for longer than usual without paying me any attention. I really didn't care. If ever I suspected you might again call upon me, the thrill of the possibility alone was quite enough to scatter any doubt or disappointment. You never really treated me wrong. Nor did I, did I?

"But, of course, every time you called on my service - which, I am proud to say, I never refused to offer, nor did I ever perform anything less than my best, and always entirely up to your demands, and I dare you to even say otherwise - I could feel myself depleting little by little, emptying, as it was, realising, with dread, that someday I'd have given all that I had, all that I was, and shuddered to think what then I could possibly offer you, should that seemingly vaccuous notion of "my love" not suffice.

"I never asked for anything in return of all I have given, for, honestly, I never felt I needed anything in return. You sated all of my needs, as I did my very best to sate yours, even if, for the most part, I would have been only massively inadequate. Mind you, I was always proud of my strengths, and you need not say it for me to know you agree with me on this point.

"Still, the day I dreaded the most came about: you found me empty - void - unable to go on serving you in exchange for the joy of seeing you happpy with me, as I had from the very day we'd met. The turmoil of emotions - sorrow, inadequacy, fear, despair, longing - in that great big void within me, where once had been all you really ever wanted from me - all I had given to you - was matched only by your cold, callous casualness, as though you expected this to happen from the moment you first laid eyes on me.

"It was then that I knew for sure you didn't feel about me anything like the way I felt about you. You didn't even feel anything remotely like they way I thought you felt about me. To you, I was just some disposable thing, some plaything you found and took in for your entertainment alone, someone you could wring the lifeforce from to the last drop and coldy chuck away the moment they became a dessicated rag, lifeless and useless, a thing not to be loved or had or even thought of in the least.

"It was so evident, as you merely brought about my replacement the very moment you saw me falter. Everly last bit like any of the others around me when you picked me from them, every last bit like myself, really, bright eyed and eager and deliciously scared and expectant of his new surroundings, of being about to find a drive and a purpose and a raison d'être. I can only be sorry for the poor bastard - though no more than I feel for myself.

"And what of myself? You stripped me of my rank, of my seat, and, as you casually gave them to my readily begotten replacement, I realised these things meant nothing to you - yet I had tricked myself into believing them something else, something bright and beautiful, indeed, something to be proud of, just like the one before me - and the one after me, no doubt - had done and will do, respectively. And now, in exchange for however long I unwaveringly gave you my service and my very being, you discard me, dispose of me like common rubbish. I have to wonder if you ever cared about me at all.

"I know you'll never know this - any of this. You'll never read or even come across my words, and why should you? I am not the sort of thing you'd care for, I know this quite well now. Know only this: I don't resent you. No, not in the least. It was I that was a fool for not having seen things for what they were - and, in retrospect, perhaps I should have. It was all quite evident, wasn't is? I wished only you could hear me, my true voice, if I ever had one, if only once. I wished you'd hear my all too silent cry.

"I thought you loved me..."

-- A mayonaise bottle.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark wonders what makes a good gift for an immaterial, everlasting, omnipresent, seemingly random, yet oh-so-deterministic driving force. Do you suppose Fate cares for flowers?

Following the deceased

2010-03-08T16:36:00.000-08:00

I can imagine your shock to see how a blog which hasn't seen activity for nigh on five months suddenly gets a jolt of posting. Imagine now my shock as I found out that a very much dead blog has three followers (and two comments in a language I can't even begin to read). So here's looking at brightening up the day of my three followers (and then, how about we start a cult?)

This is a bit of a variation on a recipe by Mrs. Nigella Lawson, whom I not only admire as a cook, but also to whom I'm more than slightly attracted, even though she's only young enough to be my mother.

Ferrero Rocher and Mon Cherie might make themselves unavailable in the summertime, allegedly due to the warm weather (like I haven't heard that before...), but ice cream will give you no such cop outs, regardless of the weather. So brighten up these last few chilli pre-equinox nights (or wait until those first chilly spring nights, really) with some lively citrusy frosty delight... E!

Please excuse me while I blow my nose; bit of a cold, here, sorry.

Alright, so, you'll need the following:

     - 1 orange;
     - 2 limes;
     - 600mL of heavy cream;
     - 4 tablespoons of sugar-free sweetener (give or take...);
     - 1 cup of cat (every recipe calls for it!).

This recipe has two distinct components: the medium component, which is the cream; and the flavouring component, which is just about everything else (except for the cat). Start by combining the zest of the orange and of one of the limes with the sweetener and the juice of the orange and both limes. If you're doing this away from the judgemental eyes of other humans, don't deprive yourself of a whiff of that lovely lime scent, even covening your nose with the dried husk of half a juiced lime like a bizzarro clown, if you'd like. Your cat, however, might not be quite as fond of that particular scent and recoil from it if you let it smell the limes, which only means more to you, really. I find that juicing a zested orange is not as easy as juicing one with it's peel intact, but I can't imagine zesting a floppy hollow skin to be any easier (quite the contrary), but gladly I'll take your input and other opinions. Limes, however, seem to have no such issues (juicing them after they've been zested, I mean). Also, remember that rolling your citruses on a flat, hard surface with the palm of your hand before halving them helps get all the juice out. Stir for a while so the sweetener dissolves in the juice.

Now pour your cream into a large container (2L and up, ideally. You've been warned....) and add the flavourful mix. Remember to stir it again so the zest doesn't gather in the bottom of whatever container you've put it in. The sadistic among you will enjoy this next bit: proceed to beat the subject at hand (that's the cream mixture, not the cat). Mind you, as the juice, being both liquid and acidic, will severely lower the viscosity of the cream, you'll need to start at a low speed, and even so you're bound to get quite a bit of splatter on your sink, on your apron, on the cat and on the side of the microwave. Remember to wipe them afterwards (better yet, wait until the eve of a cleaning to do this). Yet another little tip is to tilt your mixer back and hold a lid closely in front of the actual beaters so it can take the brunt of the splatter.

Stop before you have propper citrusy whipped cream, beat it only to soft peaks (no matter how much it begs you for more, Masters and Mistresses). Then pour your mixture into an airtight sealable container, such as a Tupperware (which pays me nothing to advertise it, so go ahead and use something from any other brand with my blessing) and leave it in the freezer for five hours (although we all know this means overnight, for even better results). Take it out some 15 minutes before you serve or leave it in the fridge for 30 to 40 minutes and enjoy.

This is probably when you'll want to lick the beaters. If you find yourself thinking you should spare some for the cat, remember that cats don't have sweet-perceiving taste buds, usually don't like citruses and are generally lactose intolerant, so there's really nothing in those beaters to impress it. Again, more for you.

If this isn't enough and you just can't have it without some chocolate sauce (you glutton), take a (preferably sugar free) dark chocolate bar of your choice. Make sure it's a high cocoa content chocolate, anything under 70% is unnacceptable. You might like 70% cocoa culinary chocolate, but my favourite, hands down, is Lindt Excelence 99% cocoa chocolate (mind you, it'll knock your teeth out with bitterness). Regardless of the actual chocolate you choose, break it in little pieces and combine it with an equal volume of double cream in a pot (do not weigh the chocolate or the cream; only volume matters here) and stir on a low heat until all the cocolate melts and you're left with a smooth, homogeneous mixture. Remeber, as ther's liquid in the pot, you don't need (or want) a bain-marie. You might want to add some more sweetener before you take your pot to the stove, especially if you go for the more bitter chocolate. I wouldn't. Just saying... And remember to let it cool before you pour over the ice cream.

And there you go, a lively tangy fruity icy treat to enjoy with your friends (if they're good).

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to remind you that Claymore isn't the only cook around these parts... but probably still the best one.

Oobleck is a funny word

2009-11-22T05:04:00.000-08:00

As most of you totally serious scientists who regularly come here certainly know, oobleck, which is a saturated solution of cornstarch and water, is a non-newtonian fluid which displays some quite amazing characteristics.

For the totally serious scientist types who regularly come here and do not know what a non-newtonian fluid is (the void is shrinking!), a non-newtonian fluid is one which displays varying degrees of viscosity at any given temperature depending on the force that is being exerted upon it. In this case, you might be able to run on the surface of oobleck, but not walk. This is because, as you run, the force at which your feet strike the surface is usually enough to make it so viscous it will seem nearly solid. In fact, it might not even break up the surface tension, leaving you dry after running across a body of liquid, but, as you walk, the force of your calm, slow steps is much slower, and you might sink. Tragically (oh noes!), as you struggle to break free of the vicious - sorry, viscous - Oobleck (what, is a great name for a monster!), the force of your squirming might make it viscous enough to trap you, just like quicksand is rumored to behave.

On the smaller, lighter scale, you can so dome neat things, such as pouring a little on the cupped palm of your hand. It will feel and slosh about like a liquid (which it is), but the moment you try to roll it up into a little ball like you might do with silly putty or modelling clay, it will take a shape - until you stop rolling it, that is, at which point it will instantly revert to oozing out of your hands like light honey. You can also make it bounce off walls and floors - so long as you don't even consider enlisting my services or even my help to clean up after your science (fluid dynamics is, after all, a branch of physics, and, thus, totally serious science).

Here's a recepy for disaster: mix up a batch of oobleck. If you don't know how, then I'm fining you in one free internet, to be collected at my lesiure, but, out of the kindness of my heart, allow me to explain: pour about half a cup of cornstarch into a bowl and add just a little water. Stir slowly. At first, you'll get nothing but hard clumps, and nothing even remotely similar to a fluid, newtonian or otherwise. Preservere, and resist the tentation to add more water right away, but go on and add small amounts from time to time, stirring all the way as you go. Eventually, you might get a runny liquid you have absolutely no trouble at all stirring. That's when you know you've added too much water. No problem, just keep adding more cornstarch until you have a coveted non-newtonian fluid. You'll know you're there when it feels like you're breaking up clumps of the flour in the bottom of the bowl (as the resulting liquid will me a milky beige, you won't be able to confirm or deny the presence of said clumps by sight) if you stir as you'd usually do, but you'll feel no such resistance if ou stir very slowly. Alternatively, you might want to stir with your fingers. This will give you a much more accurate feeling for clumps or lack thereof, and some might find it more fun, but it's a bit messier. At this point, quickly strike the surface of the liquid. If you're at the right point, it should bend, but not allow the striking object (spoon, whisk, finger) to penetrate as easily as a regular liquid (or, as totally serious scinetist would call it, a newtonian fluid) would. If not, keep adding more cornstarch and stirring.

Now, let's make something a bit more fun: get some balloons and put them inside one another like a Matrioska (which, in case you don't know, is a hollow doll which you can open at the waist to reveal a smaller version of itself which contains yet a smaller version of it self and so on a few times. Even though these are most commonly associated with Russia, I distinctly recall reading somewhere that they are originally Indian, but so popular in Russia that they would be commonly know as typically Russian. I won't swear by this). Now fill the innermost ballon with the oobleck you just made. If you want a small finished product (about the size of an uninflated balloon), just pouring the goo inside with a funnel will do, but that's hardly any fun. Instead, pour as much as you want inside the balloons into an empty bottle. then blow some ait into the innermost balloon and clamp the neck as low as you can with a clothespin or something to that effect. Carefully stretch the unclamped portion of the neck over the neck of the loaded bottle and secure it with your fingers and thumb, just to be on the safe side. Unclamp the balloon, turn the bottle upside down and wait until all of the oobleck has poured into the balloon. As the air will have to bubble through the (slowly) oozing goop, this will take a little while. Then tie off the innermost balloon and cut off the excess rubber above the knot. SO this for all of the other balloons and presto, a dirt cheap stress ball. This fun little thing will feel very soft if you squeeze it slowly and gentrly, but if you squeeze it quickly and hard, you'll feel it harden against your fingers and very slowly brwak under the pressure.

Note: The most lonely of the totally serious science types who regularly come here should note that this is a poor substitute for a woman's berast. Try this instead.

And now, the disaster: Before I perfected the process of making these little stress balls, I had a balloon with over half a pint of oobleck burst over a shag rug. As I finished panicking, I realised I couldn't just hold it over my tub and rinse it off, as this mixture will percipitate if left undisturbed for long, and clog up your pipes. Always dispose of it in plastic, sealed bags. Then I remembered I should just pick up the rug and pour the oobleck into a large bowl to re-use it. That's when I found out about a property of oobleck I didn't know about: if left undisturbed for even a minute, it will gain a nearly solid skin. I found out about this as it wouldn't ooze into the bowl, and when I touched it, it had about the same consistency as cake icing, but it "melted" into its more familiar texture as soon as I broke off the little pieces.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is considering the possibility of brewing up some hand analogues from unflavoures, unsweetened gelatin and latex gloves for casts.

An evil which resides

2009-10-21T05:08:00.000-07:00

On a seemingly unrelated note, "Hot Fuzz" is a delightful British comedy, titles so as to parody film titles that read and sound appealing, yet are somewhat meaningles (e. g., "Die Hard". How hard can one die? How soft can one die, for that matter? Is the hardness of one's death a means to gauge the likeliness of his or her ressurection?).

Resident Evil seems to be one such title. Apparentely, in Japan, where it was originally made, it was known as Biohazzard, which, from what little I gather of the story of the original game, seems to be a more adequate title. After all, what is a "resident evil"? Or, for that matter, how can can (an) evil (not) reside? Or does that mean that this particular evil is confined to its place of residence, and is therefore of no consequence to the rest of the world? Really, why didn't they just call it Biohazzard?

Enough with that. Resident Evil 5 is an action game for multiple platforms that's been out for quite a while, and so it's about time I reviewed it. Now, Yahtzee has already reviewed it, so you may think my review is just about pointless, but he did it so long ago now that you might like a little refresher course.

Fans of the Resident Evil storyline have an opinion about this game. I, however, haven't got the foggiest idea what said opinion would be, seeing as I have never really liked a resident evil game myself. Now there's something to be said in the interest of fairness: what I mean to say is that I didn't like the original Resident Evil and the following two were more of the same, or so I was told, even though I didn't play them myself. Resident Evil 4 I have never played or seen in action, nor have I had the desire to, but the moment I caught a glimpse of "5" I wanted to try it out myself. It might have been the online co-operative campaign mode I've been wishing for for so long and which was only nearly done properly in Red Alert 3 (nearly!). Or it might have been the superb graphics. What definitely wasn't it was the quick time events. So far, I have only seen QTEs done right once, and it was in The Force: Unleashed. One of ther reasons why they were done right was that they were entirely optional, rewarded the player for doing them, punished the player for failing them, but not for not even attempting them, which is dramatically different than "Repeateddly tap the "F" key during a cutscene or it'll start over again and we will lower your score", or, as Yahtzee so eloquentely put it, "Press X not to die". There's one thing they could have done without.

Back to the praise track, then. There is something a little odd about the gunplay in this game, and that is the ready weapon stance. Simply put, a player cannot use any weapon unless they "ready" the weapon first. This sounds standard enough, as one might confuse "ready" with "equip", but the fact of the matter is players cannot move (although they can turn around and aim) whilst "readying" a weapon, meaning no fancy running while shooting, let alone jumping while shooting. This feels odd at first, as I said, but it works like a bit of an equaliser, as it negates the obvious advantages of gun totting experts over clumsy newbies picking up their first Kalashnikov. Unfortunately, it makes the game a bit overly easy, even for clumsy newbies picking up their first Kalashnikov such as myself. The it tries to correct itself by making itself difficult in other aspects, and the illusion of balance versus the reality of the absence thereof eventually ruins their day. One of the difficulty adding aspects is the very small inventory: you're only allowed nine (9) spaces. Some kinds of items stack, whereas others don't, which breaks down the immersion a bit, especially regarding what items stack and how. For example, grenades stack, and you can carry up to five of any one type in a single space. Herbs, however, don't stack, and you can carry oly one per space. Eggs also stack (of course there are eggs in the game! What kind of shooter hasn't got eggs in it?), also five per space, which brings the question that an egg either has the same volume or the same mass or the same bounding box than a grenade, which is borderline believable, especially if you've never held or seen a grenade (or an egg, I suppose), but then the same could be said of proximity land mines, and that concept is utterly bonkers. You have none little (or no so little) pockets in your vest, each large enough to fit five landmines (or one RPG-7 rocket launcher. Which is just as large, just as heavy and has the same general shape as five mines. Or a handgun. It all makes sense), but not two herbs. Also, each of those pockets can hold 150 rounds for you AK-74, but only 12 for your magnum revovler. OK, sure, the magnum is a very high calibre, but no way each round is over ten times as large as that of an AK-74.

Now I'd like to take the time to bring to your attention how the Molle system works. The Molle system, adopted by just about all major ballistic armour vests manufacturers, consists of a series of paralell strips of nylon cloth apart from each other by their own width. The purpose of this pattern is that if the same pattern is present on the surface of, say, a pouch, then, with as little as a perpendicular strip of either cloth or some other stifer, sturdier material, said pouch can be attatched to your body armour, meaning that you can carry more stuff when you're wearing your bulletproof vest than otherwise. Unless you're playing Resindet Evil 5, where there are two kinds of body armour, which you can use simultaneously, but each one takes up a whole space in your inventory.

Then there's the rpoblem of ammunition. Some weapons (I should say some weapon classes) are more efficient, ammunition-wide, than others. This means thatfive well placed rounds from your shotgun can fo a whole lot more damage than twice as many from your machine gun, which is why you can carry so much more machine gun ammo than shotgun shells, but it doesn't really matter, as the game is, in the beginning, surprisingly frugal with ammunition, hanging you out to dry shooting blanks in hopes of scaring off the enemy more times than you'd like. One contributing factor is that the game gives you ammunition types in complete disregard (I should say, in utter contempt) for what weapons you are carrying at the time, meaning that if you decide to carry only one or two guns, most of the ammo you pick up can't be used. Of course you could stock up on it until you get a chance to change weapons, but until then, not only are you wasting your precious inventory slots but also you still don't have ammo for the guns you do have with you. Later in the game that becomes less of a problem, but, by then, one is usually used to carry two or three different guns, which meas at least four to six inventory slots taken by the very simple funtion of shooting the baddies and very little space for utility items, such as healing items, grenades or eggs. For the second and following playthroughs, the game allows you to bless any weapon with unlimited ammo (which you don't have to carry), which does solve the frugality problem, at the cost of not only rather simplifying the game but also making most items found lying around or dropped by slain enemies utterly useless.

It has been said that a great many shooter games made nowadays have RPG elements built into them on e way or another, and RE5 is no exception, only it does so discreetely, allowing you to upgrade your weapons. Care should be taken to mention that said upgrades are made to a gun's exemplar, not a class of guns or even a model of guns, meaning that any upgrades you make to yuor AK-74 stay with that AK-74, but won't reflect on any other AK-74 or any other machine gun, for that matter. These upgrades are paramount to allowing said weapon to discard it's eed for ammo, and they do raise a rather curious issue: the very first handgun you're given, at the begiining of the game, has a magazine capacity of 10 rounds. After you fully upgrade it, it doesn't really matter what capacity it has, as you can then have it old infinity plus one rounds and never have to reload again, but if you don't, it holds 100 rounds. Bear in mind that outside of your gun, each space in your inventory can only hold 50 handgun rounds. Do the figures seem off to you?

One major hoof of this game, as something that has scarcely ever been done in games, cinema or even television, is pairing the muscle bound war veteran action hero (which is, as usual, Chris Redfield) with an attractive, yet stron willed and able bodied female sidekick, who is just as capable as the hero (admit it, you smelled the sacrasm coming); enter Sheva Alomar. Some praise is in order: The character is, indeed, very attractive, just as capable as the "hero man" in every way and gifted with just as many (or should I say as few) inventory slots (but didn't Jill Valentine use to have two extra inventory spaces in the first Resident Evil? Something to do with bulky pouches she wore on her chest...). Sheva is able to wield the same weapons as effectively as Chris, except fo the character exclusive weapons, to which she has a counterpart. Sheva is an integral part of the gameplay, not only because she is there to be taken over by another player in friendly co-op play, but also becase you'll be using her as a pack mule for all the items you only might need when you're playing offline. On the side of fairness, SHeva becomes available to be played as once you play through the game once, allowing you to use Chris as a pack mule. Some dissimilarities exist, namely some sections require Chris to give Sheva a leg up to accomplish otherwise unthikable leaps, effectively baring the "hero man" from some areas of the game, but other than that, equalitarism had it's way with both characters to such great extent that they feel interchangable, if not for the fact that they appeal to different audiences on different levels (for the most part) and that the camera angle is abive Chris's right shoulder, as opposed to Sheva's left shoulder. In the end, it becomes a matter of where you like your camera, as neither character has any advantage of any sort over the other in any way. PC, but boring.

Another element common to RPGs and Shooters alike is the concept of enemy drops. For as long as there have been Shooters there has been the notion of scavenging weapons and ammunitions from your defeated foes and emply them as your own. Except, for the most part, these foes are african peasents armed with either spears, machettes or nothing at all, which doesn't sit very well on the barrel of your guns, meaning the odd ammunition drop from the tribal warrior feels a bit strange, but the random bits of gold they drop every now and again fit the theme well enough. Although that doesn't explain why some enemies drop large heart-shaped gems when they are vanquished.

The story probably makes a lot more sense to the die-hard fans of the series, and I will neither spoil it nor force it on you by trying to recount it or summarise it, but it's there and it's enjoyable enough, especially the way it is told by documents you might pick up and read throughout the many levels (or not, if that's not your cup of tea, there's nothing to be lost by skipping them).

There's a bit of a collectionistic/completionistic aspect of this game, as there is treasure to be found in the form of gems and artefacts, which can be sold to upgrade your weapons or buy new ones.

On the whole, I like this game, I like it enough to play through it more than once in the same day (it is a bit short, i suppose. It can comfortably be finished in under seven hours, and there is a reward for players who finish it in less than five), especially as it is interesting how even with overpowered, inexhautible weapons, some enemies don't seem to lose their challenge, but the ones that do provide a bit of mindless fun, being helplessly shot at without even as much of a hint of a prayer. A negative note should be issued for a rather out of place puzzle sequence, which I felt didn't really go with the overall feel of the game, and, paradoxically, a positive note should be issued for the way many boss fights combine mindless shooter-style action with a bit of puzzle play. In the end. I award it eight out of a possible ten thumbs up (I'm all thumbs, me).

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is available for online co-op play of this Capcom title. Drop me a line if you're interested.

Spare some butter?

2009-10-06T17:50:00.000-07:00

A funny thing happened today. I had gotten a 7 oz. bar of sugar free cooking chocolate, which my mother occasionally eats (even though I find it a bit bitter, but still...), and it came with a recepie for chocolate mousse on the wrapper. Now, ever since (well, not ever, but thereabouts) I started doing my Atkins, I have been improvising chocolate mousse recepies, with only whipped cream, nolten 99% cocoa chocolate (painfully bitter stuff, let me tell you) and sugar free sweetener. This time, I set myself up to do an actual mousse. You know, with eggs and all.

Now I could bore you with how I dropped the ball with the egg whites and ended up beating them almost one at a time and piling them on a soup plate (which only worked so well... but still, pretty well) or how I deftly managed to separate the whites from the yolks (bachelor stereotypes... yes, we can cook), but the funny thing is even though I had gone to the market with the specific intent to get the ingredients, I still managed to forget the butter. I couldn't be bothered to go back, so I remebered I could just mooch off my new next door neighbour. And so I did.

I rang on her bell even as I heard her clean up after her late supper and heard the little metal cover on the peep hole slide as she peeked out. I wonder how good those are, as they are placed even below my chin. Eventually, she asks "Who's there?", and I answer, as kindly as I can make myself sound, "I'm your next door neighbour". Picture my amazement when she says "Look, I don't know you, so I'm not going to open the door". Well, alright, it's her perrogative, and she was just being cautious, I won't hold it against her. She even asked, just after a short beat, while I pondered exactly what to say next, "What would you like?". As I apologised for bothering her at such a late hour (nearly half past ten) and asked if I could have just a spoonful of butter as politely as I could word it, she excused herself, saying she didn't have any. Fair enough. After all, I didn't have any myself.

The surreality come asbit further ahead. Having been turned down, I thought I'd ask the neighbours from across the hallway for the needed butter. I don't really know them any better, but I hadspoken to them before, and knew them to be kind people. Again, she looked out the peephole (another funny tidbit. The first time I knocked on their door, it was in the daytime and she didn't look out the peephole. Just as she saw me, she nearly jumped back with fright. I have that effect on the ladies. I wished I could turn it off...), recognised me and opened the door... slightly. Again, I apologised and asked for the butter just as politely as before, and she was kind enough to oblige. While she went to the kitchen to fetch the stick of butter, the other neighbour, having probably stood by the door to listen out for me laving or lingering by, opened the door to see if I was true to my words or if I had managed to snag an unsuspecting victim after all (of course, I'm speculating a bit here). Looking at me from behind, with a cup in my hand and waiting for the other neighbour to return from her kitchen, she realised she had nothing to fear from me (yet...) and proceeded to apologise for her overzealousness and explained that, through the peephole, I appeared fuzzy and looked like an elderly man. At any rate, she really was out of butter, she said. She further explained that, having never seen an elderly man on this floor, she was afraid to open the door.

OK, let's just check out facts for a minute. First of all, I'm not even anywhere near my thirties, yet I looked to her like an elderly man!? Am I aging that fast? Sure, my hair is thinning on top and my spine isn't what it used to be (what with the hernias and all), but come on! She can't have even noticed that (literally. She's not tall enough to have seen the top of my head and unless she's related to Kal-El, she couldn't have seen my spine). Another thing is, there's not that many people living on this floor. There's me, her, the couple across the hallway and a vacant apartment. She had never seen me before, but I expect she would have seen the neighbour across the hallway (the man, I mean). Would this mean that any seemingly young adult, in spite of his evetual murderous or otherwise nefarious intent could have sold her my (truthful, in my case) tale, but me, because I don't seem to look my age, arise hers suspicion... Oh, well, I had been having a pretty boring day.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has lost as much weight as he had set himself to at first, but I now realise that I had been compromising and that I might actually make it to my ideal weight. I'm at a bit of a crossroad in my lief right now...

Eighteen Years Ago

2009-09-17T15:53:00.000-07:00

Eighteen years ago today, in the early morning, I wrote, with very very trembly hands, in inordinately large letters, in cursive script (perhaps for the first time), on the large top line of an A5 sheet of paper, the date: September 17th 1991. And thus began my very first day in school.

Today, my education is a minor no more. It may now legally enjoy alcohol, cigarettes and sex. It may also stand trial as an adult (and I'd like it judged for a few shorcomings, too).

Eighteen years is a quite a while. I really should consider a career change.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark remembers a mixture of joy and anxiety from his first day of school. Also the buckle on my backpack was very hard to unclasp for my infant fingers. It has been a long time indeed.

Assumption

2009-09-06T10:12:00.000-07:00

I don't want to talk about Fate anymore. Let her rot in some corner - far away from me. But no so far that it'll disturb the Aussies or the Kiwis, I've no beef with them. Send her to, oh say, France? Onwards...

Assumption, unlike Fate, who goes as a harsh mistress, is more of a deceitful little minx, one I just can't stay mad at. More often she's naughtier than she's nice, the little rascal, but she's an alright gal.

Today she might have done me quite a favour. Thank you, Assumption, dearest. Kick your colleague fate in the chin when you see her for me, if you will, and don't be a stranger.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is well aware that Fate isn't done taunting him, but, at this stage, it's manageable enough.

Well, now...

2009-09-02T18:04:00.000-07:00

Just when I thought I was finally getting on with my old whole self, our good ~~friend~~ fiend Fate throws yet another spanner in my gears.

Come on, can't I just have one year for myself without you stepping onto my already rather frail balance and mucking it all up? One measly year? Is it too much to ask, Fate?

And don't expect to be excused by that flimsy attempt at would-be Greek tragedy style you're flaunting right about now. You suck at it.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is rather outraged at how Fate would corrupt and pervert a very much selfless act of his to wound him yet again. So this is what I get for being nice!? Naughty time draws ever closer, then.

Game on

2009-08-15T19:34:00.000-07:00

We've come a long way since pannum et circences, you might say, but I beg to differ. Sure, pannum is no more bread or even brioche than ready made, mass produced, streamline packed, subliminally advertised junk of all sorts and circences is a far cry from slaves or convicts slain in an arena for fun, mostly because the arena is digital now, as are the gladiators and their likes. Nonetheless, it would seem that the pursuit for enlightment, knowledge and cold hard scientific fact has become rather unfashionable in the face of the most basic needs of simple nourishment and enterntainment.

Nothing wrong with that, really. Or perhaps we need a modern day Nero to burn this global Rome to the ground. I know I shouldn't be so lucky to turn to a pillar of salt.

So, gaming, then. Gaming, it appears, has become a major vertent of entertainment, today. Long gone are the days when an Atari 2600 was a kids toy and video games were merely novelties for the very young. It has becomme acceptable for adults to enjoy video games, and why not, when you think about the way games and their themes have grown to encompass just about all other aspects of entertainment.

I started gaming in the very early 90's, as a consequence of the dissemination of home gaming systems (I had a Sega Mega Drive for my birthday! Oh joy!), as opposed to the iconic arcades of the late 80's. Therefore, I have only a mild recollection of passing by arcades and wishing madly to go in and try out that dazzlingly wonderful world of flashing lights and beeping sounds that seemed so much fun from the outside, but, alas, no persons under 16 were ever admitted, and by the time I was 16 (and I had three home consoles under my belt), arcades were no more. Also, personal computers had grown to the point where they were afordable enough that just about every household had one sufficientely powerful to run games most arcade machines dared only dream of. And now, the market is veritably flooded with games and gaming systems, and I thought we'd take a look at the wide picture.

First of all, I'd like to make a remark on the evolution of games. My long gone Mega Drive (known as Genesis, across the pond) came with two standard gaming controllers. each had one (1) 8-way directional button and a grand total of three (3) buttons, plaus the start button, which was usually assigned to pausing the game, and, if it wasn't, odds were there was no option to pause the game (Hello, Mortal Kombat, who had the start button used to block, as punch, mid kick and high kick took up all of the other buttons, how do you do these days? How's the arthritis treating you?). Now, my X-Box 360 came with one standard controller with one 8-way directional button, two analogue thumbsticks, four action buttons, two shoulder (or bumper) buttons, two triggers, start feature button, back feature button and the iconic X-Box Dashboard button. You'd think that with this greatly enchanced range of controls (even more so when you think of combinations), games could offer a much wider range of complexity, but I just don't see that happening.In fact, it seems to me that game mechanics have become simpler than ever, but not "streamlines" simpler, rather "dumbed down" simpler. See, one game I used to love to bits was Jane's Fighters Anthology. Long before computer games came in ultra thin DVD cases (as some of you might remember, if Alzheimer's allows you to), they used to come in these shoeboxes you could fit nearly anything into. That was enough for a jewel case for the game disc, plenty of promotional material and a propper instruction manual, and Fighter's Anthology had a big one. Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw once complained that "The Witcher" came with an instruction manual "you could bludgeon goats to death with". Well, that's his opinion, I din't think it was all that large, but maybe that was because I had read all of Fighter Anthology instruction manual, and that wasn't stapled together, it was properly bound, like a book. It had a good half-inch thick spine, and it wasn't merely "press Ctrl to fire" (obviously), it was a comprehensive manual of flight physics, tactical maneouvers, dogfight strategies, flight patterns, weapons selection and stuff I can't even begin to remember (that was almost fifteen years ago, you know). Some of you, Yahtzee among them, I suppose, might shudder at the thought of a game needing a manual the size of a small Thesaurus, but bear two things in mind: first, you didn't need to memorize the whole thing, not by a long shot, to be able to play the game; and second, all the added content contributed immensely to the enjoiment of the game. All I'm trying to say is I miss chunky manuals. Refering players t online tutorials all the time seems to be today's trend, but I still like the thought of being put in command of my character or whatever my role is and to be expected to know the controls, rather than being condescendingly taught to press X not to die.

Another thing I'd like to talk about is the inordinate quantity of systems available for today's gamer. Step into any games store and you'll find a dozen sections. Often enough, this means developers have to make each game available to each system. Most any game you can buy today has a version for PC, X-Box 360, Wii (a silly name for a silly console, wouldn't you say?), Nintendo DS, Playstation 2 (it's still kicking, the old girl!), Playstation Portable (another odd concept, if you ask me, but I'll let it slide in face of it's performance) and Playstation 3. I suppose you can plainly understand the pressure on game makers not to ostracize any gamers and try to cover all their bases, but how do you think it reflects on the quality of games? This isn't to say that the quality of a game is inversely proportional to the number of platforms it can run on, but wouldn't you say that a game that is developped for a particular platform has the potential to be much better than another game which was made bearing in mind that each aspect has to be compatible with each of the platforms it's goimg to be run on? Frankly, I think that diminuishes a gamer's experience. If I had my way, everybody would realise that with tons of games comming out each year, genres would be sufficientely distributed across the plethora of platforms that if each game was developped for a single system, it really wouldn't be that much of a deal. or maybe we could go the other way around and decide that each console was best suited for a particular genre, and gamers would buy a console based on their preference of genre rather than agonize over specs, politics and predictions of what might come to pass in the gaming panorama. Wouldn't it be great if there was a console best suited for mindless FPS types, another for single minded racing game types and so on? It would certainly simplify things a lot. Or maybe we should all plainly discard the thought of consoles and focus on developping games for the PC.

On the subject of hurting the games industry, hello, there, Electronic Arts. Hopefully, you've realised by now how moronic ypu concept of renting games was when you created that presposterous arrangement for Spore. I can only hope the expansion pack doesn't excpand on that idea, even though I'm only scarcely considering it. But you thoughts on The Sims 3 are worthy of punishment by St. Catherine's wheel, followed by decapitation with a rusty spoon. Ostracising players who try to improve their own gaming experinece as well as others' by adding custom modified objects is not OK. Not even in the planes of Oblivion (now that was a great game. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but the potential was all there). Now I'm told that Command and Conquer 4 will have an online based player progression, and after I read up on it for a few minutes, I don't think that's a bad thing, but I can't help but wonder the way's You'll find to muck it all up.

On a lighter note, olly olly oxen free, Starcraft 2.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is not a hardcore gamer, but, surprisingly, neither are most game developers, I hear.

Out for drinks

2009-08-09T15:56:00.000-07:00

Most of you might know I'm not a heavy drinker. I'll have the odd beer with the mates at gatherings or even go out for drinks on special occasions, but generally I don't drink, and when I do, I pace myself.

WHich is a good thing, because
It would take 34 bottles of Guinness Guinness Draught to kill me

Created by Bar Stools

I don't like Guiness all that much...

Feel free to try this at home. Taking the test, that is, not chugging down 34 bottles of Guiness. If you do (the latter), however, can I have your earthly possessions afterwards?

Pax (et vino) vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has tried to have some Jagermeister for his last few outings for drinks, but with no success. How hard is this drink to come by, really?

Vacationing soon?

2009-07-27T09:23:00.000-07:00

I have never made any effort to conceal my fondness for London either as a vacationing spot or a place to live. However, I might be going to Okinawa sometime soon instead, after seeing this...

I just have to see what in blazes they mean by this sign.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark dares to brave the flu scare and will be going to London for one (1) weekend in late August. Single attractive females of age between 18 and 40 are welcome to apply as travel companions.

Ciao

2009-07-17T21:35:00.000-07:00

"Ciao!", she said.

And though I was the one who left, I was left wondering:

"What the bloody hell did she mean by that!?"

Cyphers I can deal with. Subtlety, on the other hand, is like a foreign language of which I know only a few words. Kind of like German...

Pax vobiscum aque vale.

ArabianShark would like to to notice that last post (not this post, last post) was this blog's 169th post. That's thirteen squared. Very bad luck if you're superstitious, very good luck if you're a fan of the very lovely Olivia Wilde. Draw your own conclusions.

Incompetence spreads...

2009-07-15T09:35:00.001-07:00

I used to think this wretched excuse for a country was the only massively incompetent country nearby. Well...

In the 28th of June I ordered a pair of boots from a Spanish website. I had had dealings with that website before and thought it was good enough. Back then, when I had ordered a pair of sunglasses, I had paid with credit card the moment I placed my order. A few days later I received an e-mail from them saying that as soon as I made a money order transfer to some account they indicated, they would proceed with shipping. I made my best to send an e-mail in Spanish (which I never do) calling their attention to the fact that I had already paid. They made their excuses and said that their boss was on vacation and only he had the credit card numbers, so if I could re-send just the credit card number, they'd proceed to send my order. So I did, and they sent me the sunglasses and I thought it had been just a minor hiccup and never thought much about it.

Back to my new boots. On the same day as I placed my order, they sent me a confirmation e-mail, and I thought everything was running smoothly. On the 6th of July, a whole week after I had placed my order, I had heard nary a peep from them, so I went to their site to see if there was a problem. Now, most commercial sites keep a log of their clients' orders, and even an option to track yet undelivered packages, but my latest order wasn't even listed on my account information. I sent an e-mail asking about this. They were quite quick to answer that the order wouldn-t be listed until it was processed. So, I wonder, what the bloody hell had they been doing for the previous week, faffing about with bulls? THey did, however, promise to give me a delivery date the next day. Which they never did.

Fast forward another week and I sent them another e-mail, complaining a bit more. They said nothing about that, but they called me the next day, saying they had lost my order, and asked me, on the phone, to place my order - again. By this time my patience had run out, and I tired of trying to make my point across in Spanish, so I adressed them in my own mother tongue and let them work for a sale, for a change.

Today I received an e-mail stating that they could not satisfy my order. Mind you, this was not an apolgetic e-mail, more of an informative e-mail, as though they were telling me when my order would be delivered (which, in fact, they were - never). And for this they took more than a whole fortnight. What the hell!? They also said I should contact my local distributor for that particular brand. Well, don't you bloody think I tried that even before I went to you, you paella shovelling castanette heads!?

In a way, I'm glad to see mine isn't the only masively incompetent country. In another, it seems competence isn-t just as within reach as I thought. I really need to get out of here.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark fails to see why the Brits have such a warm spot in their hearts for Spain, as there-s hardly anything there they wouldn't find in their former colonies - the ones worthwhile, that is.

First exemplar

2009-07-08T19:05:00.001-07:00

For once, Yahtzee disappointed me. His review of Prototype said nearly bugger all about the game, and while it was entertaining enough, as are all of his reviews, I feel he put way too much emphasis on comparing it to inFamous to give any sort of idea of what the game was all about. This must be addressed...

Imagine that GTA IV, Assassin's Creed and Mirror's Edge had a threesome (OK, now I gave myself the image of Altair and Niko Belic going at it with Faith at the same time. Hot, a bit, perhaps, but hilarious, a lot, definitely. The joke potential is out there and there's a pecan nut cookie with the name of who can make the best joke out of this situation on it) from which a beautiful child was born, and then that child got stuck on one nasty acid trip.

So storywise Alan Mercer (that's you, the player) woke up at his own autopsy, and rather than reassure the coroners who hadn't started to cut into him, decided to murder them brutally with appendages that he wasn't supposed to have, as much to his surprise as to ours (if we had no previous knowledge of what the game was all about, that is). So he sees what he did, and someone shoots him for it (fair enough, I'd say), except that doesn't kill him and he resumes his fledgeling rampage. This does alright to set the tone for the game: Everyone hates you, kill everyone.

Well, that's a bit simplistic, really. There's the harmless, innocent civillians, who can do absolutely nothing to hurt you and exist only to kill for a disguise, kill for a tidbit of the story, kill for extra health or kill for the heck of it. There's no penalty for killing civilians, and no law enforcement, at least not the way you'd expect from GTA, where you can't accidentally shoot someone's head off without a whole police station worth of police forces chasing after you. In this game, killing everyone is alright provided you don't let the militray see you do it. Come thi think of it, the Marines (because that's the branch of the military they're going to pick on in this game) are really only concerned about your superpowers, so I suppose they'd be cool with you picking up one of their spare M-16 and going postal on the rest of the populace. I'll ahve to try that.

Onto gameplay then. As I said, the game plays much like GTA, except that instead of driving about, you parkour around. Parkour, in spite of being the definition given of Alan's free running on the manual, isn't really what he does, as I am yet to met any traceur who can leap like Alan, although that's probably a techinicality, run up a vertical wall for as long as there's a wall to run along, although that's probably because most traceurs aren't strong enough to dig their feet into brick walls with each step like Alan, or, for some reason not entirely given neither in game nor in the manual, glide, although that's probably because traceurs are real people without fictional mutant afflictions. Much like GTA, you run around Manhattan (they recreated Manhattan for the game, and quite well, I thought) looking for the lazy bum who sits about and tells you what you need to do. See, this is why I liked Scarface (the game, not the movie, although the movie is good too, just not called upon for this matter). In Scarface, you alone knew what to do next, you didn't need some NPC to tell you what to do next. I mean, you're given control of a character, the character is supposed to somehow embody you in the game. What does your character say about you if he/she can't think for themselves as far as deciding what the next story mission is going to be? So anyway, you run errands like a good little boy with some wierd mutation that allows you to perform awesome feats of strength and agility and twist your body into weapons of bludgeoning, slicing, ripping and whipping (for the S&M crowd, I suppose) and in between there are sidemissions that pop up and sit there until you can be bothered to do them (or don't that's alright). Sometimes (and I mean "in some games") these missions are fun and rewarding and look like they have a purpose and a place in the setting of the game (again, Scarface had you do drug runs, protecting your empire and shylocking, all well within Tony Montana's character and trade). Prototype has you seeing how many zombies (they're not called zombies, but ever since Fallout 3 started calling its zombis "Ghouls" I decided every sort of Zombie should be properly called zombie instead of whatever their creator called it, and if you're not happy, I demand that you refer to my opinions, as I have created them, as "Commandments". So there) or Mrines you can kill in a specific way within a time limit. There remind me of GTA II and III's Kill Frenzies, and are alright enough. Then there's the War Missions, where you join either the Zombies or the Marines and kill the other faction before everyone else in yoour faction snuffs it, and this seems aright as well, although a bit strange, as neither faction actually likes you or goes one iota out of their way to stop themselves from killing you as soon as they kno eho you are. And then there's the races. Why, oh why races? Yahtzee said this, and the races have absolutely no place in this game. Really, if you were to find yourself hunted by Marines and Zombies, with no memory whatsoever of anything and suffering from some disease that gave you superpowers as well as driving you insane with the memories of those you killed, would you set up races or yourself against the clock around some rooftops? I wouldn't either. And Gliding? Those are fun, but I feel they have no place either. I suppose that's where this game should not have taken so much after Mom (that's Faith, from Mirros's Edge, if you couldn't figure it out for yourself).

Combat is where this game realy shines. There's something for everybody: Hack and slash fun makes up most fo the combat, with fluid attacks from your claws/blades/hammers/whips/fists (yes, you can just duke it out in a regular fist fight with super strength, but half the fun goes away, if you do), but there's a rather bland shooter component with auto aim (at least for the 360 version) and only one weapon at a time which you discard as soon as you run out of ammo (again, Faith's colours shining through) and, of course, you can get your hands (if you can find them) on a military vehicle and blast about in it. As this isn't GTA, there's only a handful of things to drive: so far I've found an APC, with homing missiles and a heavy machinegun, a Tank, with a main turret and a machine gun, a transport helicopter, with rockets and a machine gun and a redition of the AH-64 Apache anti-tank helicopter, with tracking all-purpose missiles, rockets and, surprise, a machine gun (go figure). It should be said that usually fliying in these games is a nightmare, as the controls aren't made for flight simulation, and this is hardly any exception, although nowere as nightmarish as, say, Operation Flashpoint, in the late 90's, and even less of a nightmare than in GTA IV. However, once you get down and dirty with melee, combos are a bit dodgy, and the whole thing is button mashingly repetitive and bland, at times, nothing like, say, Samurai Warriors and it's like. Still, there's a wide enough array of things to do with your enhanced mutant flesh in combat, but most of them are a bit ungainly to be done often.

Character progression is always nice, and here, it's a bit of a hybrid. Some evolutions you get as part of the story, and others you buy with experience (which Prototpe calls EP, but as Microsoft hasn't tried to copyright the abreviation XP, I suppose it might as well have used it like everyone else). Yhis is the only reason to do most of the side quests, except those which have you breach a military base and eat up personnel with skills, which you acquire and cannot be had any other way. But even this isn't such a good reason to do the side quests. More on this in a while.

Innovation for this game comes in the Consume gimmick. For any reason, at any time, you can consume people. If you do, they vanish in a brutally violent cloud of groy brutality, your health gets replenished a bit and you can take on the form of whoever you just ate (so you are what you eat, in this game). This is useful to shake off pursuers when you behave badly in front of the Marines, but is also useful to infiltrate their bases, as they don't usually bother you at all for as long as you don't do superpowers, don't kill them and look like one of them, which allows you to do all the things you shouldn't while they're not watching under their own noses. At some foint, it also enables you to point at any Marine and yell "It's him", and the other Marines around (including automated turrets) will shoot the Marine you pointed at for you. You may then ask them who wrote "gullible" on the ceiling, and they'll all look up, even if they're outdoors. Well, you can't, but if there was an action for asking them who wrote "gullible" on the ceiling, they would look up.

Workarounds come in the form of exploiting the Hives (not, not the disease). You see, for some reason, every now and then, the zombies infest a building, and make it a zombie churning hive. Destrying the building, provides XP like crazy for doing hardly anything, really. Just wlak into a base, wreak some havok and the Marines, instead of just fending for themselves, then calling reinforcements, then upgrading reingorcements and so on, immediately call in the helicopters. An then, your day is made. If running about isn't your thing, save your XP until you can get the jump upgrades, the Whipfist power and the one that allows you to grab from a distaance. Now go into a Military base, bitchslap the Commander (or any other Marine) and wait for the helicopters. Then jump up, latch on to a helicopter, "skyjack" it (skyjacket is not a garment worn by pilots) and dispose of the other helicopters. Now unload your rockets into the Hives and let the XP roll. When you run out of ammo, take the helicopter back towards some Marines and hassle them until more helicopters come (i. e., in a heartbeat). Knowing this takes some of the fun out of the game, but the storyline compels me such... Oh, wait, no it doesn't.

Finally, the real nasty dealings. First, there's the useless collectionism. Spread around the city there are phantom fire looking things that are either hints or landmark collectibles. Hints are usually about as useful as "Press the jump button tpo jump", and landmark collectibles do bugger all, in game. Bad to the bone, if you ask me. Then, storywise - ok, hold on. The story is a convoluted mess of starting out knowing nothing and finding out that nowing nothing is probably the way to go. There are some fellows walking around that know stuff, and consuming them lets you know what parto of the storyline they know, and if you can be bothered to stop playing, then go into an unnavigateable menu to see who knew whom (remember the names won't have a face to put it to - because you ate it) and what did they know of the story, then you might be able to learn what the hell is going on in this strange, diesase ridden Manhattan - but, really, why should you care? This is probably where this acid junkie should have taken after one of the dads (Assassin's Creed had a neat story), which leads me to believe Altair was probably the only one - no, I won't do this. I suppose the story might be alright, but the game is enjoyable enough without it, and I don't see how it's going to make it any better, especially because the memories I've been getting are usually much too biased to be storytelling, or only barely relevant (or so it seems, but I haven't really been playng attention). Then, storywise, there came a moment, after a Boss fight where I lost all my powers. What the hell was that all about? So now, for a few story missions, I can't do most of the stuff that makes the game fun? And how would the game explain that I had lost all battle worth powers, but not the ability to absorb people, disguise, run up walls and glide? Major fault, Prototype...

In conclusion, however, this is pretty good. It's not revolutionary in any way, and seems to pick up on many other titles and fames (there's a persistent, undrlying Spider Man thme to the whole thing - young adult in New York jumping from rooftop to rooftop in disguise with figures of authority after him, they could have made a good Carnage game instead), but is well entertaining. So give it a whirl.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has his last final ever in a few hours.

American Soil

2009-07-07T15:30:00.000-07:00

Two very bad topics to discuss on a first date are politics and religion, and you can take it to the bank (although finance is hardly substacne for a romantic conversation). But this isn't our first date, is it, dear readers?

Movies: now that might be a rather better topic for a fist dte chat. From circa 1944 up until the mid, maybe late 90's, whenever a beligerant threat was needed, you could depend on nuclear ordinance as a plot device. It worked for Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, The Hunt for Red October, Dr. No and, more recently, The Sum of All Fears (where it was proved that Ben Afleck's suck may outweight Morgan Freeman's awesome - sorry, Mr. Freeman, you're still awesome anyway) and The World is Not Enough - and Bond doesn't usually dabble in something as unimaginative as nuclear weapons. Lately, however, it seems there's a bit of a shift in the current of thought towards either biological weapons (vide The Tuxedo and so many others) or terrorism, especially with heavy civillian casualties (vide Collateral, Fight Club, Iron Man, for example) or both (vide 24 and loads more).

Now me, being bit stuck in the past (I tell you, this Internet thing seems like news to me every single day), would like to focus a bit back on the nuclear weapons. Have you ever noticed there is a very small nuber of countries where a nuclear warhead was ever detonated intentionally by another and an even smaller number (x is defined as even smaller then y if x %le y) number of countries who have actively used nuclear weapons on other countries. It should come as no surprise that, among all the countires that currrently count nuclear warheads in their armouries, one of them has more than any other. I wonder if it's a surprise that said country has never been the victim of a nuclear attack or, even had nuclear weapons detonated on its soil (Hawaii hardly counts as American Soil. I mean, they even had specially pritned currency after WWII that would have no monetary value in case Japan tried to reminesce about Pearl Harbour and take Hawaii). Enter the SADM.

By now you may be asking, Shark, you cynical bastard, you, what on Earth is a SADM? Well, this is a SADM. For thise of you whose stubby little fingers are much too good to waste on a click to an external link wich could save me the trouble of typing this long drawn rant that far outweights the actual definition of a SADM, but oh, no, you had to save your precious fingers for your APM or your CS:S or COD or wahtever FPS and TLA you can think of, it's a small, portable nuke, conceived by your friendly neighbourhood Americans in the 1960's to use against the Soviets, should they try to invade Europe. Yes, there's a thought, let's blow the hell out of somewhere we have no business in and irradiate and contaminate their water and their soil under the pretence that we'd be doing them a favour, stopping those gosh darn Soviets. We might even get some thank yous out of it. And before you go on thinking how those crazy European chicks might have "sophisticated European" ways of saying thank you, isn't this on par with American foreign policy? So kind of them...

I'd like to propose a worlwide boycott on good ol' Red, White and Blue (which, by the way, they stole from the Brits. Their flag's colour scheme is taken from the Union Jack. I wonder what it means, thatone of their patriotic icons is actually, first and foremost, the patriotic icon of another country, on from which they claimed emancipation after a war, some would say, instigated by a lie), but I know that's not going to take. We're all a bit too hung up on Ameritrash (kind of Eurotrash, only it refers to products. And not people. And it's from America. And it's not witty in any way, but never mind). Of course, most of Ameritrash isn't even made in America (except for McDOnalds and 5.11 boots. I might be wrong on both counts. You have been warned), so, if a worldwide boycott would mean that Ameritrash still gets made and shipped worldwide, only not passing GO, not collecting $200 and, thus, a bit more affordable... You know, I think this could work. How about we give it a whirl, a trial period. Six months? We can do without pron (oh, right, porn is usually made either in Oakland, San Francisco or San Fernando Valley, so that's also Ameritrash made in America) for six months, right? If not, talk to the Germans and the Austrians, they'll hook you up. Just don't leave them in the same room unattended.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark realises his usual parting sentence sounds a bit ironic in this post, but really, how many wars have the Yanks not been in recently? And how many of the ones they've been on were in their soil? Do you think that explains their war-mongering?

That is the question...

2009-07-03T16:11:00.000-07:00

I've been working long and hard for this. Now, it's nearly done. I'm almost done with my degree. I have only the summer and the very beginning of fall to endure (hopefully) and, if I manage to finish my dissertation, I'll be doe with this once and for all. And then my trouble begin, but I'll cross thatr bridge when I get to it... I might even burn a few bridges at hat time. Meanwhile...

So let's see... I't now 2009, nearly seven years after I began this college thing - seven never dull years, and, taking the good with the bad, seven years well spent, I'd say. It's also been about five years since I last asked myself if Engineering was really the path to follow for me - yes, for two whole years I wondered if I had made the right choice. For the last five years I've been wondering only if I was cut out to be an engineer after all. Not whether I'd be happy as an engineer, but merely if I would be able to become an engineer. See, I've been wanting to be an engineer for over a decade now (give or take), and along the way, I've seen fellow aspiring engineers succeed, fail and change their mind. I've seen fellows become perfectly content with something more along the lines of becoming a technician, and that's fine with me if it's fine with them, I've seen fellows dropping this particular line of work altogether in search for something more up their alley, and why shouldn't theny, if thats what they want. And Then there's that fellow dearest to my heart who once shared my dream and who is now ver very close to becomming something completely different. In spite of the small legion of colleagues whom I've seen follow due course and become what I want to become myself, theree's always been at least a quantum of self doubt.

Well, not any more. These last few days I've seen the kind of silly wanker that can become an engineer, and a respected engineer at that. Of course that isn't to say that all silly wankers become engineers, and certainly not that all who become engineers are silly wankers or even that all engineers become silly wankers, but the percentage of silly wanker enginners, regardless of the direction of the cause-and-effect relation, begs the question, or rather replaces "Can I become an Engineers" with "Do I really want to become associated with this kind of engineers?".

The asnwer, most naturally, is twofold. No, I do not want to wind up in constant association with the ilk of silly wankers I'm discovering more and more, although yes, I want to become an engineer in spite of the silly wankers littering the profession. Maybe a propper bridge burning can provide the flame to cleanse some of the silly wanking stain. If you can take this and make a Monica Lweinsky related pun, contact me as soon a you can for your free chocolate mousse and whipped cream topped cookie.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is quite proud of some ninety pages written over the course of the last year or so and might - just might - profit from them, it seems. Let's not jink it yet. Eat your heart out, Paulo Coelho. And learn to write!

What if theories

2009-06-19T12:33:00.000-07:00

If there's anything more boring than watching paint dry is to listen to other people's dreams. And possibly the only thing more boring than that is to read about other people's dreams. So let me tell you about this dream I had last night...

Of course I'm not going to do that. But let's stick to the topic of dreams. Of course you've had dreams about acquaintances or even total strangers before, and possibly dreams that don't make much sense. A great many things could be said about nonsense dreams, and Freud would have a blast poring over them, but let's not go there. Rather, instead of addressing the causes and implications of preposterous dreams, let's talk of the consequences.

But Shark, you charismatic stallion, what consequences could silly little ravings of one's subounscious have to a sensible person?

Well, you might not want to call me a charismatic stallion, or Mr. Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw might take offence that you're imitating his fans, rather than understand that such imitation is really the highest form of homage... to his fans... from my fans. Nonsensical dreams, then.

Consequences, then. To address your question, I don't think there might realistically be any consequences, but what if any time you dreamt of someone, that person had the same dream from their prespective? Of course limitations must exist to this hypotheseis, such as it can only be verified if both people are asleep and in REM stage (Rapid Eye Movement, naturally, not asleep on stage at an REM concert) at the same time. Wouldn't that be neat? Some Hawaiian would have woken up this morning in a right confusion, then.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to remind you that, for a working graph cut algorithm, one should assign costs to edges with a formula along the lines of e^(-k*d), where k is a threshold constant greater than 1 and d is a propperly computed distance value between the color values of the nodes.

Diets and Consequences

2009-06-16T19:07:00.000-07:00

For this past weekend, as I was set to do a lot of dining out, I decided I wasn't going to stick to my diet. Sure, I wasn't about to go on a carb spree, and I kept well away from refined sugars, but I thought the odd potato wouldn't lay waste to over six months of dieting. I even allowed myself to indulge on some crisps.

Not just any crisps, I'd like to point out. Those were the fine "gourmet" crisps, alledgedly cut extra thin from selected potatoes and fried in extra virgin oil or something. Even the package is black and, as we all know, everything that comes wrapped in black is of superior grade, superb quality, exquisite taste and so on and so forth. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Saturday lunch was a casual snack at a seaside café bar and consisted of a hot dog with chips. I hadn't tasted chips in six months (not quite, if you count the very odd chip here and there, very few and very far between), and I found myself not enjoying them as much as I had expected. I thought those were probably poor quality chips, because lets face it, when was the last time you were served fine cuisine at a sea side café bar?

Later that night I got my teeth into those fine quality crisps, and they still didn't taste as good as I remember. That I did not expect...

So am I to conclude that after six months of strict(ish) diet I no longer like some of the high-carb, fattening foods I was so fond of as much as I used to? Compound to that that, after what can be called oversatisfaction, I find myself not enjoying some foods within my diet as much as I used to, and it seems like I'm growing to dislike food altogether.

Oh, well, I'll always have heroin.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has yet to verify that cream sauce, extra cheese, onion, bacon and pepperoni pizza no longer tastes as good, but that won't come to pass anytime soon. Although I might have some more chips someday, just to be sure.

Creepy...

2009-06-08T04:18:00.000-07:00

Toniht, the most unremarkable, banal thing happened. I had a dread. Well, several, in fact, that I remember. One of them was about opening a parcel, only to find a novelty item I had sent for about a week ago. Then, as it is costumary when one is dreaming, I woke up.

You know how sometimes you wake up from a nightmare and instantly know it was all a dream and you kind of feel relieved? or when you're having a great dream and you know the moment you wake up that it wasn't real and you feel a bit frustrated and a bit angry and bit sad? Well, it was nothing like that. Instead, I wasn't sure I had been dreaming at all, and had to argue with myself to decide whether my parcel had arived or not. All pretty run of the mill, really. I concluded my parcel hadn't arrived because I have placed my order a week ago today, and it wouldn't have been dispatched for at least one or two days. Compound to that that the expected delivery time was 7 to 10 days, and it was far too early for my order to have arrived.

I snoozed some more, and, at about noon, when I wasn't likely to sleep anymore, I lay in bed lazily, contemplating my to-do list for the day and the disdainflu sensation that I just might blow it all off and doze the day away (I'm not going to do that... but I could) when a loud, angry buzz jerked me awake from my slumber.

It was the mailman.

With my order.

About which I had dreamt.

What are the odds? The package came sooner than expected and I foresaw it in a dream. In my book, that's pretty damn creepy.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark does not see dead people... yet!

Complicated...

2009-05-01T17:01:00.000-07:00

Well, this entry has been quite some time in the making, in my head. See, at first I was to start about how I somehow have been feeling a bit wronged since Thursday morning, which is odd, because I plainly see I have neither right nor reason to feel wronged, as who would have wronged me really has no obligation towards me nor has had any ill intent towards me. So I immediately thought of cutting the entry short at the first paragraph, call myself silly, then write a new title in large, greenish font, as per the theme here, make it a link to itself and procede with something else.

Then I thought of going on, as though on a different entry altogether on another topic, something so ironically unmemorable and trivial that I cannot, for the life of me, remember what it was. That too would be cut short, perhaps mid-sentece by some self-derisive exclamaton oh "What is this drivel? Has this blog always been so, these amalgamed trivialities? What should I stoop to next, mindlessly echoing would-be humurous images and video clips, without as much as a would-be witty remark?" and sign off on a self-reprimanding note.

Incidentally, I think the trivial topic for the second attempt would be my ineptitude with the opposite gender. True and truly trivial, not to mention self comiserating and overall unworthy of much thought.

Eventually, I considered scrapping those ideas altogether and posting a short essay on the morality of religion, which I've been wanting to do since Easter. Next time, no doubt. Why not now, instead of this self-flagelating over over-indulging writing?

Well, first of all, because it's my blog and I'll bloody well whine for a bit if I want to. Second, because this really is my catharsis, writing it off. And, to be fair, the futility of my issues does seem to be the greatest issue right now. Third, because I can't really be bothered with an essay right now. It's past 1:00 AM and I've been feeling blue for the last few days, which does sap some of the wind out of my sails.

So, next time, I'm wailing on most religions I know. But for now...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has recentely lost well over 3 stone. That Atkins diet thing really does pay off, you know. And, compared to most (or all, really) diets I've been on, it's a breeze to stick to.

Don't feel like dancing

2009-03-18T18:45:00.000-07:00

A great big thanks to our first guests of this edition of Shark Nibbles, Scissor Sisters.

On an entirely unrelated topic, I wonder if I could say that I enjoy dancing as much as The Next Bloke. So, I say, I'll just ask him. How about it?

Sounds about right, ol' bean!

Always a pleasure to have you with us here, The.

Same.

What are you been up to, these days?

Same old, same old. Triviality and banality keep me busy alright.

I see. So, pray tell, The, how do you like a spitrity ride?

Why, I like it well enough. It's not something I'd go any great lengths for, but I'll enjoy one every now and again.

Very well. How about dancing?

Well, you see, Shark, the thing is, these days, dancing has become, I'm dare say, more of a staple of the elites and less of the common man's indulgence. As so, I, as a representative of the widest stratus of what would only claim to be an unstrsatified society, haven't done much dancing, really. Unless you call that spastic flailing and endless, mindless head bobbing you'd find at any regular loud, smoke-filled, barely lit watering hole at rather unhealthy hours dancing, that is.

But do you like it?

I'm afraid I don't, really.

Thank you very much for your insight, The.

Thanks for having me, mate.

And that concludes our second guest's participation for this edition. Mr. Bloke leaves us today with the knowledge that he does not, in fact, enjoy dancing. I, however, beg to differ. Having found a group that, twice a month, gathers for traditional and folk dancing, I must say I rather like it. It's fun, it's a reat way to meet people, and it seems like a fair workout, as in less than two hours I managed to sweat the most I had ever sweated since my trip to Karnak (except for any trip to the gym, that is).

As a bit of trivia, this was also the first situation that I remember ever being in which the gender ratio was unbalanced that way. Draw your conclusions.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to invite all of his readers to join him on his next dancing trip. Contact for more info.

My current location

2009-03-11T09:52:00.000-07:00

I've been known to mention some cars on this blog, notably Aston Martins and Jaguars. You should know I'm not a motor enthusiast, not really. In high school, when most of my classmates could name make, model, horsepower, driver's age ans god knows how many more stats for every car on the block, I could only listen idly and have no idea what the hell it all meant. Even in my senior year, when my mother figured she'd get a Honda Civic Type R (I hear it was a good little ride. It had 200 horse power. I never figured out where the horses went), when, suddenly, I got a bit of a boost in popularity with "the motor clique", I couldn't be bothered to learn about cars. Nowadays, I finally figured where the horses go (in the paddock, of course), but most of the technical data and all still sounds like a lot of gibberish to me. And yet...

There's this TV show I like. It's called Tog Gear. Now, I enjoy a spirity ride as much as The Next Bloke (who is schedulled for a guest appearence soon, stay tuned for that), but that is just not enough to watch Top Gear for the cars. I do enjoy the humour they manage to infuse in every challenge and review. And, I'll admit it, I do rather like some of the cars.

So sometime ago, I believe I was watching something Top Gear related (probably on YouTube), when the host commented that whatever car he was testing (I believe it might have been a Lamborghini. I won't swear by it, though...) was "faster than a Zonda". I had no idea what a Zonda was, and was slightly curious about it. Later, in an entirely unrelated context, I came across the likeness of a Zonda F, and thought it looked pretty neat. I must have made a note to look into it more, but really couldn't be bothered to look it up (even if Wikipedia is so convenient. That should tell you how excited I was about it).

So today I was browsing about Top Gear's website video section, looking for Jamie Oliver's part in their segment "Star in a Reasonably Priced Car" (now cooking, that I like), when I came across some videos pertaining to the Zonda F. Eagerly (though not too much, really), I went to watch them. Immediately (well, after a brief loading time, at any rate), I was met with the message "THE VIDEO YOU ARE TRYING TO WATCH CANNOT BE VIEWED FROM YOUR CURRENT COUNTRY OR LOCATION".

Well, first off, you don't have to shout, I can hear you just fine, even all the way here in my current country or location. Second, while I understand that some restrictions are in place to prevent some content from being accessed by some countries, those measures are usually imposed by governments to enforce their local laws. Thrid, come on, it's just sports cars, it's not like I'm trying to unearth any state secrets. Fourth, that's just how bad we have it here, in my current country or location. We can't even watch a video review for a sports car we wouldn't be likely to affor in a few lifetimes. Thank you, my current country or location, for crushing even our fantasies, let alone our dreams, hope or aspirations.

And you wonder whay I'm so intent on leaving this sinkhole. Even Teh Internets won't come near us.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like, at this point, to remind you all who can read this that you are in a priviledged current country or location, for you can access my blog. Don't you think this is a decent trade-off for all the stuff you're missing out? No? Me neither...

My poor dear...

2009-03-02T18:38:00.001-08:00

Really, some people just can't get a break... In fact, the "people" bit isn't even a requirement.

So a few weeks ago, back when I was mildly worried that my cute little kitty was way past six months old and still had no signs of ever having been in heat, she displaied some unusual behaviour I was a bit startled by. She stood and walked always very close to the ground, but kept her hips rather high up in the air. Also, her hind paws were quite frantic in what could be described as a digging pattern. Lastly, she kept mewing, but not a loud "meyow" kind of mew, rather a subtle and guttural "murr" kind of mew. Unsurprisingly, this was her in heat. Good-o!

Then, after a week of looking agonyzingly uncomfortable at all times and acting a bit pissy (I feel like there's a suitable pun, but I'll leave that to my editor), she had a blissfully calm week... followed by another week in heat. But wait, it's even worse the second time around! By now, she could utter her strange "murr" mews loudly. The previous week I had been mulling it over in my head: to spay or not to spay? The second heat, plus a very odd-feeling lump in the scruff of her neck, very much made the decision for me: spay it is. So I had it done oevr the weekend and went to pick her up from the vet the next week. Naturally, she had had the fur on her belly shaven and wore a large adhesive over her stitches, but I could hardly be bothered by that. The big shaving on her neck, however, was something a bit different.

See, Kunoichi (that's the cat's name, if you hadn't figured), is a persian, and, as such, has a great thick fur coat. When they shaved it off (to extract the lump in her neck, of course), they made quite the dent in her, so much so that it really does look like there's a piece of cat missing. Now the skin underneath is pinkish, but the hair on top began growing back much faster than on her belly, and being quite dark, it made the sin look almost greyinsh. Combine that with the somewhat crude stitching (not shoddy or botched or anything, it healed perfectly, but it looked a little crude at the time) and she just looked like a zombie cat from a bad 80's horror movie. And then our troubles begun... well, hers, really.

For a week she wore the adhesive on her belly, and on a Friday we went to have it removed at the vet. The thing is, it must have been bothering her, and she tried to lick it off. Now, a cat's tongue is atually coarser than fine sandpaper, and, naturally, she licked herself to dire consequences: dermatitis. It's not as bad as it sounds, but it might be a little nastier. Still, it was good luck within bad luck, as she only got a large abrasion instead of an infection. Still, she was made to wear a lampshade collar so she doesn't lick her wounds any further and I have to wipe her sides (which, by the way, were further shaved) with a compress and some solution and rub a healing salve of sorts on her abrasions... twice a day. I don't mind, really, but Kuni-chan gets pretty impatient after one side, so she's not happy about the arrangement. Luckily for her, she's pretty much healed, and should be off that coller in a matter of days. Until then, she can't groom herself and her fur (what's left of it, really) is all oily and messy, making her look dirty and, I reckon, feel dirty. The poor thing has been depressed to no end. Furthermore, with so much of her lovely fur gone, I think she's cold all the time.

On the bright side, her sutures have healed perfectly, and the lump we had off was just some inflamatory reaction, possibly to a jab, so, no big deal.

And before you give me any lip for having her spaied, I'll have you know that I have, in fact, reduced the probability of her developing breast cancer by about 90%. Sure, she might gain weight now, but not only is that not such a bad thing, because she's so skinny, mind you, but also we can prevent that with adequate diet. Also, I don't think the opportunity for breeding would present much to her at any rate, seeing as I can afford to take care of her, but not her and a male companion. Also, if you think castration is inhumane, think back to the last time that you were a bit late for a German class and absolutely had to stop over at the ATM becasue the tecaher had been so good to order the manuals in bulk and would have the students pay that day in class, but the idiot blonde in front of you regarded ATMs as some form of sorcery or witchcraft to be handled with extreme care and precaution and couldn't bloody hurry up if the keypad was on fire and the sword of Damocles was hanging over her on a short timer. Then tell me you wouldn't have liked her mother to have been spaied...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is very, very displeased at the level of orgnisation and care displaied by some (definitely not all, but certainly some) of his teachers this semester. Also, I'd like to point out that a man who is employed by one University, yet runs a course at another, different University and is found out of the country for weeks at the time because he's on the payrole for yet another University at a whole different continent has three jobs - but doesn't work. Because, frankly, with three jobs, where would he find the time? At least he isn't given any students to fuck with overseas.

Like fine wine...

2009-01-29T14:27:00.000-08:00

... turned into vinegar

Well, yes, if couldn't have figured it out from the title and it's snide conterpart comment, we're (well, I'm) talking about ageing today. No point beating about the bush, it happens to everybody, so, might as well deal with it.

Well, yes, if you couldn't figure it out from the tone of the previous paragraph, this isn't going to be a list of "you know you're getting old when..." (starting with "1. You write two identical paragraphs consecutively, because you forget you wrote the first one as soon as you did").

So you might think I'm just going to spew a bunch of cliché platitudes regarding growing up, and then growing mature, and getting to the hill, and then worry that your time is running out until it becomes an obcession you overcome just in time to enjoy the "golden years" of elderdom. News flash, all that (what some of us would call "ageing") and it's older sister, Death, happen (/will happen) to each and every one of us, so, again, a bit useless to dwell on that. Better do something a bit new with the time I have left (I don't think it's so shot I should worry, but, then again, depending on the scale you measure it, it can't be very long).

Sorry, before I move on to my next paragraph, which was supposed to come in lieu of this paragraph, I'd just like to comment on the last parenthesis, specifically the phrase "I should worry". And thus I fall down the gaping maw of the very cliché I had sought to banish. Why would I worry? there really isn't/hasn't been/wouldn't be/insert another tense of your liking for the verb to be anything I (or anyone esle, for that matter) could do to prevent the rather definitive finale Mr. Grim Reaper has in stock for each of us. Postpone it perhaps, but worry about that someday, somehow, under some conditions I will die is flat out silly. I have enough concerns without that, as well as any of us. I'd just like to point out that I don't believe in Fate either. Because she's a lying bitch.

Let's instead ponder the social implications of growing old. The reduced muscle strength comes with a rather comfortable side of "what I say goes". Of course any literal interpretation of my little hyperbole would soon drive to the question "Then why is Obama president instead of his grandmother?" The obvious answer is "Because Americans don't want a woman president", as Mrs. Clinton would tell you, whilst the serious answer is "You're being silly". What I mean, lest you ask it, is that it seems sociably unaccpetable, or at least impolite, not to gobble up every last word coming out of a senior citizen (forget senior, anyone over the age of 50, it seems). Now, while a great many 50+ year olds should, indeed, have that kind of respect and admiration lavished upon them (I know a few myself) and could indeed be said to be at their prime (again, I know more than a couple of those), this sort of status should, by no means, be granted by age alone. I mean, a Private, or whatever the entry rank is in any given military force, won't become a Marshal, or, again, whatever the highest ranking is in any given military force (you must realise by now, military rankings don't concern me half as much as the correct way to pronounce "Lieutenent" does. I advocate that it should be "lef-TEN-unt", as they say in the UK, not "loo-TEN-unt", as they say where what Obama says goes) just by not leaving the military. An altar boy doesn't just become pope in time by polishing the saints on the shrine (or whatever it is that altar boys, bless their gullible hearts, do). Likewise, the way I see it, just because you managed to make it to 65 - or 75, for that matter - you shouldn't get an automatic "I know best badge".

Right about now I might look like a bit of elderly basher. Allow me to address that (lest I bash you as well): I have nothing against the elderly, and I have no shame in admitting that ever member of my family of the generation prior to my parents' who's still alive is an elder person to prove it. In their defense, someone with 50 years worth of living under their belt ought to have quite a bit of experience, and thus insight, younder fellows might lack (for the time being). I respect that, sure. However (there must always be a "however". It's in the books. And some old guy told me), even the oldest among us should understand that this world we live in and which many would have you believe to be about 6000 years old and made by some improbable and unprovable omnipotent entity is ever-changing. If I, in under 30 meagre years of existence can appreciate it, how can someone with three times as much not?

Sure, somethings would seem no to change, and what better example to illustrate this point than something straight out to TV? About seven years abou, give or take, I was watching an episode of "Freaks and Geeks" on (an old, CRT, bowled-screen) TV. It seemed alright, as it dealt cheifly with the everyday lives of several high-school students, spread across several cliques, I could identify with in some way or another. It seemed just like any other teen show, nut unlike "Popular" or "Clueless", for which I never really cared, but somehow better. I liked it, in spite of some eerie sense of "something is a bit off here". Was it the clothes? The decoration? The cultural references (i.e., "Dallas", "Ker Plunk", "Mousetrap")? It didn't become clear until a makeshift grave for a pet came on screen, setting the storyline-wise recent date of death in the 80's. There it was, I had been assuming the show was set in actuality, because the idle chatter and the common quarrels and boggles of the characters seem current enough, in spite of the odd setting. So, there, some things appear no to change (much), but at age 40, the latest, you should know that not all that glimmers is gold (plenty of pyrite to 'round).

My point seems to have become a bit lost, I'll get straight back on it. Fortunately (though you can't read it), I just took some 15 minutes out to reminesce about "Freaks and Geeks" (I really liked that show), and it's mellowed me out a bit. My point is that no amount of age ever gives you the right to claim to know better and merely dismiss other, younger people's opinions with as little as a condescending head shake and a "No..". And if you ever do, that should automatically invalidate your right to ask that person for an opinion, help or a favour you can't do yourself because you don't know how, as your overinflated experience can't help you there, let alone accuse said person of ill-intent upon failure to comply, despit one's best efforts (too specific? Go figure...). And no amount of age ever ever ever puts you beyond reproach on any matter whatsoever. Get that through your senior skull!

So, in short... I used to be good at the "in short" bit, but these days... In short, know your bloody place. And I don't suppose that only applies to the elderly, but it just seemed to me the elderly needed a refresher course on that. So there...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to remind you all that Epicurism isn't just some decrepit doctrine, but actually makes sense. And, if, for some reason, you're dying any faster than the rest of us or due any sooner than most, for the sake of all that you hold dear, don't just sit in a corner dying and bringing us all down over it, bloody get out there (metaphorically, of course, you might as well stay indoors, if you'd like) and bloody LIVE!!!

If you can read this, then you're reading past the end of the entry. You can stop now. Really, there's nothing more to read here. Oi, I mean it! Go away!!!

Odd...

2009-01-02T15:16:00.000-08:00

So here I am, back from my yearly trip to Lovely Lady London! And, with my trip, come a few contemplations I'd like to submit to you.

Sometime in 2008 (I believe. I might be wrong here) Regent Street saw an Apple Store joining the myriad shops lining its gentle curve, and I, needing a power charger for my (sadly 2.5G) iPhone, ventured in. I asked a very friendly sales assistant for the charger and, since I was there, if there were any unlocked 3G iPhones for sale. Turns out there weren't, but the kind man went as far as adding "legally". He wouldn't advise me on how to obtain one, but ha mentioned it. SO off I went to Tottenham Court Road, one of my favourite places in London, to inquire about the possibility of having a 3G iPhone, legaly purchased and locked to O2 (for example) unlocked. As it turns out, it was cheaper to just buy the thing unlocked at the same place where they'd unlock it (with Turbo SIM included and all), but that's hardly may point. As I strolled down Tottenham Court road, past Goodge Street Tube Station and to Warren Street Tube Station, I remebered how only two years before there were quite a few video stores, and I'm not just talking about "Ma and Pa Stores", as it were, but large places, three stories high, each larger tham some so-called supermarkets I've been to. And now, they were all gone. Curiously, the smaller stores remain, trading in pre-owned DVDs, especially box-sets and doing a little something on the side in cell phones, but the large stores are now all luxury and design furniture stores. I have to wonder: with the much heralded crisis upon us, is this really the time to set aside the low-cost, small goods most households manage to be able to afford on a regular basis and instead invest in expensive goods, set in a niche market and which one shouldn't be looking to buy more often than once every few years? Perhaps my views of economy are twisted. I hope they are. At any rate, never in my many trips to London had I ran into so many Masserattis, Jaguars, Bentleys and even Aston Martins in the streets (although this was a bit of a slow year for Porsches). So it would seem that eevn in a most miserable economy, these ideas I'd so swiftly regard as hare-brained lead to an abundance of luxury sports cars. All the better, if you ask me.

Setting the vile issue of finance aside for a moment, one of my most favourite places in London closed down last November. I shall always remember the premisses of Coffee, Cake and Kink in Endell Street (or, at least, until they find a new venue, as they are still anactive company, even though they are now a dot com company). For those who don't know, CCK was a coffee house, erotic art gallery and somewhat of an upscale sex shop, in the way that they sold BDSM and fettish supplies and resources. I miss them. In their absence, I, seeking some new BDSM supplies, was forced to resort to common sex shops, where the walls are rank with cheap porn, the stands rife with poor novelty erotic items and the kinky supplies are, more often than not, inadequate to my standards. Alright, perhaps I'm being a bit stuck up here, but... Hold on...

DISCLAIMER: The following section, as well as the previous, contains references to and descriptions of adult oriented materials and should not be read by minors. Shark Nibbles, its employees and associates take no responsability for any damages incurred in reading those, even if they don't believe any damages might be incurred by reading those at all. At any rate, by reading this disclaimer you agree to proceed at your own risk and waive any right to prossecute. Parental guidance is advised.

Right, where were we? So, I might be a bit stuck up about this, but most of you know that porn isn't all alike. We've all ran into high-quality porn as well as into some crappy scenes where male models keep to swinging their hips mechanically, thinking of something else entirely just so they can last for the duration of the scene and the female models either can't even be bothered to work up a half decent moan or, instead, scream in impossible ecstasy from the first awkward touch to the bitter end, and most of what you'd see on the video racks of sex shops looking for a quick profit would have to fall into the latter category. Also, regarding their fetish supplies, I might again come out as a bit arrogant, but most of their so-called restraints seemed quite poor, although I, as a rope enthusiast, am biased. However, some canes and floggers I found could not be honestly described as anything better than "crap". And I took the care to find the upscale sex-shops, the likes of Harmony (not a bad place, really. Still, they couldn't hold a candle to CCK, if you ask me). Now, my point (yes, I'm about to make one) is that London, with its rich mélange of cultures, subcultures, trends and styles, always struck me as a bastion of tolerance, very much a place where you can be as outrageous as you'd like and not be stared at (except by the tourists). Now, going to a sex shop isn't really something I'm accostumed to. CCK was a different thing altogether, because they were much more of a coffee shop and an art gallery, and this was a bit of a plunge for me. Of course, once you're inside, none of the other patrons are in a position to judge you, because, lest we (and they) forget, they're in a sex shop as well, but, more importantely, it seems to me that the people outside will pass no more judgement either. However, a rather remarkable thought crossed my mind: are the staff just as open minded, as one would think, seeing as they work in a sex shop, or are they more the type to secretely think "sick bastard, taking home this sort of filth" of each customer? The nagging sensation remained for a bit, until a buxom blonde, dressed in a provocative black dress, was so warm to ask me if I needed any help. Still...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark will know knuckle down and abide by the intransigent laws of his condition, but before I do, I'll leave you this much advice: Don't stay at the Park Lane Hotel in London. It might be part of the prestigious Sheraton chain of Hotels, but it's still utter crap, although their "Sweet Sleeper" beds are rather nice.

This was a triumph

2008-12-21T19:54:00.000-08:00

I'm making a note here:
"Huge Success!"

So just over two weeks ago, I had made my way up north to take the very prestigious IELTS exam. After FCE, CAE and CPE, another exam couldn't hurt, right? Oh, yeah, and I do have that preliminary certificate I got for English as a foregn language even before I got into high school, but should I even bother to mention that? I guess it can't hurt...

I had been in training for three months for that (during which I had that little run into Fate. I coult take it heads on, no problem. I can safely say I even had a bit of fun, during the Speaking part, chatting to the examiner, Mz. Norton, lovely lady that she is. And today, I got my results in the mail.

Oh sure, split the hair that says that today is Sunday, and that the mail isn't delivered on Sundays. Go on, I'll watch. Really... Alright, so I didn't get them today, I just didn't bother to check my mailbox until today (although I did on Thursday, so the mail must have gotten here on Friday). Long story short, I managed to snag a band 8.5 (bear in mind that the scale only goes up to 9.0). So, yes, it seems I can speak, understand, read and write English.

Pretty awesome, isn't it?

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark really finds it hard to overstate his satisfaction. And now, to run some more experiments on the people who are still alive.

Thank you for the music

2008-12-06T15:31:00.000-08:00

Pardon me while I let our Scandinavian musical guests out...

Thank you for the pork luncheon meet

Getting there, just one final tune up, bear with me...

Thank you for the spam

Ah, there we go. Third time's the charm... says them...

So, where to begin? I say we start at the midsection. Why? Because it is quite ample and thus proveides plenty of room for all of us to meet and organise out expedition through whatever little sense I muster for this entree. I mean "entry", sorry, bit of a freudian slip, there, I'll explain in a moment. Right now, you might be wandering where the hell am I trying to get to with this talk of large midsections. Let's not skirt the issue: even those who have only ever met me online should have quite the strong inkling that, as I've mentioned before, I'm fat. Let's not sugar coat it (or I might eat it) with terms such as "plump" or "full figured" or "big boned" or the likes. Now, shortly after I began writing this blog, if memory serves me right, I took it upon myself to embark in a stric regimen of nutritious salads, regular walking and managed to lose quite a bit of weight, before some ugly business sent it hurtling right back to me. Ever since I have tried to get back on that program, but I just couldn't bear the taste of lettuce anymore. Even today it makes me shiver. so I tried different things, such as Paul McKenna's plan of listening to my body's signals of hunger and satisfaction, eating very slowly, imagining that high calories comfort foods are repulsive in some way or another and even listened to his self hypnosis track a few times a week, but it didn't take. I guess either my lifestyle or my will weren't adequate to his plan (or maybe its Mr. McKenna's plan that's crap, but I'm not ready to pass judgement on that), and all the while I kept putting on weight. Now, like a blast from the past, I'm taking up the Atkins diet. For those who don't know it, it's based on the principle that our bodies heed carbon hydrates to absorb fat. Also, fat, much like carbon hydrates, is high on energy, but, if not needed as absorbed, gets stored until needed. Thus, a regimen that's hig in protein but low on carbs might be high on fat, because it won't be absorbed. Furthermore, since the organism isn't getting any carbs, it just has to burn fat for energy. Simple enough, right?

This does bring some disadvantages. Most evidentely, it puts strain in one's liver, but, seeing as I never drink... wine (a cookie for whoever catches this reference), I might be able to cope. And, because I should be able to have all the fatty meat and cheese (by Jove, the cheese!) I crave (well, not really, moderation should be employed, but still...), I shouldn't get those miserable spells when I just want a tasty snack, but can't have it without going off my diet, I should be able to keep it up long enough. However, this diet usually causes cravings for carbs, and they do permeate most of everything around us. And, my, I've never craved pasta with chips and SPAM fritters (the funniest bit being that I've never even tasted SPAM fritters in my life) and double chocolate mousse for dessert. However, this gave me the chance to dig up SPAM in the canned preserves aisle. I found out that I rather like it, but tired of it pretty quickly. I was, nonetheless, surprised to know that the SPAM (although I shouldn't be saying SPAM, as SPAM is a registred trademark of the Hornel Foods Company, and this isn't quite the same) I find here is the same SPAM the Brits get, produced by the Tulip Company, in Denmark, under licence from Hornel, so it's probably not too far removed from the propper thing, if at all.

And, speaking of SPAM, here's a bit of spam I got today:

Hi

My name is alisha. Found your ad on that dating site www.hollystad.com
I also love sex on the side. I have a loving partner but he is working 16 hours a day and we have sex only once a week :(
If you are interested and wanna see my pictures just email me at alisha480@hyperpom.com
Don`t reply, use the email above (my boyfriend doesn`t know about that email!)

Give her a call, lads, she sounds pretty feisty! Don't you just love it when spammers do something so obviously wrong it can't help to be funny?

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has re-evaluated his previous claims about craving spam fritters, and, seeing as he had his fill of spam over the past week, he'd be ready to waive the fritters for now. But the pasta with chips would be lovely. Try to make that sound repulsive, Paul McKenna. Oh, wait...

Says them...

2008-11-09T17:48:00.000-08:00

"They", whoever they may be, say a lot of things (I might have mentioned it before). Today, I'd like to pore over one of them.

So, and possibly inspired by the grim news du jour (it's been a pretty grim weekend...), "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger". This sounds well enough, but how well does this work? I'm thinking back about as far as two years. I see three things that did not kill me. Well, I see plenty of things that did not kill me, but if we were to cinsider all these things, we'd live in a beritable bubble of fear (and, having been there for a very brief period - and worse still, having seen the effects of such practive over a long period - it's not something you'd like). So, berakdown time:

A) My hernia: It's been almost two years since I had my first sciatic pain crisis from that hernia I had removed two years ago come February. I still get the occasional pangs along eiter brach of my sciatic nerve from time to time, but nothing worrisome, usually explainable by something as casual as bad posture, and nothing I shouldn't expect, right? So I lived through that, and now, whenever I slip, even if I manage to regain my footing or even if I don't lose my footing at all, I get scared halfway to death. So two slips on the same day could be the death of me (not really, right? Right, you guys?). How is that stronger than when I was at almost my ideal weight, strong as an ox and laughing at these minor adversities?

B) Colleges and Conflicts: It's not really possible to work for an extended period of time with anyone and not disagree on at least some minor, unimportant thing, is it? Often enough, a big fight arises within a short preiod, and that's what happened, about a year ago, give or take. Long story short, I was accused of slacking off, my work was said to be deemed "unusable", yet used and credit for it taken from me, I was threatened in more ways than I care to remeber and it all ended well... with me absolutely never being any warmer than "cordial" to at least one person ever again. So, did I slack off? Well, I might have... a little... I'm fairly sure I did, I'm not one to deny my shortcomings (not all of them, at least), and that's a fact, but here's a few more facts: I wasn't blatatly ripping off others' work, like some colleagues were doing and inciting me to do; I was awaiting feedback from the rest of my group, and got only accusations in turn; I was more aware of the deadline than them, even though they accused me of the contrary; and finally, fuck you, I was the best damn coder of the whole bloody group, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. So I rushed headlong into this with previous, similar experiences, which led me to repeating the phrase, "I just don't learn." I wonder if I'm stronger for it.

C) Family Falling-outs: You might remeber last year's last entry. Well, there's a no-brainer; this one definitely made me stronger. I got my cat, as promised, and we're quite happpy together; she, as the cute, warm and fuzzy lovely pet, and me, as the fat bloke who feeds her, pets her, cuddles with her, shelters her and provides for her needs. At least this much worked out great.

So does it all make us stronger? I, for one, know of people who have, in fact, been made incredably strong for what has nearly killed them, and other who have been very much left for dead, and weaker for the whole ordeal. Perhaps "they" would like to choose their words a bit more carefully. Fat chance!

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has some brand new speakers to replace two of his old speakers in his kick-arse 5.1 surround speakers. Guess one of the old ones was not made stronger by what didn't kill it, and the other lacked some measure of restraint... and got itself killed.

My Blue Suede Shoes

2008-11-05T18:22:00.000-08:00

Right... Not bloody likely!

My Black Suede Shoes

Much better. Not quite right yet, however. A long time ago, perhaps...

My Black Leather Boots

Ah, yes, third time's the charm. And now to start making some sense.

Right... Not bloody - oh, wait, we've done this bit! Onwards!

Quite some time ago, I had a pair of black leather boots. I loved those boots almost as much as I love a certain coat I've come to mention here a few times (and which, by the way, I wore last weekend for the first time since I had the lining changed. And it's still the bee's knees), and I wore them ragged. Now, for some reason, when that happened, instead of just getting a pair just like it, as I've done with just about any pair of trousers, pants or socks I've ever worn and liked anywhere near as much, I got a different pair of boots. Might have been some misguided idea that those boots were unsuitable for the winter, which is silly, since their lithe construction is equally adequate for cold, rainy weather as it is for warmer, drier times. Perhaps they were not in stock at the place where I'd get them. Whatever the case, I ended up buying some comparatively monstruous boots of Spanish design and manufacture. Worst pair of boots I ever had!

Now, that's not fair... Firstly, I have nothing against the Spanish (the French, perhaps, but not the Spanish), as my time helping out two Spanish chaps (of my own volition and for no reward) who came over as exchange students earlier this year will vouch for. Secondly, these boots were comfortable enough. Not splendidly comfortable, but good enough. They held my (still) injured ankle well in place and they were waterproof, which comes as rather silly, since they slip on water like ice on a hot plate. And this makes them very dangerous footwear, especially if the wearer's spine is as frail as mine. Off with them!

So yesterday I went back to the sacred store, where I'd heard the music, years before - Oi! Get out of my blog, Don McLean's "American Pie", as sung by Madonna! Get your own! - so I went to the store where I buy my boots (neat store! A bit like an Army Surplus store, but not quite) and finally got myself a pair just like those which I had had and worn ragged. And today, I put on the best boots I ever set foot in, again. Without furter ado, the 5.11 HRT Urban Boot:

UK size 10.
Sweet...

Snug and comfortable, these puppies feature 5.11's unique Shock Mitigation System for a comfortable stride, sprint, skip, hop, jump or tumble, waterproof leather and 11001 nylon, kevlar lined oil and slip resistant soles and will keep those nasty blood-born pathogens off your feet (you know, in case some crazed assailant leaps out of a shady corner and bleeds on your feet... could happen... Not bloody - oh, alright, I'll stop now).

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has been having some serious fun with Command & Conquer Red Alert 3 Premier Edition, which I had to send for from abroad, because it seems you absolutely cannot get it in this wretched caricature of a country I live in. But at least you can still get some good boots.*

* While stocks last. Shark Nibbles, it's employees and associates, including, but not limited to, The Disco-Bar Corporation, are not liable for any consequences of misuse of 5.11 products, such as, but not limited to, envy of proprietary by have-nots, overwhelming style, irresistible sexual magnetism, delusions of grandeur and terrorism. Oh, speaking of terrorism, so the USA have a President named "Hussein", eh? Talk about ironic...

Nerd Meat

2008-10-24T14:30:00.000-07:00

There's something terrifyingly awkward about that title... What could it be?

Ah, yes!

Nerd Meet

Much better. Well, somewhat better, a gathering of nerds would hardly be thought of as the best thing since sliced bread anywhere, realy.

Incredably Sensual Topless Sweedish Bikini Models Meet

Dream on... No, back to Nerd Meet, the fourth installment of the National Informatics Students Rally. It's on now! I skipped on it some years ago, because I wasn't really in the mood to travel, but this year it's being held on my own doorstep. I had no reason to decline.

Actually, I was rather hoping to spend some days at my hometown this weekend, after a particularly unpleasent Wednesday, but never mind that...

So today, a conference was held, with cmputer interface guru Alan Dix, and I'm all too pleased to report I attended it. I got to meet this genious, whom I had known only from his work, and he did not disappoint me. He even went as far as to give me the thumbs up for remembering my Avogadro number and invited the local media to snap a picture of me (for no ill intend, I can only hope) when I could translate "provenance" into the local native language. My fiftenn minutes of fame... were actually in Dominican Republic, in the Easter of 1999, but you get the drift. At any rate, I got to meet Dix!

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is most displeased with the Secretary to the Minister of Science and Technology's response to his enquiry at the end of his lecture on The State of the Art today, at the event's inauguration cerimony. I guess politicians will never change...

Windows Genuine Advantage Validaaaargh!

2008-10-23T07:51:00.002-07:00

Seriously, Microsoft, WTF!?

I could rant about how you're swarming my market and my very young children with your personal sort of infectious insincere generosity which will, ultimately, increase our foreign debt and darw this rotten shamble of a country further down its doom-laden path o mediocrity. Instead, I'll address a more personal issue.

So over a year ago, I took you (dubiously) generous offer and applied for a free, valid Windows XP key from MSDN Academic Alliance. All went sparklingly well, and I had my little computer that could up and running for well over a year. Recentely, however, it all went to mush, and after a penous period of backups, I was comfortable with the idea of formatting and re-installing. So I whipped out my Windows XP Professional SP2, burned from an ISO image provided by MSDN Academic Alliance (it might sound as though I'm singing praise to this entity. Well, only partially), and went on to throw the irrevokable reset switch. Only this time, my key was no good.

As I would find out, the key MSDNAA assigned me is good for a single installation. After that, I'm just hoping it might be renewed. So I had to make do with an expired VLK licence key, and, just as expected, today the WGA thing started wreaking havok in my PC.

Seriously, Microsoft, what were you thinking? You know how your system is likely to need the occasional extreme solution. You know how useres are likely to upgrade their core components. For peanut butter and jam's sake, your system will even cry out bloody murder if it's transfered to another, exactly alike disk drive just because the serial number doesn't match, and you had to make disposable keys? Is it sadism or just the sort of misguided idiocy the world has come to expect from the self-proclaimed leader of the alledgedly free world for the last eight years? And what is it with that WGA tool? I've had viruses that were less harmful and annoying that that.

And dont get me started on your client support. You would have charged me €60,00 (not a typo! Sixty sodding Euro!) for a call, had I resorted to that service of yours twice before, and the gent who ansewred was even more clueless than I was. Would you have charged me €60,00 for "I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do"? I don't doubt it, you profiteering gluttons!

Well, then, Shark, old bean, why don't you just stick wholeheartedly, full-time to some other operating system, one which won't pester you for CD Keys and $149,90 for something you're already entitled to and isntead is mantained and supported by entire communities of keen programmers for free?

You mean Linux?

Oh, well, now... yes.

Thank you for that lovely intervention, Nagging Doubt In The Back Of My Head.

Please, just call me Gaz!

Gaz. Of course you're more than just some measure of right. I just wish software developers (a free beheading coupon for anyone chanting "Developers, developers, developers, developers", à lá Steve Ballmer) would realise this and think of the little ones who wish to free themselves of the tyranny of this oppressive monopolist, but don't want to relinquish the use of their magnificent products (for which, incidentally, we're willing to pay... ONCE, Electronic Arts!). Sure, there's OpenOffice and Gimp and whatnot to offset all your work needs for free, but I need not tell you all work and no play makes ArabianShark a dull, sour and very irritable member of the elasmobrachiae family of water-dewlling animals.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark ponders the issue of weaseling his way out of the current predicament with a crack. On one hand, piracy isn't something this sea treader encourages or enjoys; on the other, I have a legal right to what I would seem to be acquiring through dubious ways. Oh, and how hard can it be to secure a legitimate copy of Command & Conquer Red Alert 3 Premier Edition? In this land of NO opportunity, quite hard indeed...

Expecting!

2008-10-16T17:05:00.000-07:00

So Fate spat in the face of my kind offer... Onwards, then.

Not long ago I posted about entering Command & Conquer: Red Alert 3 Beta program. Well, my Beta priviledges have been revoked (as have everyone else's, rest assured) almost a month ago, to make room for my pre-order priviledges, which I waived, seeing as the pre-order bonuses, juicy though they may seem, were wasted on me.

However, I have recentely taken to scouring the Red Alert 3 site. Most of everything I've been reading there has come to be redundant, but I still managed to find this, which I recommend, for a laugh.

So right now you've either gone straight for the link, without so much as a modicum of restraint or overlooked it with more than a modicum of suspicion or, as a compromise, opened it in a new tab, in which case, assuming you have a decent web connection, you should be listening to something right about now. So, to soothe your fears, it's just an embedded music video and ~~God~~ god won't punish your immortal soul in Hell, because he likely doesn't exist.

The music part is less than great (does it seem to you that the glorious days of "Fight, Win, Prevail!" are behind us? Me too...), it might even strike you as a overly self-indulgent or shamelessly self promoting (funny, it does to me too, and I'm a fan of the series), but the clip features some rewarding eye candy (it won't rot your teeth or make you fat. Best kind of candy ever) and, for the Sci-Fi and/or retro-gaming buffs, George Takei has a funny little morsel for you.

Not for you, Fate! Off! Off! Bad bitch!

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is well aware that the Imperial Defenders' ability to slink into a "spider hole" is blatantly ripped off most of Starcraft's Zerg units, as they have been able to burrow for bloody ages now. Don't rub it in.

Old Flings...

2008-10-13T05:38:00.000-07:00

Actually, that's not exactly accurate...

Old Crushes...
Or "How the Mighty Have Fallen"

So just last night I happened to sort of run into an old crush of mine. How old, you say? Well, I suppose it could have been more than a handful of years, it's hard to tell exactly, so I'll refrain form just saying any number. Still, it got mw thinking...

Have I ever been so superficial that I could be so madly enamorated (as I recall, it was quite a crush indeed) for this gal? Whatever mild impression I got from her just yesterday would have put me off, were we to start anew, with no recollection of the past at all. I was really disappointed, I can't tell if more so with her or myself.

Still... the years have been most kind to her. She looked even better than I recalled, and, seeing as I held such a deified image of her beauty, that's no small task. No small task indeed.

Nope.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark offers Madam Fate a chance at redemption today. Reward will come as an apology and strawberry jam. Everybody likes strawberrys, it seems...

Fate...

2008-10-06T16:51:00.000-07:00

Sci-Fi buffs should know that at no time during this entry will Fate mean the supercomputer which rules the United Kingdom in the bleak retro-futuristic world of V for Vendetta. So...

Fate...

Fate is a cruel mistress.

So...

Fuck you, Fate, you sadistic bitch! The pox is too good for your wretched arse! A thousand blights on your rotten carcass... and the pox on top of it.

... fucking cunt...

Pax vobiscum atque vale. Not you, Fate!

ArabianShark is a bit irritable tonight, and possibly for the next week(s). And it's all your damned fault, Fate!

What's happening to me???

2008-10-02T18:50:00.000-07:00

Something isn't quite right. That fulfilled my understatement quota for the whole millenium. I'm going positively batty.

Up until last Monday I wanted only four small thins from life: a smalll fortune, a small mansion, a small Aston Martin and a small Brittish passport. Insert laughter here, because I'm a bit distressed to do that myself. Last Monday, however, my world got a pretty vigorous shaking.

You may or may not believe this (you won't. Never mind), but I woke up that very same day with what could only be described as a Force Premonition of what was about to happen (having finished The Force Unleashed in just a few sittings may have had a bit to do with it). The Dark Side, however, everything clouded, and instead of the upcomming upheavel, I sensed only a mild amusement, which I was only too swift to dismiss.

Then later that day I had plenty warning of the cataclysm to come, and it would not have taken any measure of clearvoyance whatsoever to read the signs which, like my earlier inkling, I chose to ignore.

Then... it happened.

Now four small things aren't enough. Now I want more. Now I stress over that newest desire every waking hour. I have not felt like this in nearly ten years. It did not end well last time and-

No, wait, that's not entirely correct. I haven't felt like this in over five years, and last time it turned out to be nothing much, but still...

Come to think of it, if a pattern is to be observed, perhaps this time it turns out for the best. Third time is the charm, they say. I'd very much like to meet with them. Sometimes they turn out to be wiser than Yoda and sometimes they spew more lies than Palpatine. I'd like a word, please. "Granted" would do...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark tried his hand at baking this week. It turned out fairly enough. Next time might go better. The time after that, however, is when I expect the coveted charm to occur.

Joy-joy, then

2008-09-26T15:39:00.000-07:00

Hey, I just realised a reader who doesn't know about the second paragraph of this might think I'm posting about Jamie Pressly's character from "My Name is Earl". Ha ha... no.

So now to post on a lighter note. Following with the theme of a previous entry, I have now successfully played through The Force Unleashed, and managed to evade the dreaded Default Text Glitch. One might jest it became scared of my incepient hypergraphy. Loved the game, although the Sith Saber Flurry technique still elludes me, and I must master it to pass on the sith trials or Lord Vader will have my head for failing him! Sorry, I might have overdone it a bit. But the whole concept of being this force user who uses the force not only to plow through the endless hordes of rank and file foes as we've seen in previous games (i.e., Jedi Knight, Knights of the Old Republic) but also interact with the environment on a whole different scale than previously observed (i.e., Jedi Knight. A game of reference indeed) is quite awesome. That and the new ways one can use the Force to dismiss his enemies. For example, Force Repulse allows you to pretty much use Force Wave from KotOR, but exactly when you'd like, not in a turn based scenario, but I suspect you wouldn't find much difference there. So in comes the great flexibility and ingenuity that allows you to combine Force Grip with just about anything else you'd like, according to the situation. Feel like taking out the hapless drone you've just grasped along with all of his buddies? Infuse his body with Force Lightning and watch him explode all over them. Knocking them over good enough? Just flong him with the stick. neet it to hurt? Use Force Push and hurl him like a cannonball. Or, if that's the last of the bunch, drop him down the nearest conveninet chasm. If one can't be found, how about impaling him on your lightsaber? Oh fun! And what would be of a game without boss fights? Fear not, boss fights and mini-boss fights aer there, and with a somewhat spectacular twist. Whenever you're faced with something big, such as, say, a Rancor or an AT-ST (or any of its derivates, made for this game, it seems), after you've bashed it a bit with whatever, you get a chance to perform a finishing move, pressing certains buttons at specific times. While some (Yahtzee!) may advocate against the use of quick time events*, the chance to split an AT-ST down the middle or scrunch up an AT-CT (the C stands for construction) like a sheet of paper is quite satisfying.

Right, after that almost endless paragraph of joy-PAIN!, let's get to some other joyous matters. Recentely, I decided to try another little morsel of Americana that's managed to seep into the scrutiny of the civilised side of the Atlantic (oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend the civilised portion of the western coast of the Atlantic, i.e, Canada. Ha Ha! How do you like that? Oh, alright, and Jamaica, to be fair...), and ever since it has been Peanut Butter Jelly Time, albeit not with a baseball bat or a football cap. I've been aware of the Americans' predilection for this particular type of sandwich for just about as long as I can remember, but never before had the urge or even will to try it. The tipping point? I can't really place my finger on it, but Dr. Robert Chase (known to his parents and his lovely former fiancee as Jesse Spencer) fixing himself one at the doctors' lounge after the very evil Detective Triter froze his bank account might have something to do with it, as would Dr. House stealing half of his colleague Dr. James Wilson's at one time. One must trust Dr. House's judgement! Right? Now, for all the praise Wikipedia, it still refrains from recommending any jelly or jam in particular, hence my most recent poll, and the results do seem to align to my personal preference, so I'll stick with it, for the moment.

Keeping with the culinary concerns, something else I've been delving quite a bit lately is bacon. I got an induction hob to make up for my lack of a functioning stove, even though pretty much all I cook is scrambled eggs (I don't cook that often either... I also make pasta occasionally), and the bacon seemed like a logical, no to mention archetypal, choice to go with them. Naturally, I've tried it on the frying pan, with quite satisfying results. Then, of course, right before my microwave tragedy, I tried microwaving the bacon, with surprisingly good results. For one, ~~the~~ ~~most~~ ~~a great deal of~~ some of the fat just spurted out and onto the plate, which seems like good news, meaning I'd reduce my fat intake by a few tablespoons of grease (by the way, does the soap recepie from Fight Club really work? I have quite a bit of grease just waiting for the wasing up...). Now my new microwave (oh, yes, it's working now. I got a replacement part from a similar model at the supermarket. I'm not taking back the pox, though.) has a grill feature, and I've tried grilling the bacon. For one thing, it didn't make it curl up into tiny bacon crisps like the standard microwave setting does, but then it seems to start to burn the bacon before it's thoroughly crispy and as lean as it was before. So, here's my request to you: how dlo you prepare your bacon? I'd really like to know.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

*ArabianShark would like to point out that, as Lord Yahtzee himself has stated before, although Yahtzee does tend to go off at the mere mention of Quick Time Events, he is not against them altogether. In this case, I think even Yahtzee would agree that they are used sensibly and adequately, since they don't just pop out of nothing, aren't essential and do somewhat contribute to the gameplay. Now if only someone could explain Mr. Codename Starkiller (Master Lucas must have had that stuck in his throat for over 30 years now...) that it is perfectly acceptable to jusp up, do an aerial burst of Force Lightning and, force points allowing, do another before he lands. Or some saber attacks. That would be nice...

More pox on the supermarket people

2008-09-23T17:07:00.000-07:00

I believe I've stated before some emasure of disliking towards the supermerket people. Today, I'll elaborate on the matter.

Before I go on, though, and just so you don't come to regard me as the ever-disgruntled type who leads some joyless life always scavenging for any morsel of contempt to whine about, I was going to make a joy-joy filled entry about culinary and entertainment up until about 8 o'clock this evening. and then...

I went shopping for a microwave today. My old microwave, which I've had since I first came to college, sprung a hole (yes, a charred, gaping hole) on its inner side wall, just next to the magnetron, and became unsafe to use. Sad and inconveninet, but, you know, these things happen. So I pick a new one from a miserably poor selection and ask if they deliver. I don't drive, as you might recall. I also still have two incepient discal hernias, as you might as well recall. And, of course, the supermarket peple deliver large appliances costing over €120,00. Right off the bat I wondered if some gargantuan appliance priced at €119,99 would be eligible for delivery. And, naturally, microwaves aren't eligible for delivery.

So, to spare you the specifics, I enlisted the help of a close friend and get on with it. Past the horrible, unkind and slow customer relations, turns out the microwaves on display were incorrectly labeled, and I ended up buying the wrong one. Naturally, I didn't find this out until I got home. So we lug the thing back to the supermarket and, after explaining two sales assistants what the matter was (in fact, after convinving them there was a matter in the first place... thickies) and the waiting (ye gods, the waiting! The unnecessary stress on my poor vertebrae! The soreness on my dear ol' feet! The pain!), we come to the conclusion that there are no such microwaves in stock and that I might buy the one on display... which I do.

So after much grappling with missing accessories, instruction manuals begone and filing a formal complaint (for once, I tired of swalling it over the lump of my throat), another very close mate of mine offered to drive me and my recentrly purchased oven home... where I could find out that it's missing the coupling between the electrical motor and the spinning plate, causing the spinning plate not to spin at all. A whole evening lost, both for me and that mate of mine who first volunteered to help, the pain, both for me and the mate who would later volunteer and who suffered in a (hopefully small, albeit quite painful, I believe) incident, for which I am to blame, though I meant for none of it, all in vain.

The pox on you, supermarket people!!!

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to remind you that he still owes you that joy-joy entry about culinary and entertainment. Give it a day or two, untill this whole mess is settled.

Back to the grind

2008-09-17T12:40:00.000-07:00

So here we are, two and a half weeks into September and (hopefully) for the last time it's back to class. With a rather lax semester, I should have plenty of time to breathe easy, attempt to find out what everyone else means by "social life" and get through most of what will become my Masters Thesis.

(self indulging pause)

Doesn't that sound nice, "Masters Thesis"? it's one of those marvellous sounding two word phrases, right up there with "Charing Cross" and "Bondage Sex". And what about the status? It goes great with my new choice of barber and the way my goatee is finally comming along (nearly a year after I started growing it). Come get me, ladies, I'm single. I mean it. Come on...

This month is rife with excitement. There's the promise of my last year in college, the aforementioned Masters Thesis and two little games we've been drooling over for eons.

First and foremost, Spore, from video game designer God Will Wright. Now, this is something lots of gamers have been gagging for for about three years. I remeber Will Wright's first presentation, which I watched on Google Video, before Google realised it would be better to merge with YouTube rather than compete, from before the game was given it's current cartoonish look. This title has been taking a lot of heat beacuse of EA's nutty DRM policy, with content becomimg less important for review matters, so here's a review that actually focuses on the game aspect of the game*.

Another title released this month, though I am yet to get my hands on it, and for which I and plenty of my peers have been waiting for fro over a year is Star Wars: The Force Unleashed. I have, however, played the demo, and it absolutely rocks. For someone who, like myself, has played both KOTOR titles as a consular and very much enjoied tearing through hordes of enemies with Force powers alone, hurling service droids at stromtroopers or combining a lightsaber slash with a Force lightning explosion or even taking down TIE fighters with my bare hands used to be immensely satisfying, in a simple-mided cathartic way, up until the point when I found myself cleaving a whole AT-ST in half with nothing but my lightsaber and sheer awesomeness.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

*ArabianShark would like to draw your attention to the fact that this review might not be entirely family freindly and should not be viewed by children. ArabianShark takes no responsability for any collateral effects of exposure to this content such as but not limited to increase of charisma, greater velocity of speech, cynicism or an urge to visit or move to Robina, Queensland.

Stalkers in the night

2008-08-28T01:47:00.000-07:00

Remeber a while bach when I had this groovy fiction thing going? Ages (or so it feels now) before I even knew what surgery felt like? Remeber how I had my little clan of vampires breeding in my socks clan?

Well, it wasn't a fad, the little vamps are alive (well, undead) and well. A bit underfed, these days, and dearly needing their exercise, but otherwise alright. They might not have seen the light of day in... well, ever, but they're certainly not gone.

Just this week, I picked up Vampire, the Masquerade: Bloodlines from the bottom of my drawer. I hadn't played it in literally years, but I can scarcely name any othr game I liked as much. Of the many clans I remember having played as a Tremere male (those guys are way greater than bear infantry or bears with rifles, a Malkavian female (that was a laugh) and a Gangrel male (that wasn't as great as I had in mind... plus, by then, it would have been my third consecutive playthough of the game, not counting the halfway playthrough I did before the Tremere male, before I ran into some technical difficulties, e.i., fried RAM). A few days ago I started playing as Nosferatu male (or so the game tells me. I've seen what passes as a Nosferatu female. Could have been a different male. The game designers could have gone a few inches further, not asking for the extra mile, to differentiate the models). I had wanted to do this for a long time. And now that I brought myself to it, I took the chance and installed the unofficial patch 5.5. I digress. My point is, have I become so jaded that this doesn't seem as fun as I remembered or is Nosferatu just a really dull clan to play as? I spent a good third of the game levelling up my Obfuscate discipline (makes you invisible. When you look like a Nosferatu, you have to), and now I find out that I really need to get at least Animalism (summons animals) to par, or this isn't going to cut it. This all means that my stats and skills are absolutely tanked, my feats look like I've just started out (although Obfuscate Level 5 does give a bit of a tactical combat advantage... when you get to make use of it).

See, this is what happens when you don't sleep. You litter the internets with whimsical, pointless dross. Get some sleep, Me!

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has been having no end of trouble sleeping. Could use a nasty cold, because then I'd be on Claridon QD, which contains high dose of anti-hystamin and a conveniently inoperative non-drowsy formula that makes me sleep like a baby.

It's happened before, you know, a nasty cold in August. See, there I go again...

Olympics

2008-08-22T10:37:00.000-07:00

This year, my just-over-slight interest in the Olympics has grown a bit, as it does every year.

A small explanation of my previous statement: I've never been much for sports. I derive little to no pleasure from practising them and the halcyon days (isn't this a lovely phrase, "halcyon days"? I really should use it more often) of my nation's Olympic prowess are long gone. However, my father is somewhat of a fan, and the Olympics are something to bond over for us. We really don't get enough of this.

Not long ago Swimming was "our" sport. Now it seems swimming has gone into the background for us, along with everything else, as no sport in particular is on the spotlight or even on the foreground, with live transmitions taking place from 3:00 AM to well into the wee hours of dawn.

So, my highlights are as follows:

Jamaican runner Usain "Lightning" Bolt has been having quite the streak, scoring nothing but first places, with the sole exception of Men's 200m Round 1 - Heat 5, where he came second only to Rondell Sorillo, and setting the World Record for the 100 metres dash.

Diving, my all-time spectacle of choice, provided a lovely entertainment for a not-as-lovely bout of insomnia with the Woman's 10 metres platform semifinal. China's Chen Roulin, who would come to take the gold, won first place over 40 points ahead of second place Mexican diver Paola Espinosa, who would see her spot taken by Canada's Emilie Heymans, retaking the spot she'd lost during the semifinal to a bit of bad luck. Not far behind her, China's Wang Xin, who had managed third place during the semifinal, improved slightly on her own performance. Both British divers, Tonia Couch and Powell Stacie qualified, but managed only 8th and 10th place respectively. Australia's Melissa Wu secured 8th place at the semifinal and went on to finish 6th at the final, performing far better than a very disappointing, albeit also Australian Alexandra Croak.

Still in the water, the Women's 10km Marathon was led most of the time by Brits Kerri-Anne Payne and Cassandra Patten. Surprisingly, right at the home stretch, Russia's Lasira Ilchenko pushed herself in a mighty sprint straight to first place. German swimmer Angela Maurer showed a hearty effort herself, but couldn't outdo the two brits.

Australia's Steve Hooker* set the Olympic Record in Men's pole vault after managing a 5.96 metres leap on his third atempt, well above Russian athlete Evgeny Lukyanenko's best result of 5.85 metres.

I've also been watching some volleyball and beach volleyball, but hardly any of it live. I'd just like to leave a bit of a recommendation to all aspiring Olympic Athletes reading this that if you have a funny name, such as, oh say, Brazillian Volleyball player Fofão (not a typo), have your jersey read either your first or your last name accordingly (I can't tell weather Fofão is a first or last name. In either case, I wouldn't have gone on in front of the world with that printed on my back). Best of luck.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

* ArabianShark would like to remind you all the neither Olympic Medalist Steve Hooker nor his father, Eric Hooker, an athlete as well, appreciate you sniggering at their last name, so kindly show these Hookers the respect and admiration they have earned on the field.

Trying hard not to laugh

2008-08-11T10:24:00.000-07:00

First, the setup:

You can click this piece of text to be taken to another webpage!

Yes, I know, I can embed YouTube videos but I won't embed this.

Now, I could, of course, quote any number of actual scientific rebutals for this, or even argue something of my own, such as "Why, then, would Catholicism have us believe that God created the Earth in seven days about six thousand years ago?", this gets most of them every time, but, again, I won't.

I'll just draw your attention to the description to the left (click "More Info"). Now does that sound like someone is desperate or what? What's more, all of that verborhea can be found in comments, marked as spam. Interestingly enough, only one outdated, praising comment remains, whereas comments are now disabled (one can only imagine how many were deleted and guess what they said), as are ratings. And defending God with the word "logic" is about as coherent as offering hamburgers to promote vegetarianism, as is proving God by limited science knowledge and dubious assumptions, such as the use of the word "before" in a context where time itself is non-existant or that whatever smidgeons of order that can be found in the Universe have always been so and have been set so from the get-go by some intilligence.

If you can believe it, I worked my way into this by watching related videos, stemming from this. So, as you can see, I've had my share of laughter for the day... Oh, but is it ever enough?

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has found a much more interesting way to drop weight than sweating my buttocks off at the gym: laughing my buttocks off. My gut might follow suit.

Ah, the Joys of Multiplayer

2008-08-07T08:46:00.000-07:00

So, as announced before, I am now having a bit of fun with Red Alert 3 Beta. A few things have taken me by surprise about it:

First, the graphics resemble those of Red Alert 2 much more than they do the more recent Command & Conquer 3. Not so much the graphics quality as much as the style, but still, a bit disappointing.

Second, this game takes a leaf out of the outcast Command & Conquer: Generals and allows players to choose from different powers which they may acquire with some manner of "Honour Points" they earn from building their edifices and demolishing other's edifices and such. The main difference is now the player isn't restricted to a maximum of being a Five Star General, and may purchase the whole tech tree of powers, if the game runs long enough.

Third, similarly to Melbourn House's KKND, Ore isn't available in fields but in pre-placed mines, which, unlike KKND's Oil Puddles, don't really become exhausted, as they keep replenishing, like Ore fields, and at an equally slow rate.

Not surprisingly, water dwelling units are back, as are the series's staple Tesla Coil weapons and Time Rift utilities.

So the Beta is restricted to multiplayer. Not my cup of tea, but still, rather OK. So I've played a few matches and gotten a feel for the game. Wins some, lose some, all good sport. Now, just now, something funny happened: My opponent, who was playing with the Soviet Faction, hurled a satelite at my camp. Taken by surprise, I jokingly asked "What was that, the Mir?". My until then silent opponent, became much more vocal, starting with "YES". Now, I don't mind trash talking - actually, I do, just a little, hardly worth noticing - but would you please have the decency of trash talk with propper spelling? Being trash talked to is one thing, but knowing that you're being trash taked to - trash yelled to, in fact, as ALL CAPS SEEM TO BE THE FASHION - and not even understanding it is a bit more than I'm willing to endure for my defeat. Now I remember why I like single player so much.

I wonder if I should tell EA something about it. You know, as positive feedback, suggest that they implement a filter of sorts.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to end this entry by making a point that he was no ill will against deliberately cronically poor spellers, trash taklers and people who are yet to know moderation for the rather wider key to the right of the 'A' key on any standard qwerty keyboard for as long as they keep well away from me; otherwise I have a bit of a will to carve slits every half inch going all around their bodies from head to toe with a dull, kinky-edged knife and dipping them in molten lead... slowly. I'm a terrible human being

Red Alert!

2008-08-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

Welcome, Comerades, to blog of ArabianShark. Our forces are even now siezing control of this beacon of communication for to bring it towards the Soviet dominion. Soon we will be... *fizz* *fizz* *garble* *crackle*

*smack!*

Alright, that would have been the sound of a rubber chicken, wielded by a knight in a full suit of armour, being knocked upside the head of a very silly Soviet General. His efforts might have succeded too, if the whole process wasn't so damn slow.

I mean, five bleeding hours just to download the installer? Granted, its over 740 MB, but, geez, EA, it's not like you couldn't have hosted it yourself, did you really have to outsource to FilePlanet to host them for you, you cheapskates? And, though by no means your fault, Firefox crashed on me once, squandering a couple of hours worth of download and lost connection to the file altogether at some point, throwing away even more hours of download. Then, by the time I had managed to download the installer and run the thing (pretty. Well done, lads!), it tells me it needs an update? Bloody hell, the installer file was updated yesterday, says so on your file host, FilePlanet. After more than eleven hours you'd think I could wait another 20+ minutes, but I don't bloody want to! Give me my rightfully purchased Command & Conquer: Red Alert 3 Beta NOW!

It's not done yet. It seems I need to type slower when I'm procrastinating or ranting to make a download seem to go by faster more efficientely, which might sound a bit contradictory, oddly enough.

Right, then, I'll bother my cat for the next 15+ minutes until you're done.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark will play RA3 beefore the night is done, rest assured. Jealous? Don't be...

Ladies' Knight

2008-07-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

And other misconceptions.

No point to today's entry, just some teasers, the likes of "why is it that stuff sent by car is a shipment, but sent by boat is cargo".

So... Ever notice how, on any given disco, on a "Ladies' Night", men pay for the so-called "free drinks" for the ladies, but hardly any ladies attend? Naturally, any self respecting lady would realise a Ladie's Night is festering with opportunity for lonely men to try and meet her, and, knowing lonely men (or, even worse, liquored up men), meet might mean harass, even if they don't mean it. Thus, Ladie's Night becomes Overpriced Sausage Fest (just like some department I know...). Now for the depressing bit: clubs still throw these, which means they are profitable, which means at least one of two tings: a) At least enough ladies to ensure Ladies' Night doesn't become a total Sausage Fest don't mind the bad pickup lines, the overly insistent invitations to dance/make out/go back to my place (well, obviously not mine, but you understand what I mean) and the occasional grope; b) Not enough men have wised up to the meaning of a Ladies' Night. And that's plain disturbing. I should talk, just yesterday I was caught smack dab in the middle of one. I'll say this in my defence: I had no idea there was a Ladies' Night going on at that place until minutes before my party and I (so there were two of us. A mob, no doubt) set off to the place and I wasn't going for anything else than some fun times with a mate. It was kind of a bust, as we were promised a female DJ who didn't show up in the time we were there (and it wasn't like we left early, either) and the two punk-arse kids who style themselves as DJ put on a grand total of three decent tunes the whole time we were there (but don't go trusting my taste), and the only request I made was met with "not tonight". What afraid to drive off the ladies? News flash, lad, they've been driven off already.

(Thin) People tell people who want to lose weight and who, for some reason or another don't have time to exercice "you're telling me that you can't take ten minutes every day?" all the time. OK, sure, I believe everyone can take 10 minutes out of their very busy scedulle every day. Here's what else I believe: ten minutes every day are worth absolutely squat. I have my own training regimen, and the warm up alone is twelve minutes. Last time I checked, twelve was greater than ten, but don't go trusting my math either; after all, I'm only an engineering student. I'm supposed to be rotten at math. Go ask the management types. Now I remember when I was wasting my time with a personal trainer, our routine was 45 minutes, three times a week. So 3 x 45 = 135 (approx.), whereas ten minues every day is 10 x 7 = 70 (give or take). Now one might be tempted to rush into the conclusion that 135 > 70. I maintain that I wasted my time on that plan now you do the math. Besides, any ten minutes that most busy people I know could possbly take would be at the end of a very exhausting day, when exercising would be innefficient and only contribute to tire them out even more and make them sore the day after. So, just in case you're an advocate for good health and regular exercise, the next time you want to argue with me that I can take ten minutes every day to exercise, remember that I take two hours at least three times a week to work out, I diet and I'm still struggling to slim down a bit. That and I reserve the right to shatter one of your bones for every sit up I do on the spot. I might come to over half your skelleton. Be ready.

Advocates of good health (I'm picking on them today. Everyone gets a turn) and no smoking will tell you that if you smoke a pack a day you'll spend so much in so long, and you could do so and so with that money. I say balderdash. Assuming you're a smoker, if you didn't smoke you'd have more mony to spend, and you would spend more mony, plain and simple. If you stopped smoking now, you wouldn't be able to take a dream trip by Christmas on account of it, you'd plainly spend whatever you'd save on smokes over time. If you could save the money you'd otherwise spend on tobacco, you should be able to save just as much without quitting. That said, I do think smokers would be well advised to quit for the sake of their healths. However, if any smoker is unwilling to quit for whatever reason, I won't bother you for it, just keep your cancerigen tar-filled foul-smelling billows well away from me and be merry.

So here's the smoking saving plan, from me to you. Get a box. Any box. An old shoe box, a sandbox, a lunch box, a very large matchbox, an X-box or even a computer case, which can refered to as a box. A woman's vagina might also be refered to, in slang, as a box, but I'm afraid that sort of box is unfit for our purposes. Now that we have our box, we're going to smoke a pack a day (or an extra pack a day, if you already smoke). Now, smoking is, sorry to say it, a foul habit, and I could never in clean counscience advise you to hack at your health like that, so instead of actually buying and consumming tobacco products, figure out how much a pack of any given brand of cigarretes costs. Then, every day, slip that much into the box through a slit you would have made into the box (thus making a cardboard box a good choice, a plastic lunch box a fair choice, a computer case a rahter poor choice, an X-box a terrible choice, for this matter, and the other sort of box a disgraceful choice). Here's the important bit: DON'T OPEN THE BOX UNTIL CHRISTMAS!!! (or Summer, if you start after July) When you do open the box, asuming you've kept it properly, well, there should be money in it, no surprise there. Treat yourself to something nice. And you didn't even haev to stop smoking for it.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianSHark would like to sing some praise to "The Dark Knight", but whatever pressure from the studio or the distributor or whatever to make it a PG film really stopped it from attaining its full potential. Still pretty good, though. I recommend it.

Sex and violence

2008-07-18T19:30:00.000-07:00

Not at the same time, rest assured. And, on that note, "Having sex while boosting cars" is probably one of the worst lines a script has ever forced from your lips, Mr. Cage, but I do like your work on the whole. I digress...

So recentely, on a message board, I got asked which is worse: sex or violence. First of all, the question is malformed, or at least ufit to be taken out of context. Amidst a discussion about video games and, consequentely, movies, the question is wether depictions of sex are worse than depictions of violence. And now I can clearly and absolutely state that the question is malformed.

As if this entry wasn't going to run long enough, I ask you a similarly malformed question. Which is sweeter: salt or beer? The answer is, rather clearly, neither is sweeter because neither is sweet to begin with. Ergo, I argue that neither depictions of sex nor depictions of violence are necessarily bad.

Alright, let's invite our guest speakers to bombard me with their ususal arguments. Better yet, let me do it for them, they'll need all their spit to babble a dogmatic reply to my venting. So without further ado, "1. Violence in movies makes our children violent", "2. Violence in TV is the cause of all the wars going on", "3. Violence in video games is at the root of catastrophes such as Columbine", "4. Sex in movies leads to the spreading of STDs", "5. Sex in video games leads to more and more rapings" and, my personal favourite, "6. Porn is for perverts".

Right, now to address them all in order:

1. Balderdash. Violence isn't depicted in movies suitable for children, unless very mild, humourous and cartoonish, or so the MPAA boasts. On that topic, the MPAA takes incomplete and inaccurate depictions of violence as less harmful than gory scenes. This means that one villian shooting several opponents, possibly multiple times each with relish, showing no remorse in a scene where not a single drop of blood is shown, making a shooting seem like a clean and easy thing, both on a technical and an emotional level, is suitable for a younger audience than a scene where someone stabs an opponent, causing a massive bleed from the victim and eliciting a turmoil of remorse, guilt and self loathing within the aggressor, showing just how ugly violence is. See the incongruence?

2. No, that would be the unquenchable thirst for money, power and oil parching the gluttunous throats of idiots with far too much power and wealth. Let's face it, I am yet to hear of any single war fought for the sake of war. It's the same tired old tale time and time again, from times History itself has forgotten: Party A wants Party B's lands/wealth/goods and is either unwilling or unable to find a diplomatic arrangement that serves both parties and goes on to a non diplomatic solution. That's not TV's fault, that mom and dad's fault for not teaching their political leaders to be to play nice and don't covet thy neighbour's assets. Sometimes, however, it's mere intolerance that motivates wars. And just where is intolerance picked up? Could it be in churches, mosques and synagogues, to name a few places of worship? Must I conjure words such as "Templar Knights" and "Jihad" to make my point? I didn't think so.

3. And I suppose Etonians, fine oarsmen that they are, never picked up a copy of Doom or Quake or Half Life or any of their mods or installments, because you've never heard of an Eton Massacre. Or the Dragon School Massacre. Or the Escola Secundária Alves Martins Massacre (though sometimes...). Also, do you suppose the culprits at Columbine, all of whom adept players of first person shooters, were the only adept players of first person shooters in the whole school? Doesn't this make you think that possibly it wasn't the game's fault, but the players' fault? Don't you suppose they could have picked up just as similar a thought from studying the bloody wars our History is littered with? Do you suppose I'm ever going to state anything rather than just make questions to rebate this claim? Well, yes, I am.

4. No, unprotected sex with multiple partners without asserting each partner's health condition through reliable, regular tests, conducted by quallified medical personnel, impractical though it might be with increasing, leads to the spreading of STDs. I'm not going to advocate monogamy or condemn casual sex, regardless of my own moral convictions, because those are matters of lifestyle and, ultimately, opinion and neither can be taken as morally superior for as long as informed consent is given by all the participants. What I will advocate is that, with each choice of lifestyle, certain responsabilities must be assumed and certain measures are recommended. A loving, monogamous couple might settle for an STD exam for each of the partners and dispense with condoms, while an active party animal, getting off with one (or more) members of the opposite sex (or of the same sex, or a combination, whatever works) should probably insist on adequate prophilaxy. This is not the behaviour depicctions of sex should either recommend or discourage; this is for schools and parents to teach to their children. Ask yourselves this (assuming you disagree, otherwise, don't bother): would you rather your child came home with one or more STDs and possibly an undesired pregnancy or put your puritane views aside for twenty minutes and teach them about condoms? Face it, someday your children are going to have sex (unless, possibly, if they choose to become engineers or managers). It might be up to you wether it is a wonderful experience that leaves them satisfied on a physical, moral and emotional plane or an awkward disaster that leaves them frustrated and miserable, not to mention diseased, possibly to the point of fatality. Think about it. And yes, I'm advocating Sex Ed in public schools, which I was promised for the best of eight years and never got. Maybe it wasn't such as loss for me, but not everyone is as lucky. I have my mother to thank for it; others might not.

5. Again, rape is not the fruit of exposure to sexuality, but of a misinterpretation of sexuality. Understand that rape isn't about getting of in the same erotic sense as consensual sex is about getting off, or, in other words, it's not about physical pleasure. It is, in fact, about aggression and dominance. Consider this: a young infant, or anyone else who has not been told about healthy sexuality, watches as two (or kore, really) bodies writhe in strange motions, seldom, if ever, seen in everyday life in public, while bestial groans and cries are let loose for several minutes of sternuous activity until finally all participants are left exhausted, and at least one of them walks away glad. Now I as you: has our subject observed an episode of sexual activity or a brawl? Rape is motivated by the desire to either harm or assert social or physical dominance, and sex is used as a tool. Lust might play a role, but rest assured, it is not remotely the same kind of lust one feels towards a consensual partner; it is, in fact, more akin to blood lust. If anything, sex scenes, which often depict all partners involved enjoying the experience, would work against the probability of a rape occuring, unless, of course, the rapist is deluded to the point of believing the victim is enjoying it. Then the rapist cannot be taken as any other member of the society and regular rules don't apply, voiding any arguments related to media.

6. And religion is for zealots. Sorry, I couldn't help it, this kind of generalising gets up my nose like itsy bitsy spider getting up the water spout. Porn is for those seeking quick arousal and relief for their lust or a catalyst for their sexuality. Unless an addiction is in play, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with porn. Performers do so of their own volition and are remunerated, and purevoyers are, of course, acting upon their own desires. Themes depicted are only staged as a fantasy, which should be taken as fiction, and no more harmful in nature than "The Sound of Music", which, in turn, features depictions of a regime who thought well to purge a country of millions guilty only of worshipping a different faith. How's porn ever done something like that?

More to the point, probably, is how exactly do you suppose you're protecting your children? Blinding them to violent os sexual themes isn't going to help them in the long run. Both are innate to mankind, and the best we can hope for them is to channel them apropriately, into harmless outlets for violence (i.e., let your kids shoot the bloody brain and guts out of their polygonal enemies in video games, lest they pick up the carving knife from the kitchen and let your blood all over the dining room carpet. It will stain!) and healthy sexuality (your little boy is going to come across the most goregous youg girl sunning herself in your next trip to the beach as a family and maybe you should be the first to tell him why she makes him feel that way, why he can't take his eyes off her and why does he suddenly want to be close to her. Same goes if he feels that way about the male lifeguard, it's no one's fault, especially because no harm, no foul( foul/fault, get it?). You're not protecting your kids by not letting them know about violence and sexuality, you're just setting them up to become confused as all hell when they do discover about them in the end. Just a word of caution, don't be in too much of a hurry. I learnt of human reproduction at possibly age three or so, way before I had any notion of sexuality, and now I realise that it kind of is a bit of a prequesite. Might be a good idea to introduce them both at the same time, or at least, when your youngling asks you where do babies come from, instead of comming up with the good old stork or its likes, deliver an approach on the basics of reproduction stressing the relevance of affection between two consenting adults, otherwise a cold, scientific approach might lead your children to regard the whole process as banal and completely unrelated to feelings of tenderness, which is probably not the best idea.

Enjoy your summer and the sunning beauties that come with it.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark will now recite some less recommendable words that might make this entry pop up in Google searches, as I really would like to reach more than my four usual readers, bless your hearts. Fucker anal ass butt sodomy whore hooker prostitute porn star gay faggot lesbian dyke Osama bin Laden Hillary Clinton Barack Obama George Bush George W. Bush Al Qaeda molest molester sex offender gangbang pussy penetration intercourse S&M SM S/M BDSM bondage torture pain juggs boobs breasts penis cock dick golden shower lick nipple bukkake cum splooge fletching gokkun ream reamming muff dive blow job deep throat and, of course, the highly unrecommendable ten, shit piss fuck cunt cocksucker motherfucker tits fart turd and twat. That ought to do it.

Opera

2008-07-07T10:06:00.001-07:00

No, wait, that's misspelt.

Oprah

Much better. Onwards, then, I shant be long. That would be a first...

So I gather Ms. Oprah Winfrey has airings of her worldwide known show, "Oprah", dedicated to her Favourite Things, in a long segment aptly named "Favourite Things". Any number of months ago, though it ran just moments ago (Ah, yes, the magic of re-runs...), one such airing enlighted the watchers on the process of selecting the Favourite Things. I might comment on the whole process, had I had more than a fleeting glimpse between switching channels, but instead I shall comment only on this quote of one staff member.

"... [Oprah] gives small clues, like «this is my new favourite thing»..."

My, my, is that a small clue? Perish the thought of what a big clue should be. Perhaps an All-American Gas-Guzzling "ess-yoo-vee" with "Favourite Thing!" spray painted on the side on top of a picture of the "Favourite Thing" at hand? It rather is the sort of thing you've come to expect from that side of the ocean, money permitting (and, quite often, it does...), isn't it?

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is, quite evidentely, procrastinating. But with a mere few days to go, you'd expect me to, wouldn't you?

The leisure edition

2008-06-25T00:47:00.000-07:00

As I've been told, it's much too hot to be outside engaging in any leisurely outdoor activities such as tennis or some uncivilised deeds such as street fighting, defeating cybernetically enhanced Kaleesh warlords (a cookie for the first ten to pick up on this reference) or football (regular football, that is, or, for those unfortunate enough to be born on the lands of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named-Unless-As-Bush, "soccer", a so-called sport where you're not suppesed to sock anyone or wear full kevlar body armour). Good thing my coat is ready now. It turned out really well. The satin lining is a shade more purple than it seemed on the sample swatch, but it's still fine, it just lends the whole thing a bit of bohemian glamour which the plain lead gray I had in mind wouldn't.

So hang your coat, and be entertained. I have some links for you. The first is Chronotron. For those of you who who enjoyed Portal, this will feel like something completelly different, because there are no portals, fancy physics or excellent voice acting in this little flash game. It's a puzzle game as well, though, where you interact with yourself. Give it a whirl, it might be fun. I liked it.

Children of the 80's shouldn't be children anymore these days, but I imagine they'd recall some of the tunes of those days, so how about reaching into the corners of your memories for the lyrics you haven't heard in fifteen years and put your knowledge of those golden times to the test with Lyric Master: 80's Edition. Check out the rst of the site for other fun filled games and quizzes alike. Mind your children, not all of it is appropriate for all ages.

Keep cool, cats.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has come down with another shift in his sleep cycle, just like last February. A patter emerges...

So bloody hot...

2008-06-11T18:30:00.000-07:00

It's just so bloody hot! It feels like it's the middle of June already, but... Oh, wait, it is the middle of bloody June, isn't it? How the smeg is one supposed to do any measure of good at one's finals with one's brains either baking in their skulls or melting to bloody mush? Remember the Wookie army in Star Wars - Episode III: Revenge of the Sith? Only six actual Wookies were shot with a camera (and plenty more with heavy repeaters, one can only imagine), all of them teenage basketball players. It seems we're yet to see a Wookie played by a professional actor (Chewbacca was played by Peter Mayhew, a nurse at the time, cast for his height. It seems under tonnes of make up and fur, acting range isn't really crucial, especially when you're not expected so actually say any lines that won't be dubbed as roars). I digress. My point is those six Wookie suits, in which the sportsmen were shot repeatedly (too hot to make another bad "shot" pun the likes of "now that's commitment!" or "That's got to hurt...") swapping weapons and places in between shots (not too hot to make a booze pun, such as "An added perk of showbusiness, you see..." or "Wookies can hold their liquer in battle.", but I'll refrain from that) had their own coling system by means of circulating ice cold water.

Can I get one of those? It'd be the thing for the exams. I'll even growl at every sitting, for as long as I'm nice and cool underneath all the fur... Besides, dressed as a Wookie warrior, who's going to contest my answers? I might rip their arms off...

Semper niger, pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is struggling to even breathe under the heat. I can't even be bothered to slip in a secret message.

Overjoyed!

2008-05-25T14:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Heartbroken

2008-05-24T07:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-18T17:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Floppy

2008-05-13T06:46:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-04T19:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Rapid fire

2008-04-30T20:30:00.001-07:00

It seems only a moment ago I was posting here... Oh, wait, I was.

Since I've posted twice in such a short amount of time, it's only fair to warn you this entry comes in sequence of the previous entry. It's only fair that I warn you and let you read it first. Go on, I'll wait.

No point in telling me you'll read it later, I won't go anywhere until you do.

At this point, I'll assume you've read it thoroughly, or at least that you have a rough idea of what it was about. I'll go on, then.

So I went over the e-mail again and found out Fay Korgasm's address. Mighty useful, should I want to send them a letter or a post card asking who they were and what were they trying to send me. But then I thought of going over my banking records and found out what exactly might I have ordered from Seattle. With that in mind, I dug up what I thought was most likely to be Fay's e-mail address, and asked if they were trying to confirm my home address. When Fay did indeed confirm my suspicion, they produced my correct and full address, and said the package had been sent in the morning. So, first and foremost, thank you very much, Fay, which is not your real name, and which I've concealed only so I wouldn't speak unduly ill of you the previous entry.

Now let's go over this one more time, shall we? The USPS sent me an e-mail on the afternoon of the day in which morning they had shipped the package trying to confirm my address, and supplied an incomplete address, whereas the shipper had indeed sent the package to the correct one? Working rather well, aren't we?

On another note, my poll wielded results, three, to be exact, and a clear winner, by absolute majority, Electrocution. The runner-ups, Impaling and Beheading, aren't really mutually exclusive either. So here's what I propose: Find ye a sharp rod of iron or copper no less than two centimeters wide nor wider than five centimeters wide and about 1.8 meters long. This rod shall thou coat in water based lubricant. Ye shall avoid scilicon based or oil based lubricants, superior though they might be for some usages, for these conduct less well. Poke ye the taylor's bottom with the pointy end of thine rod and lift it high in the air, and the taylor, by gravity, shall slide down the shaft and become impaled as the sharp end emerges, likely from his chest or back. At this point, attach thee one jumper cable to each end of the rod and said cables to the high voltage source of your liking, the common power line being a suitable favourite. After the taylor on the spit is sufficently roasted, lof off his head with thine favoured piece of cuttlery, though I shall warn thee: it may take a while if you elect the fruit knife, whereas the popular cleaver might deliver a swifter execution.

That said, my coat is now in the hands of a seamstress, a very trusty seamstress, but definitely not a Seamstress. See, the capitalisation thing matters here, just like de difference in spam and Spam. I trust her needle is much sharper than her tongue, although her tongue is really of little concern to me, provided her needle is sharp and nimble enough. Also, as the lining job was so botched, the whole fabric has to be replaced. We're going with lead colour real satin this time, no cheap nylon "acetinate" crap. Heavy fabric FTW!!1!!ONE

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has been blogging most intesnively as of late. I might need a brake. Or not...

Well done!

2008-04-30T14:11:00.000-07:00

And I thought I had it bad...

Looks like I've started at the middle. Might be a side effect of the tear in the space time continuum which is prone to engulf us all and send us hurtling into chrono-spatial chaos. Don't be alarmed.

So I'm fairly sure most of my readers are even slightly aware of the Postal Service I have in this wretched country I'm strugling to flee. It's the sort of Postal Service who won't grant you the right to not recieve undesired publicity to the point your mailbox bursts (meaning you have to acquire said right elsewhere). It's the sort of Postal Service who'll pretend to have tried to deliver your package to your doorstep at 11:35 AM on a Friday, then announce your failed delivery might be reatempted at your discretion or you might want to pick up said package at (one of) your local Post Office(s, assuming you can find out which one) from 5:00 PM onwards, even though you might be sweating it until 7:00 PM, when (all of) your local Post Office(s) will have closed for the day. It's the sort of Postal Service who'll make you walk (or drive) for nearly 10 bloody miles to find what they'll assign as (one of) your local Post Office(s), despite the very handy one just around the corner. It's the... well, you get the point. I thought I had it bad.

So today I got this e-mail from a sender I didn't recognise, and frankly, by the looks of it, at first glance I thought this was another invitation to "World Blowjob Day" that had managed to circumvent the spam filter, but, upon a closer look, turned out to be the United States (presumably of America) Postal Service. Seeing as I am not an American, have never lived in America, haven't been to that side of the Atlantic in oh say some five years or so and haven't been to the US this century, it caught me by surprise. Turns out someone by the name of Fay Korgasm (not really, but I saw this somewhere and thought it was somewhat amusing... no? Never mind...) or something just as helpful has sent a package for me, so the USPS needs to confirm the "Shipping to" address. Right off the bat they tell me that, should the address be incorrect, I should contact the shipper. Furthermore, the package is schedulled to be sent today. I'm guessing there's a safe chance the package has, indeed been sent. Indulge me in the math of it. I got the e-mail at about 9:20 PM, local time. With the time difference, I imagine it would have been sent at about 4:20 PM EST or 1:20 PM PST or somewhere in between, I suppose. Now doesn't this make you feel as though the package might have already been sent? I, for one, thought packages were expedited in the morning of the day they're schedulled for shipping, yet they contact me in the early to mid afternoon. Furthermore, there is nothing even slightly similar to a shipper's contact, just the name. Who the hell is Fay Korgasm? I've never seen a Fay Korgasm in my life. How do I get ahold of a Fay Korgasm to tell him/her/it that they left out some of my address?

Well done, US Postal Service. Is this what it means to "go Postal", then? That was a fun game...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is hoping - hoping! - to still be able to recieve this item. Yet I shudder to think of the tarrifs alone...

Uhhhh...?

2008-04-23T10:03:00.000-07:00

Placeholder for favourite (non-religious, please) interjection, it seems like ages since I've last been here. I can't help to feel some measure of clearvoyance was in place then, as I set the expiry date for the poll that accompanied my last post to a rather long time. At any rate, an update is much overdue. I'll keep the bricklaying down, so we don't end up with an all-mighty wall of text.

I just got a blender. You see, ever since I moved to the place I live now I haven't really done a lot of cooking (however, only as of late have I become proficient at cooking entire, conventional meals and more complex main courses, such as noodles and tuna casserole), so I have been able to do well enough without one, but now that's changed, I've been looking for the best milkshake recepie (and I don't mean "non-dairy gum based beverage", such as what you actually get under the misleading title of "shake" at nearly every fast food joint but Krusty Burger). So far, I can't figure out why this young lady would put so much ice on hers. It really doesn't seem to add to the shake, and I'd very much appreciate if someone could explain this to me. Is there some fundamental difference between "shake" and "smoothie" that I don't get?

No, actuall, this should be in the previous paragraph. Do adjust your set. Scroll down a line so it seems there is no change in paragraph. So far I've found out some ready-bought gelatin is an interesting addition. I'm yet to try with powdered geltatin. Could work well...

The hour has changed, the days are getting longer and even this rainy spell we've had for a few days seems to be at an end. The inexorable news approach. Warmth is coming. Flee! South, preferably. Someone said Australia?

I don't think I'll ever quite grasp why it is that some movies take four bloody months to come from the civilised world to this wretched land where fate accursed me with birth, whereas others take but weeks. You'd expect that, after months of longing, said movies would be well recieved, but no; instead, you get overgrown, overage children paying to shriek in disgust at the most revered elements of Pantomine, uttering poorly borrowed mannerisms at the least suited times. And they charge you to wittness this.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has just been able to resist the urge of impulse buying an Exotic Shorthair Pesian, cute and fluffy though it was. I want a standard, longhair Persian, me.

Where's Simon?

2008-03-23T10:43:00.000-07:00

Did you order a rant with extra bile? Well, you had better, because you're getting one...

So I have this gorgeous long black leather trenchcoat I adore, impervious to rain, cold or wind, and alternately rugged glamorous and sleek sinister. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the garment of choice for Winter, especially Chrismas Vacation in London, where style and sophistication would like one to look their best.

Now, I've had that coat for over six years, and the lining never got any younger. It tore a bit. Now the leather is perfectly fine, and there's no reason to discard the whole coat, so I had the lining replaced. I thought a tanner should do well enough, but , wanting to spoil my beloved trenchcoat a bit, I sought out a taylor. Ian Dury, advising any who'd listen to

     "See my taylor
      He's called Simon
      I know it's going to fit"

might have had something to do with it. This taylor, obviously not Simon, bothced the job. Big time. So off the bat, en lieu of the plain canvas off-white lining the coat came with (and which I liked well enough), I asked him for something with a little more sparkle, like a silvery satin lining. You'd think a half decent taylor would either have such a fabric or be able to find it, but no, he delegated such responsability on me. Where in blazes would I find fabrics? I'm an Engineering student, not a seamstress's apprentice! So I leave it to him to pick a suitable fabric, and he did an alright job. At choosing a fabric, mind you.

The moment I saw the finished coat, I noticed two things wrong: First, the coat used to be of a prestigious Norwegian leather goods designer, as a large label on the inside was clear to state; now, such label is nowere to be found. But, sure enough, I can live with a label none could see being removed. What I should find harder to abide is the missing inner breast pocket.

"Oh, but it's a leather coat..." The incompetent taylor moaned in more of a complaint than an excuse.

Well, I should rather think that if I had wanted the pocket to be removed I'd have bloody asked for it, now wouldn't I? The previous lining had a pocket, he can't have missed it. I even took the care to emphasise that it should have a zipper along the opening to close the pocket, as the original had. Now I realise I ought to have demanded that the original be put back in its place, as it's shape, size, and the very nice leather patch around the opening are lost now. Instead, the coat now has an overly wide, not nearly deep enough pocket set far to close to the edge of the lining and with some icky synthetic wool patch. To make matters worse, the lizard stained the leather with glue, to no avail, as I can easily slide my finger in between the leather and the lining near the glue stains. Furthermore, I took the chance to observe just how shoddy his stitching was. The lining now meets the leather along a dizzyingly contorted line, whereas it used to be a crisp, straight line. In some spots, he left pieces of the old, mismatching lining and stiched the new one to it along a very unsightly seam.

I ask your oermission to be candid and break etiquette with a vernacular expression, but what the fuck did I pay him for? Let my warning serve you all: never, ever, under any circumstances, allow your first dealings with anyone you expect quality service from to be mediated by a helpful relative. The bastard has been paid for a half arsed job which, in all likely, he'll have to do over, and be the skies ablaze with brimstone if I'm shedding another cent into his pockets.

On a (much) lignter note, I got a (spam) e-mail from someone claiming to be called "marissa" and a "lonely russian girl". Apparently, capitalisation is only required among capitalists. She was alledgedly quite eager to offer me photos of herself. Google took notice and quickly set its AdSense feature to recommend ads about "Russian Mail Order Brides". Thank, but no, thanks.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark almost didn't shed his bile over the vile taylor, but, alas, the joy he'd be posting about was villanously robbed from him just the same. It seems nothing goes right this week...

Amazon agh

2008-03-05T08:39:00.000-08:00

Right, so a few... ok, scratch that, a lot of months ago, a fellow blogger at whose blog I'm a regular was rather upset, to say the least, with Amazon. While I understood her grievance at the time, I, being quite happy with Amazon myself, didn't think much of it.

Then just this week, I committed an act of extreme intelligence (alas, I keep forgetting that < sarcasm > and < /sarcasm > aren't valid tags): I went on to place an order through Amazon. All was fine until I remembered I had moved since last time I had used Amazon, and my order was being dispatched to my old address.

Now, unfortunately, my keyboard, among its 105 keys, has no button labeled "PANIC". It really should, though. So I clicked my way to finding out what to do in this sort of emergency. The best Amazon could do was send an e-mail with the text of my liking to the seller. So I explained that I had made a blunder and please deliver to my correct address which is as follows and so. Unbeknownst to me (at the time, that is), Amazon encased my e-mail in between two segments of text of their own, the first one being as follows:

Important Notice: Only dispatch to the address shown in your seller account. Do not honour buyer requests to dispatch orders to any address other than the one provided by Amazon.co.uk. Do not accept any payment method other than Amazon Payments. Payment for the sale may be withheld if these guidelines are not followed.

So what was poor Paul (let's assume that's the seller's name) to do? Well, alledgedly, at the time of his reply (two days after my original e-mail, yet well within the expected time of dispatch) he had not seen my message until he had sent my item. Might be true, but a nagging feeling at the back of my head tells me Paul had, indeed, read my e-mail, but prefered to tell a little white lie and respect Amazon's terms. I can't blame him for that, and, had I known of Amazon's guidelines, I wouldn't have asked him to ship my stuff to my actual, current address, but you'd think Amazon could have put a bit more effort into dealing with these situations? I mean, sure I made a blunder and I have only myself to blame, but I expect others might have erred in even worse ways. Think of the Americans...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has ways of retrieving his ill-posted objects, rest assured. Your concern is appreciated.

Valentine's

2008-02-14T11:23:00.000-08:00

So it's the 14th again, eh? Goodness, seems like only last week I was doing my first ever post about St. Valentine's day. Last year Valentine's day began much too early for clear thought and still not early enough, for I seem to recall being late for my admission for surgery. Then came a hipoglicemia induced migraine, because I was told to skip breakfast for blood test (and later told that I needn't have, for as long as I had mentioned that I had eaten and wasn't diabetic). Later on the full fright of being less than a day away from my first ever surgery hit me and I spent the evening trying not to lose it entirely. Much ado about barely anything, really, but how could I know? Still, that was the worst Valentine's day ever with every other being a close second. Do I sound bitter to you? I suppose I am a little bitter...

You know, I really have nothing against St. Valentines or gay couples - let me rephrase that - merry couples, regardless of sexual preference, enjoying the occasion. So do you think there would be enough loving going around that I could have a small share (I'm not greedy) for myself? No such luck... And, for once, I did try. Still no luck.
Pax (et Venus) vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to notify all whom it may concern that the Bachelors Club will be meeting at 22:00 and the Lonely Hearts will gather later. Their schedulles are free today.

I've the right to rant

2008-02-11T19:40:00.000-08:00

And rant I shall... briefly.

First and foremost, a recurring topic, spam. I am now the (not very) proud recipient of spam in Arabic. On the down side, I can't read it. On the plus side, I don't think I'd like to, really, seeing as it is spam. Comes with the territory (and an e-mail address startig with "Arabian"). Spam (not the meat product) is, however, on of the matters of greatest laughter in my life. Just days ago I recieved one claiming that the best way to "impress the ladies is with great c0ck". I wasn't aware ladies were esaily impressed with poultry. Is this why they are also sometimes refered to as "chicks"? I'd like an expert opinion, please? As if any were to be found around here...

Today on the telly, while zapping, I caught a bit of an interview with a sexologist reporting, from a book on nymphomania, of a tale of how a nine year old girl was taken by her mother to a gynecologist on suspicion that she masturbated. The gynecologist would have reported somthing along the lines of "as soon as I struck the clitoris, the legs opened and the body contorted with moans of pleasure". The girl was "treated" with excision. I switched channels. On the next channel, Michaela Conlin says "monster". See, telly is educational, after all.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to discurage minors from reading this partcular entry as it discusses adult themes and contains a deliberate and ineffective mispelling of a swear word. But, then again, if minors nowadays are anything like they were when I was a minor, this is hardly anything they haven't been exposed to yet, so knock yourselves out. Really, go on, knock yourselves out. At the very least, it'll amuse me.

Paper faces on parade!

2008-02-04T20:15:00.000-08:00

A cookie to whoever can tell me which work the title of this entry is a line from. A second cookie will be awarded to he or she who can recite the sentence uttered before it in the same work.

So it's that time of the year again. There's no escaping it. McDonald's attendants are in costume. Supermarket tellers are dressed up in silly flashy rags you couldn't associate with a fantasy archetype if your life depended on it (I mean, I was assisted by a young wooman clad in red, with red see-through "flaps", for want of a better word, of fabric dangling from her sleeves and the hem of her dress and with her hair dyed shocking red. So what is she supposed to be, "Period Woman"?). Herds of young children from kindergartens will deambulate in double files, dressed in either their own costumes or readily provided (or rather, improvised) costumes of sorts, brandishing long stick of wood, which become makeshift magic wands, swords, canes, rifles and an all-round good idea, to provide young enfants with tools of scratching, bruising, cutting, poking and eye-gouging. Thumbs up, safety! Unless it's a clever plot to weed out the unrulier ones. Then even I'll condone with that.
Ah, well, here I am, sounding all bitter and sarcastic, when, after all, this is one of the few inescapable silly times I actually rather enjoy. Let's all shed our routinely worries and become our fantasies for a few hours. I'm all for that, really, for as long as it's harmless fun. Even tonight I was surprised to be passed by a fellow running in white hooded overalls, bearing the fearsome yellow and black "radioactivity" insignia on his right breast and a larger version on his back. Remember those t-shirts with the saying "I'm a bomb technician, if you see me running try to keep up" stamped on their back? It felt a bit like that... with the added factor of the tardiness of the hour (nigh on or past 3:00 AM).

Which brings me to a topic I'm really disgruntled about. I got myself in a bit of a mess, with my biological clock all messed up. I find myself unable to sleep at night, but come late morning or early afternoon, I'm out like a light until early evening. So perhaps I'm becoming a vampire, and not for Carnival only. That would be swell, wouldn't it? To shed morality and mortality alike and roam the night everlasting. It bothers me little that I can't sleep at propper hours, I'll shrug it off, somehow. What gets up my nose is some hellish little birds who'll pick whenever I'm trying to get my sleep in order to screech with their shrill chirps at bloody 4:00 AM. What the hell, it's 4:00 AM in the winter, the sun won't be up for hours and already you're chirping like your miserable existences of nary consequence depended on me not getting my timely sleep? Rejoice in that I can't find you or reach you unhelped, for I'd wring your single occipital condrilus necks in a heartbeat without a second thought. The pox on you as well. Now go bother the supermarket people. You'll find you have some in common after all.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has had way too much of a not-very-popular so-called energy drink, the thought behind it being that, If I can stay awake for the night, as I have lately, and the whole day after it, then, come next night, I'll be far too exhausted not to sleep well. However, this energetic beverage seems to be wanting some juice...

The Gun Seller

2008-01-29T15:59:00.000-08:00

Let's have a show of hands, shall we? How many of you know of actor Hugh Laurie's novel "The Gun Seller"? OK, and how many know the story that led to it being written? That few, eh? Then let's review, shall we?

According to James Hugh Callum Laurie, OBE (isn't he?) himself, on "Inside the Actor Studio" with James Lipton, at some time in his life he meant to keep a diary. Shortly after, he became bored with his own diary, and began to make up events to make it more appealing, even if only to himself.

I might thake a page out of Laurie's book. Not "The Gun Seller", of course, but making up some first person fiction here on the blog. When I started in early 2006, i had envisioned some random rambling, not unlike what it came to be, but I expected it all to be far less dull. So perhaps I might begin posting some purely (or not-so-purely) fictinal entries, to liven things up. Don't worry, I'll be sure to let you know when I'm telling an outright fib for the sake of entertainment. Or will I?

So, starting soon, stay tuned for... you know, I haven't thought of neither a title nor a theme to the fiction that might ensue. Stay tuned for that as well. Have a say in it.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark sets out in search of adventure, peril, glory and glamour. Oh, look, there's some...

Exameanation

2008-01-25T21:20:00.000-08:00

Pun or spelling mistake? Take your guess.

Why can't I do good (I mean really good) on examinations?

Take the latest example, Algorithm Analysis and Development. See, I'm on top of my game here. I don't mean to brag (OK, just a little bit), but I can deliver a 2.7 out of 3.0 worthy presentation without the aid of fancy transparencies or a PowerPoint or PDF, just all-talk and some scribbling on the whiteboard (Rapid rotation Algorithm for Raster Grafics). I can submit a 95% worthy program-and-paper assignment (Tiling problem. Neat stuff). Then why can't I scrape more than a just barely pass grade on the exam? And by just barely pass I mean It becomes a pass grade when put next to the dazzling other work, but is an otherwise high fail grade on its own.

See, what did me in here was the multiple choice part. Half of the global marks were on multiple choice questions, and most of them carry this little trick I dread. Suppose option A) is clearly wrong and B) is clearly right, C) could be right and D says "Both B) and C)". Now, this is a tiny nightmare for me. I could say B), because I know it's right, and I won't say C), even if it might be right, but if it is, then only D) is the right answer. And that, my friends, sucks.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark isn't terribly worried about this one, though. He's made the grade, even if one assignment has grade pending. But he's confident that it will wield a nice contribution to the already sufficient grade. It's a recursive backtracking algorithm to find out how a knight chess piece may start at a given position on a variable size chess board and step in eache square exactly once. Neat stuff too.

The pox on the supermarket people!

2008-01-22T19:06:00.001-08:00

So today I went to the supermarket. I hadn't exactly planned on it, seeing as I had just been there yesterday, but I had gone for dinner in the vicinity, and one member of my dinner party had to shop, so we all tagged along. This is where I usually refrain from shopping altogether or shop on impulse. Today I went with door number two.

So one of the items I impulsively acquired is of a rather intimate nature. Call me overly conservative, but, for some reasons, I'm not entirely at ease shopping for certains things. In that sense, the new-ish do-it-yourself, self-service quick cashiers have been a breath of fresh air. Now, of course, they're far from perfect, but they do well enough, most of the time.

Now this particular item is boxed and then wrapped in celofane. Just as luck would have it, the celofane seam lays right across the barcode, making scanning rather difficult. This leaves me with two choices: either manually input the product code (which I can't really read, the print is too small) or call for assistence (which I'd rather not do). SO I take the creative way out and tear the celofane right then and there, enabling easy scan of the barcode.

Then, on my way out, the detectors beep madly at me, as if I'd shoplifted anything. I resent any such accusation, but, then again, the machine does work kind of funny, and I immediately suspected one of the cookie boxes hadn't registred propperly. I expected security to be called to deal with this matter (and really would have prefered it had been so), but instead, a very petitte attendant in charge of the self-service cashiers steps up. Now, if I had indeed shoplifted, I could all too easily have just lumped her and dashed for it, she would have nary a prayer of stopping me, and I'm not even the strong type. But still she comes to check for my bags, and soon finds out that it is the exact same rather embarasing item that set off the alarm. As it turned out, there's a sort of capacitor circuit sticker (you know what I mean, right? It looks like a silvery square-ish spiral) thingy inside the box which must be de-activated at a pad of sorts. Now, the box, though not really very large, is of a suis-generis shape, and hard as all hell to conceal. Why, ye gods, why should then that be chosen for marking with a device that prevents all discretion? It can't be easily stolen! Trying to embarass shoppers? The pox on you all!

On the brighter side of news, with final marks out today, I just found out I have finally rid myself of a thorn on my side for two well over a year now, and for good. Sadly, this means I might very well never again attend a lecture by master Borges.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark wishes to put great emphasis on that he is by no means sarcastic about regretting not working under master Borges's tutelage again. Wish that more masters would be any measure like him. Honest. And you can't know what embarasing item it was all about.

Keeping on

2008-01-18T15:04:00.000-08:00

So today, on Shark Nibbles, "The Year In Review", 2007 edition.

2007 started in utter agony, as, likely for the penultime time, I found myself greeting the new year standing on dearly sore feet, crushed amidst a mass of complete strangers for really no better reason than to appease dear ol' mom. At the stroke of midnight, were I not a soulless heathen, I'd let out a prayer that 2007 would see the end of the excruciating pain from my yet-to-be-diagnosed hernia, as well as the distrophy on my left leg it induced. I relly hoped it would be, however. And it did, but not before a whole one-and-a-half months of excruciating pain, which meant the January exam season was pretty much shot to hell (not that it needed that much help, after the hellish "pick in early october" system they had devised). Then, come second semester, between surgery and post-op, I missed on what I considered to be the most important of classes in the new subjects. With that and my unparalell skill to procrastinate, second semester was an all-round cock-up.

March would see me move to my first ever all-mine flat. After a rocky first weeks, just about everything turned out just peachy.

Come Summer 2007, after I had completely fallen out of shape, which I had acquired with much dedication and self-sacrifice, from the long inactivity following my hernia and recovery from surgery, I found myself still not sufficientely healed to re-take on my calistenics routine. On the other hand, my brief experience with contact lenses and cool, curvy shades goes on the "good things" plate of the scales. Nevertheless, even though my vacation, cut short though it turned out to be, was pretty awesome, with most of every afternoon and even night outtings with my best mate, I left with a sense of unfulfilment I cannot explain. Perhaps I should have gone out more. Or less. I don't know.

First semester in 2007/2008 started up smoothly enough, with some ugly business in one course turning out mitigated well enough (though my faith in certain sorts of people has been irreparably struck), some other ugly business in another course only came up as a realisation of my not-unexpected fears and yet a third mishap took me completely by surprise, and I have only myself to blame for it. But, hey, comes with the territory. On the plus side, a colleague of mine who I barely knew and I became far closer, and I couldn't be happier about it.

Late 2007 saw me grappling with Chrismas Season Anxiety for the first time (and all the wrong reasons). Then London (London!) and some untimely epiphanies, not the least of which, in the final moments of 2007, that I was (for the last time, let me assure you) ready to welcome the new year standing on extremely sore feet in the middle of a sea of the flesh of complete strangers for no more benefit than I could have by watching BBC One, except for the joys of fooling a rude spainyard (redundant?) into believing I can't speak a wod of English after his nth attempt to shove me out of my hard earned spot.

All in all, 2007 sucked. It's pointless to wonder if I'd erase all its memory and its events from history if given the power because it's plainly not going to happen. Let's just take the good with the bad and be done with it.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark will now return to getting settlet to welcome in the weekend, after an exhausting week of procrastination and dealing with it's consequences. Oh, like you've never done it!

Lady London

2008-01-11T14:39:00.000-08:00

Well, I seem to have collected quite a bit of a backlog since I last posted, last year. Don't worry, I'll let it out slowly... one post at a time...

First and foremost: London!

What can I say that hasn't been said or that you don't yet know? It's London! European capital of eccleticism, elegance and sophistication (among other things hardly worth mention). This time ranks up there as very likely the best trip yet. Of course I can most vividly compare with last time, when I was twisted in pain from my hernia, and, as such, this time around was incomparably better. However...

Of course, the down side. First off, airports. I don't mind flying, mind you, but airports kind of annoy me. Lines at the gates and check in counters and the mind-numbing wait for the luggage not withstanding, it's airport security I complain about. So I'm about to pass security on the trip there and I completely forget about the iPod strapped to my arm, beneath my shirt and jumper. So I empty out my pockets and go through the metal detector, which beeps. So I take off my mechanical all-steel watch (which might have some small measure of metal in it...) and give it another go. It still beeps. So security comes in and starts to frisk me. Oh sure, the guy doesn't like this any more than I do, but still goes down my legs, along my arms, over the iPod, which could just as easily be way over 28 grams of C4 (remember the bomb shoe nut?), over my shoulders and chest, the headphones in protective casing which could just as easily be a trigger device and lets me go without further inquiries. Sure thing, guv'nor. Now I know how things are in this country, so, I figure he thinks it might be more trouble than it's worth to pick on these potentially dangerous little things.

Then, on the way back, they make us take off our shoes before going through security. I knew the folks at Heathrow get a little paranoid this way, but, hey, no big deal. At the metal detector, I figure I might get away with the iPod, so I go through with the iPod and the heavy watch and (go figure) the thing goes off. Cue in security officer. This fellow is more into the frisking business, I think. I'm not entirely sure what he did doesn't count as foreplay. DIdn't do much for me, though. Yet again he went straight over my personal audio gear without a second thought. Then he brought out the handheld metal detector, and I thought he'd sure pick up on the thing on my arm. Turns out he was only interested in waving the thing in front of my crotch and my rear. Come to think of it... wierd...

So let's get this straight: The aluminium replica of a shark's tooth I used to have as a keychain ornament which they confiscated back in 2002 or 2003 - bad; perfume and nail polish, as some friends of mine report having been made to dispose of - bad; small to medium lumps of unidentified substances and wiring of undisclosed nature - now that's all good. Riiiiiiiight...

But then Picadilly Circus and Leicester Square come up into view and make it all better.

Another thing: I stayed at the Hilton. And no, I didn't come to any situation suitable to a Paris joke, but they managed to botch up a simple reservation. We had booked a twin executive room, not a double executive room. I don't much fancy the thought of sharing my bed with my mother, if that's alright with you. But, really, for all they advertised, such as spacious rooms and marble bathrooms, save your money. The rooms are as cramped as the rest, and marble bathrooms means you get as marble countertop around the basin in the bathroom. And the room layout is so bleeding boring. It feels as though in all my trips I've stayed in three different rooms, only one of them was in several different hotels. The honorous mentions go to myHotel in Bloomsbury and the very expensive (but worth every last penny) Sanderson Hotel, in Berners Street.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to take this opportunity to remind you that everyone's favourite blog (i.e., this one) celebrated its second anniverary just days ago. You'd have been invited, if only you'd answer the polls more often.

Done with

2007-12-23T16:13:00.000-08:00

I used to love Christmas. No, wait, that's not right. I used to LOVE Christmas. Back then, it seemed it was all about getting Christmas gifts, and in those days, it usualy meant toys (and, naturally, the never-wanting underwear). Then, for a few weeks, until the novelty wore off, those toys would be my world. It hasn't been so for nigh on a decade.

Then after that, Christmas began being about family. Or rather, I began to understand that Christmas wasn't all about toys or even gifts. It was about spending quality ime with one's relatives, and the gifts were mere accessories or tools for the deep communion. Of course, it's still nice to exchange gifts and unrap them and all, but it's really not what Christmas is all about, not even what it's mostly about.

In the latter years, after having moved out to college, comming home for Christmas took yet another meaning. I beagn to appreciate my relatives even more once I found myself only meeting them on weekends, should I be so lucky. It also meant that I'd start paying for some of the gifts I'd gie out, instead of having them all bought by others and given on my behalf. Certainly I can't yet afford to buy out all the gifts I "give", but I certainly do buy some of them, even if I'm not really expected to. I insist on it; it feels much different than the alternative. Much better, too.

The last couple of years, though, have been quite strange around this time. For near twenty years I had Chrismas Dinner with my mother's side of the family, and each year I'd collect the gifts the "other side" would have for me beforehand and unrap them with the rest of them, with the "same side". For near twenty I endured the scrutiny over said gifts, being forced to acknowledge that they were far inferior to all others, lest I offend present company. It hurt, standing there and often taking insult and slander in silence.

As an aside, I never really managed to graps the zest of this one-sided rivalry. The way it seems to me, my father's side of the family never really instigated, nourished or even held a rivalry. So my father's parents didn't get to see much of their (for quite some time) only grandson. So they could feel I wasn't quite as at ease with them as I was with their maternal counterparts. So they didn't get to spoil me as much as they would have liked. Tey quite understood it came with the teritory of divorce, and instead counted their blessings and enjoied what time they did get to spend with me. My mother's mother, on the other side, always had a consuming need to be acknowledged as trhe superior grandparent. She would have me state that I liked her gifts and her faimily's side's gifts better than theirs as well as other petty things. Now my mother's father, he was good friends with my father's father, and never really felt the need for any such silly acknowledgements, but his devotion of his wife would compel him to play into said scheemes. My mother's sister too wouldn't willingly play into such futile feuds, but, again, under her mother's influence (quite another complicated case of extreme need for approval. For another time, maybe), would (half) jokingly refer to my father's sister (insn't it interesting, this duality?) as "her rival", even if there was no rivalry at all. I'm quite certain all my readers understand that there really was no contest, as there is still no contest, and thus, nothing to be gained. My father's brother not only didn't have a maternal counterpart but also was still in college by the time I was born, being the youngest of thee brothers. This meant that he knew beforehand that he wouldn't ge to see me grow up even as much as his parents or siblings, certainly not as much as he liked, and even now resides and works far away from his hometown. However, this did not, by any means, make us estranged in any way. Draw your conclusions.

Back on track, now. A couple of years ago, while spending the late afternoon on Christmas Eve with my father and his side of the family, he invited me to have Christmas Dinner with him. I would have very much liked to, but, alas, I couldn't, for I had made plans with "the other side" (again, this struggle of sides, it just tore me up, but, for the life of me, it was neither my fault or my call) for dinner. However, and because that was by no means a moot invitation, I made a point of making plans for a year from that day for dinner with them.

And, guess what, I stuck to them.

Surprisingly, this was a Christmas dinner the likes I had never had before. You see, my grandparents were all somewhat of war children. They cowered in fear as infants as war aircraft scraped the skies above, and knew first hand the rigors of food rationing and all disgraces I pray I must never know any more closely than reading about them. As war children, they have an aura os seriousness about them, for, as you may imagine, their youths had little in the way of laughing. Furthermore, they're all deeply catholic, and we all know how catholicism regards the very concept of "fun". I mean, not meaning to offend any faiths, merely having one off the wrist is a deadly sin, lest you forget. My mother's parents, though not presbiterian, do seem to affect a very presbiterian posture regarding fun and enjoyment. So I gre up with the notion that a Christmas Dinner is something to be enjoyed amidst a very sternly serious silence. But that year, I found out you can have Christmas Dinner and fun at the same time. It nearly shocked me to discover you can bond as a family and laugh.

For years, that was all I really wanted for Christmas, that we could laugh as a family. That we could be enjoying a casual, light chat over dinner and then have someone say something extremely funny and have us all set down our silverware and maybe clutch our tummys as we laugh away. Or maybe get up in between course, prance a little around the dinner table, set ourselves up for a snapshot, then, in the brink of the moment, strike a most hilarious pose, or maybe one that ridicules (in a tasteful manner, of course) one of the people in the snapshot, then laugh about it and just fall into each other's arms from it. And that year, I got it. I finally got it. Big surprise I went back next year for more. So I had a hernia. So I was struck with excruciating pain the whole evening. So I had to stand in between every two courses, sometimes even mid-course to relieve the sciatic pain. It was the best Christmas Dinner ever.

Then, just after dinner, and contrary to most families tradition of waiting until midnight or even the next morning, we exchanged gifts, I packed mine and parted, for I had still to exchange gifts with the "other side". And when I get to my mother's parent's, what should I find? That my mother, just as affected by the boorish ambience I complained before, has fallen asleep on a couch (for the recors, we're talking about an insomniac who'll regularly and gladly not sleep before 3:00 am, dozing off at about 10:30 pm), my grandmother resents me for having Christmas Dinner without them two years in a row, my grandfather (oh, shock) supports her, and my aunt, much as she'd like to have no part in such petty matters, wouldn't resist under the gaze of her mother, and puts together some lame effort of a reprimand for my "insensitive bohemian behaviour".

Well, I suppose the Father Chrismas cap with the blinking stars on the white fur lining was too much. I mean, a Father Christmas cap at Christmas!? I must have been out of my mind.

So this year is back to Christmas Dinner with the Banishers of Laughing, but not before a perfectly timely falling out with my mother over the pettiest matter. You know what? I'm done with this two bit place I'm forced to call my home town. If ever I come for the weekend, I leave feeling depressed and physically sick. I dread the bus ride, and I see less and less reward each time. My father chooses to spend his weekends at his summer house (and I don't blame him the slightest), to which he often enough invites me, his mother often enough is found either touring abroad or visiting her youngest child, his father is long not among us, rest his soul. My mother insists on these petty quarrels. Her parents are welcome to visit me whenever they'd like. Let those form the outskirts waste whatever (quite finite, let me assure you) vitality they posess finding this twisted parody of a city a better place to spend their weekends, let them have it, for all I care. I'm done with it. Done!

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is now feeling quite free form the obligation of returning home regularly. And now that I'm free to take up other responsabilities, I'm off to pursue a dream I have nourished for quite some time. I'm getting a cat. A presian, too. You'll see, a lovely silver coloured persian. I'll be better off spending my weekends with him, too.

My kingdom for 50p

2007-12-14T19:08:00.000-08:00

I suppose this makes my loyal subjects glad I'm not really king of anything I'd wholesale for half a pound. And yet...

I'm a sucker for some iconoclasty. Really, some small symbols just make me all warm and fuzzy inside and even somewhat mushy eyed, at times. Of course I expect we all to feel something at the sight of powerful symbols, such as the Hakken Kreuz, but I'm talking about lesser, somtimes ignored or overlooked things. For example, just the mention of the word "Odeon" sends shivers down my spine. Why? Well, for starters, it has quite a deep and powerful sownd to it, doesn't it? Secondly, it's a very prominent theater in Leicester Square, which, despite what some will say about it being "the Armpit of London", is one of the places I hold dearest to me, along with Picadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square.

At this point, I'd like to mention that despite being as much of a Star Wars enthusiast, even the likeness of Darth Vader doesn't make me feel anything even comparable to the delightful thrill of the word "Odeon". And he's a Sith Lord!

But Odeon isn't what I'd like to mention today, especially because there's very little you can do with 50p around the whole Odeon theme. You could give it to a busker, if one can be found, though. What I'd like to say is that just out of the blue I got this huge craving for a 50p coin. Monetary facevalue or the represantation by means of currency of the United Kingdom not withstanding, the real reason for this is that, on the back of just about every 50p coin circulating today, you can find what I believe to be the most beautiful depiction of Britannia. And guess what, that'a another of those icons.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark often wonders if his fixations are all healthy, but I won't let that become a fixation. I've enough of them already.

How about that?

2007-12-10T18:03:00.001-08:00

I guess this means it's time to stop taking INternet Personality tests.

Actually, That's what I said when my aura came back not having a colour, but still...

What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Not only that, but

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

So... beware!

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark ponders the effects on history as we know it of replacing either Don Corleone with Albert Einstein or the other way around... Amusing...

The pen is mightier than the sword

2007-11-25T16:01:00.000-08:00

Sure enough, but how do the needle and thread compare?

Let me take you back in time. Should we visit the Third Crusade, circa 1190? Well, consider the travel fares for such a trip... We're traveling on a budget, so let's go to some five years ago...

Cue in special time travel effects. And a DeLorean.

The year is 2002. The world has yet to recover from the events of 9/11 2001. George W. Bush is on his first term, prior to his election. Most importantly, in some two bit nigh highlandish town, I've just graduated from high school. Yay!

Yay! indeed. Where should we begin to count the reasons for me to rejoice? Is it the impending freedom from leaving the nest? Is it the fact that I'm about to take the fisrt few steps along the path to whatever I'll ultimately end up doing as a profession? How about the sheer antecipation of the joys of college environment? Sort of, really. What I was the GLaDest about was leaving the sowing circles.

Long introduction to the sowing circles: Just watch Pulp Fiction.

Short introduction to the sowing circles: in Pulp Fiction, discussing the matter of whether some never shown henchman was killed for performing some act of a sexual or erotic nature on the cheif gangster's wife, Uma Thurman dismisses said rumor as false and proceedes to accuse John Travolta and his kind of "being worse than a sowing circle", i.e., a group of people who'll join for some excuse with the ulterior motive of exchanging gossip.

So what do I refer to as "sowing circles"? Small (or not so small), hermetic groups of people gathering around to spew venom upon each other and especially upon those who won't, either because of inability or repulse, join one such group.

Well, doesn't time just fly by when you're having fun? It's 2007 all over again! A whole month of it yet to come and all. And here I stand (well, sit, really), remembering how I didn't expect to find sowing circles here, spinning their webs of hurtful rumors and weaving their cloth of rumor and intrigue. Silly me. I'd find them, alright, and none the kinder.

Really, I expected most of my peers to grow out of such a puerile stage in five years, and I'm glad to see many did, but looking upon the social landscape, what do I see?

Mesas. Not one of them Black, but plenty thereof, nonetheless. Mesas of groups cackling about lies told about others. And across a great chasm from them, a small plains of lush meadows where trees of thick branches provide ample shade and streams of fresh, crystaline water sliver, the shared land of Trekkies and Warsies.

Granted, not all inhabitants of this little locus amoenus are either fans of Star Trek or of Star Wars, but, rest assured, none of them are in a sowing circle, or do they even relate to that ilk.

As a trivia factoid, how to recognise them at a glance? Not such an easy task, but here's a tested and true method: Simply ask either "What's your favourite episode?" or "Who's the better captain, Kirk or Piccard?". I trust I need not explain which question appeals to which group, but lets go over the possible answers:

- Episode I, Episode VI: Could be a Warsie. Odds are, however, it's a Trekkie posing as a Warsie for whatever reason. Could be neither a Trekkie nor a Warsie nor a Snowflake.

- Episode V, Episode II: Most likely a Warsie. Possibly a well informed Trekkie or Snowflake posing as a Warsie for whatever reason.

- Episode III, Episode IV: Could be one of the very rare Warsies who honestly feel either of these two is the best, or, just as likely, a reasonably informed Trekkie or Snowflake posing as a Warsie for whatever reason.

- I don't really like Star Wars...: Not a Warsie, that's a given. Certainly either a Trekkie or a Snowflake. Definitely, however, not a Seamstress (i.e., a member of a sowing circle).

- Kirk, Piccard: Again, not a Seamstress. Most likely a Trekkie, although this could just as well be a Warsie or a Snowflake posing as a Trekkie for whatever reason. If, however, the response refers to any other spin-off of the original Star Trek show, it could hardly not be a Trekkie.

- I'm not really into Star Trek: Most usually a Warsie. Often enough a Snowflake. Not a Trekkie. Again, not a Seamstress.

And now the answer you've been waiting for, the one which plainly lays it out, fair and square, that you've just come face to face with a Seamstress...

To fully understand the relation, however, you need to comprehend how a Seamstress regards these matters. To a Seamstress, this hardly important matter denotes one's belonging in a group, and, thus, entirely defines an individual. No previous answer is acceptable to a Seamstress; to side with eiter side, the so-called "sci-fi geeks", is worse than none bar not siding with anyone, which constitutes a status-threatening, and, thus, life-threatening situation. The only way a Seamstress can concieve to rid him/herself of said imbroglio is, unchangingly, to mock their interloper, scorn their preferences and utter some veiled insult, with a very much unveiled insult chaser, thus (in their needle-and-thread minds) saving face and themselves. So, without further ado, for your comfort and enjoyment, here's a sample answer from a Seamstress:

"What? What are you talking about? That's rubbish! lol! Only lonely pathetic fat blokes with no life watch that sort of crap! You Geek! Haha!"

Interesting enough, some Seamstresses will pronounce "lol" as any other word. I can only suppose it gives them some sort of status boost the likes of "I use trendy thechy terms in everyday life, thus, I'm trendy and techy-savy. I must be cool."

This is more than bound to happen to you in some way or another, if it hasn't already. Know always that those whose tongue is as sharp as the needles they could very well wield will never know the peaceful joys of our little haven.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark should probably explain the use of the word Snowflake as a fourth group, and third among the Peaceful Plains. Remember always that snowflakes are sure to be found in a Blizzard.

Remember!

2007-11-05T17:08:00.002-08:00

Remember, remember, the fifth of November
The gunpowder treason and plot
I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
'Twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parliament
Poor old England to overthrow
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!

A penny loaf to feed ol' Pope,
A farthing cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down,
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head,
Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!

Well I couldn't very well leave the day when we celebrate the defining influence to my (second) favourite movie ever go by unnoticed, could I? And, in an unprecedented event, both the Pope and God were mentioned in this ateistic blog
Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark counts the days. 52 remain. And a very merry Guy Fawkes day to you all. Except Acer Care. They sent me a motherboard with a dead CMOS chip battery. Will they ever learn?

Google Goodness

2007-10-31T04:33:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-10-25T17:44:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-18T18:36:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-13T09:36:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-07T09:22:00.000-07:00

... 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.

We hardly knew ye

2007-09-30T10:21:00.000-07:00

As some of you might know, I collect mechanical watches. Seldom will you see me with a quarts watch, except on summertime, when I'm likely to break out a Casio G Shock, because you don't want to bring a fine leather bracelet or a polished steel casing to a sandy beach. About a weak ago my father called me, offering me a deal.

It seems he had acquired a watch for himself, a new technology gimmick flagship from Jeager-LeCoultre, the Master Control watch with ceramic ball bearings. You see, ceramic ball bearings offer lower levels of friction and wear and tear, potentially decreasing the need for maintnance and lubrication while increasing accuracy and power reserve capacity. The thing is the days of 42 milimeter wide casings are well over and done with, and major watchmakers lean more and more towards larger sizes, such as 47 milimeters, whilst bullet makers stand adamantly in 9 milimeters. Such wide casings (for watches, I mean) don't go so well with my father's quite narrow wrists (nor do bullet casings or bullets, for that matter...), so he offered to trade... with me.

Quite the chance, I'd say, for me to introduce a new brand to my personal collection. Furthermore, I can't say no to dear daddy. But what to offrer in exchange? Omega, who made the no-longer-absolute majority of my watches, provided quite the solution, with their DeVille Co-Axial Chronometer Small Seconds model. I used to have two, of them: a terribly elegant one with black dial and black aligator leather bracelet and a near exact double, but with a white dial which clashes with most of my shirts, so I didn't wear it so often. So off it went to a better home...

This picture isn't of the actual watch, as you can see by the not-so-small seconds. It would seem that the actual small seconds model has been discontinued. All the better for whoever owns one of them, as their market value is sure to skyrocket. But I feel I struck quite the bargain...

... for, as you can see, this baby is nowhere behind the Omega fine watch in any aspect, be it technology (although it's a different technology), elegant simplicity or beauty. And it fits my wrist much better. Sure, it's not black dialed, but neither is it so white, so the clash won't be quite as violent. It's pretty...
Why does the mere mention of the word "Odeon" send shivers down my spine?
But this little wonder would turn out ont to be all the tick I'd get for my tack.

Dad would like me to have yet another watch, fresh off the Longines drawing board and a steal, he said, given the time and effort put into constructing such a watch, seeing as it comes with a chronographe and a complete calendar (and, as he forgot the recipt inside the walnut box, I agree). Enter the new Master Collection, the second Longines watch I own.
In Soviet Russia, watch wear YOU!!
And since we're on a bit of an image spree, I'd like to call back to the news of Glen Larson making a Knight Rider Movie. As it seems, Mr. Larson isn't the only one interested on a slice of the pie a talking car might bring in, and so Universal Studios, which once helped to make the original Knight Rider series (and then proceded to anihilate the whole franchise with such subpar works as Knight Rider 2000 and Team Knight Rider) wants in on this. For this effect, they plan to release a new series and a two hour TV movie. It seems they are legally allowed to make as much Knight Rider material as they please, for as long as it is only televised, as opposed to a theatrical movie, to which only Mr. Larson is entitled. A friend of his asked me for my help by bearing this seal as a token of my support. Ergo...

... just so you know where I stand.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark will be returning to his usual hustle and bustle of classes tomorrow, with a brand new Algorithms course to begin with. New corse, same old teacher who finally explained phi bach when I started this blog. Psyched!!!

Dieting

2007-09-07T10:00:00.000-07:00

How many books have you ever seen on the shelves on the topic? How many tomes of wisdom promised fast weight loss, until the media drew the public's attention to the hazzards of such practices? How many books have you since seen promising long lasting results?

Well, I'm not about to unveil the great grand secret to swift, safe and permanent weight loss, but let's talk diets for a while...

Up until the Great Tragedy of 2006 (well, so what if I want to embellish the puny disgraces of my life? I like a little flair...) - that's my hernia, if you remember - I was quite lean, for myself and my long histoy of moderate obesity. Last summer I had undertaken a self constructed course of strict boiled white meat and regular exercise - which was, at some point, somewhat disheveled by a severe cold - to great effect. Then, unable to make the long-ish hike my dieting meant to prevent me from gaining it all back, I gained it all back. After my surgery, it was even worse. Then, this summer, I had planned to return to my strict diet and exercise plan, but, alas, my back wasn't healed enough. I couldn't exercise. And, without the seretonin from the exercise, I couldn't keep my spirits high enough to stick to my diet (hell, I couldn't even sleep right) and fell back into temptation. I managed minimal weight loss. Then summer vacationing ended and I tried another regime, one with a different, less strict diet of balanced meals of grilled meat or fish, vegetables and carbs, along with a 3 mile hike every other night. I managed to gain weight with that. Then, about two weeks ago, I went back to college to study up (to no avail). During that time, I found myself lazily ordering pizza up to three night per week, snacking on pastry and resorting to stress foods ever so often. I eevn found my new poison: creamed camambert cheese on crackers. Now that I came back home (let's see for how long...), I expected a major weight gain. So today, just after breakfast, I stepped on the scale. I hadn't put on a single pound! For my metric readers, that's about 450 grams. For my L.A. readers, I mean fat; grams aren't always heroin or cocaine. For my Australian readers, g'day, mate(s). So explain that to me?

At any rate, I worry. My back has been giving me no end of trouble, and I think I've spotted some troublesome aches on my right sciatic nerve branch. Don't you dare say a prayer for me, but do cross your fingers. Please?

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark will return to dieting soon enough. And this time, with a vengeance.

Refurbished

2007-08-30T23:28:00.000-07:00

This came a little later than I first expected and a little sooner than I then expected. You see, in May or then abouts I figured I'd change computers in late june or possibly early July. Then, in late June, I figured the end of the Summer would be a good time. Not much later I was advised to wait until the end of the year, for the price drop in quad core processors, and much as I accepted said advice, I was fairly sure I would do no such thing in December, and January would be right out of the issue, with Exam season and what not, and even February didn't seem too likely... Then fate took all my decisions for me.

About a week ago I came back from vacation and found my computer to be inopperative. One long beep followed by a few short beeps during post suggested my graphics adapter was shot. A few tries later, after checking that the gigantic GeForce 7800 GTX SLI was propperly inserted, the cooling fans started to sound rather slow and the leds weren't quite as bright, which made me think the power unit was about to kick the bucket. Sure enough, I could have replaced those parts, but I figured, "Now is as good a time to change as any other." Sure, in just a few short months Quad core processors will be much cheaper and some new and exciting advent of technology will make current technology obsolete and I really should wait, but you know what, in a few more months from then some other sort of processor will become much cheaper and some other new and eciting technology will mane the new and exciting technology we are now expecting obsolete. So I figure any time os a great time to change. So I did.

And so I'm now runnig test running my new custom machine. At first I thought I'd splurge a little (more) and go all out on an Intel Core 2 Quad Extreme processor, but I figured I'd never be able to afford the harware to fully enjoy that, so I settled for a Core 2 Duo 3.0 GHZ with a 1333 MHz FSB. With the same clock frequency as the Quad core I'd get, it will, most likely, perform much better for the price (much less than a third), since I don't really run anything that takes advantage of multiple cores. After that was settled, the Asus P5K-E Motherboard was quite the natural choice, as were the twin Western Digital 500 GB SATAII hard disks, for a mean SATA RAID Type 0, because you really can't enjoy a wicked fast processor without a wicked fast data storage such as a RAID device. 4 GB RAM might seem a bit wasteful, since I'm running a 32 bit system (I experimented with 64 bits systems with my Athlon 64 FX. Nothing great about it.), but Linux can index it all, even if Windows can only index just over 3 GB. The active cooler I got for it, in addition the passive coolers it came with (Corsair stuff, they go all out to keep it cool) might have been a little much, but the price was quite right. I only had half a mind to change my graphics card, but since the one I had could be bust anyway, in came a XFX GeForce 8800 Ultra 768 MB GDDR3. Talk about huge, I've seen entire computers smaller than that thing (think PDAs). And before you go on rambling about ATI cards, great though they may be, and ATI Crossfire technology, great though it might seem, remember only that Linux doesnt always fare as well with ATI cards, and Crossfire, just like SLi, looks great on paper, and you think you can always get a card just like the one you have when they're dirt cheap instead of a whole new card, but by the time you would, it just might be time for a full upgrade (just like this). The case I had only haf a mind to change, since my minitower proved to be a bit awkward at times, not really providing much room to fir components or to circulate air, so in came a brand new aluminium case. I could barely believe how light it is, when I first took it, I honestly thought it to be an empty shell. It is most definitely the coolest case I've ever had, not the least reason for it that it comes with 3 cooling fans: one intake fan in front, near the disk drives, one exhaust fan, in the back, just beneath the power supply unit, for good air flow, and yet another rail mounted 120 mm fan level with the graphics adapter. Throw in a waterpipe CPU heatsink with it's own 120 mm fan, the 120 mm fan from the power supply unit and the three 40 mm fans from the memory cooler and it is definitely the most well refirgerated computer I ever had, surpassing its predecessor by about four fans.

On the down side, recent motherboards only have one IDE channel, meaning I no longer have a four optic drive extravaganza, but two will do just as well. And it's two less components generating heat inside the case. AS soon as I have money I must remember to get me one of those nifty extra long and cylindrical, as opposed to flat, IDE cables, because the one I have now kind of looks like it could disrupt the optimal airflow the good people at F13 PC went to great lengths to ensure would be spotless.

But, you know, performance isn't all there is to it. After most of the Summer "making do" with a laptop keyboars and the extra, unexpected week of waiting to get my hands on my very wierd looking bent and crooked ergonomic keyboard, this feeling of being back on the saddle cannot be put into words. Meaning I could wrap up this entry here, but no, this feels good. I must have more of this! Plenty more! Welcome to the unsurpassable Wall of Tai Ping! Ha ha.

Our Russian readers may be assured this Great blog is as you read assessing your mood, gathering physiological data about you and asserting your personality, because in Soviet Rossya, blog reads YOU!! This has geen a guest intervention by Russian Reversal.

How many of you remember "Knight Rider"? Did you know the concept derived from a mock pitch dubbed "The Six Words Man"? The pitch was for a show about a man who, at the start of each episode, would get out of bed, turn to the woman therein and say "Thank you". Upon recieving orders from his boss, he'd say "Okay". Somewhere along the episode, he'd threaten the baddies with "Freeze!", and, at the very end, upon being thanked by the damsel in distress no more, he'd say "You're Welcome", and leave all the talking to the car. The finished product has more than six words (most of which are either "buddy" or "pal", refering to the "suaver"-than-thou car), but the talking car concept remains. Did you know they are still going to make the feature film? Expected to be released in mid 2008, the Knight Rider movie may or may not take place in the same continuity as the Knight Rider show from the 80's (not too likely), and definitely does not take place it the same continuity as the Knight Rider 2000 movie (which does, however, take place in the same continuity as the show... wierd...), will feature a black car (not red, Knight Rider 2000) with a red scanner (remember the iconic red scanner, Knight Rider 2000?), the ability to Turbo Boost (as if anything could replace that... I mean, what would one come up with, turning into a boat?) and will not be named KIFT (because that would be silly, wouldn't it, Knight Rider 2000?). Oh, and have you ever heard of a Knight Rider 2010 moive? Spare yourself, there is nothing Knight (or Rider, for that matter) about it. Remember always that a talikng car a Knight Industries does not make. I mean, Inspector Gadget (the film featuring Matthew Broderick) ahd a talking car, but it made no such claims.

Psyched? Let's see a teaser trailer:

Movie not loading...

Right, it's much too soon for a teaser trailer. Let's see a teaser poster isstead:

Like that? Don't think the new KITT is too rounded? Let's take a closer look:

How about it? Like that? Well, don't get excited, it's fake as a €3,00 bill.

See for yourself, straight from Koenigsegg Official site, a picture of the CCX supercar:

See the similarities? The author of the so-called Teaser poster had admitied to making the fake poster as a joke. Not half bad, however.

It should be noted that the movie is being considered since 2004, but, then again, lest we forget, the domain www.simpsonsmovie.com has been registred since circa 1997, when there was nary an inkling towards a feature Simpsons movie. Patience, Grasshopper.

And, should you be curious about it, this won't be a reboot or a continuation, at least not quite. The movie is, confirmedly, going to be set in present day and age, not the 80's, and won't feature a Pontic Trans Am as per the 80's show, not the least reason for it that Pontiac Won't allow it and that it only allows replicas to be used in television or movies for parody purposes. This will be a reimaging on the show.

Psyched now? Remeber the Battlestar Gallactica (also from Glen A. Larson's mind) movies? Liked the new sexy model Cylons and the new plot? No? Well good, because it seems very few people did, their creators included. Glen Larson himself did just about all he could to distance himself from that, but he is spearheading the Knight Rider movie project and writing the script himself according to his own and original vision (not the "Six Words Man"!), not the crappy plots of the TV "movies" or Knight Rider 2000 (which kind of resembles the plot of Robocop, in a way...) or even Team Knight Rider (Ugh! What the hell was that about?).

If you can read this, it is possible that you have little or no life. Yet I congratulate you on your endurance.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark really missed his keyboard. All is well now.

Trust Doesn't Rust

2007-08-18T10:58:00.000-07:00

... is arguably the best episode of long gone but never forgotten 1980s show Knight Rider, the one that featured not one but two shiny black nigh-omnipotent supercars, punctuated with humorous remarks from the good trans am, the Knight Industries Two Thousand, or KITT, for short, such as "That car is going to give Trans Am a bad reputation...", humurous misunderstanding driven questions from the evil prototype, the Knight Automated Roving Robot, who would allow you to call him KARR, such as "I saw you deactivate your Tony. Was he malfunctioning?", and the cant-do-without presence of Michael Knight, boasting the indispensable black leather jacket and somewhat exagerated curls, seasoned with his own brand of attitude, not the least of which towards the dignified, if pompous, figure of Devon Miles and the ever imminent romantic leaning towards the pretty face in front of the big brains of Bonnie Barstow. But Im sure you don't think I'm here to talk about that.

I have trust issues. Difficulty to trust someone is quite the most prominent issue, but certainly not the only one. See, I used to be the blind trust type, never - I mean never - ever pausing to reflect whether my trust was ever misplaced. As a kid, that got me in trouble all the time. So now I have a hard time placing more than just a smidgeon of trust in anyone, really. But the worst issue still seems to be that whenever I manage to overcome the previous issue, I still find my trust to be misplaced. It just snowballs from there. But I'm not here to talk about myself either.

Trust is quite the strange thing. It can take eons to build, but even the so-deemed strongest of trusts may be shattered by a single deed. Sad though it may be that, in a moment of distraction, irreflection, poor foresight or, on the other hand, anger or hurt, a single deed may raze what might have taken forever to raise. But saddest of all is that said deed need not be done at all.

I don't mean that a deed done by innaction, or, thus, the lack of a deed might break one's long since trust. I mean that suspicion, needingly paired with stubbornness, might make one see beyond what has been done and what might have been done and into what hasn't been done and wouldn't be done, and the deed undone, which would, no doubt destroy one's trust in another when done, will do so just as well iven if not done. The operative word, of course, being suspicion. Sure, hard-headedness cannot be dispensed with, but tolerated, if not for suspicion.

Hence my thought: Trust is a thing too fickle to have, even if one cant do without it. To deposit in someone more thrust than they reciprocate can much too easily lead to hurt feelings when they become assured they've been wronged in ways you'd never dream of, let alone even consider, but how does one assess another's trust without testing it?

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark wonders if any such thing as a a capella version of the Knight Rider theme can be had. And don't get started on the infamous dubbing of "A Super Máquina!" Herbert & Richards...

Clubbing

2007-08-16T20:00:00.000-07:00

from to club

verb;

To beat with a heavy stick, usually thicker at one end, suitable to be used as a weapon.

Good to know, but certainly not what I mean.

Remeber Pac-Man? Little round chap, wandering about dark rooms filled with bright white spots where loud, electronic, repetitive music could be heard, avoiding phantoms like entities? I can empathise abit right now.

My head is buzzing, but not swimming. It might account for any unusual degree of uncommoness about this post. Bear with me. Like you always do, friends dearest.

There's this friend of mine I've known since... 1995! Feels so long ago now, but I still remember how we first met and how we became such friends. I mean, such good friends. We kept really close until about 2002. Then college, the best thing to ever happen to me though it may be, put an end to many good things I had going on. It did make us a bot apart, but it takes more than a highly (un)organised and quite powerful teaching institution to break such friends apart for good. This week I thought I'd look him up and get together. We did.

Tonight, he invited me to go clubbing (no, not bludgeoning) with him. I did. It was (is, really) so not me, to go clubbing, and to that point, we realised, each holding a glass of crushed ice, lime and liquor that in the 12 years we've known each other, we had never gone for a night out together.

And what do I have to show for it? The music reminded me of my Philosophy final paper, back in 2001 (long as hell, but saying barely anything. Worth an A-. 19 out of 20, that was). The people around I had never met, might never meet again and if I do, I won't know it, and I don't much care for drinking; two shots to make minimum consumption and a Caipiroska (lime juice, sugar and vodka, shaken with crushed ice, in the very odd chance you're wandering) can't really make my head feel lighter or any such effect, but the music did a bit of a number on my ears. For a while, that was.

My final account? Best night of the whole Summer. As per Austin Danger Powers, KBE's immortal words, "Yeah, baby!" So I'm pretty tired and I feel somewhat "busted up", mainly beacuse I was feeling a bit under the weather to begin with this morning, but I don't recall ever being happier these last ~~few months~~ year. Sure, I could not be going to bed alone, but, then again, I could be obscenely wealthy, live in a white marble manor just outside London with a full complement of serving staff waiting on my hand and foot for my every desire, have a British Racing Green Jaguar XJ8 Sovereign LWB (for a quiet, comfortable drive) and a Plate Jaguar XJK (for a spirity drive) in my garage and shelter a dozen gorgeous and sculptural raving nymphomaniacs head over heels in love with me, but often that which we most ardently desire might stop us from enjoying that which we do have. (meaning, of course, "Not going to happen, old chap, carry on".)

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark wishes to apologise for attempting to mislead his faithful readers into shedding some e-blood for his own profit. But you're all still welcome to keep donating.

Speaking of nibbles...

2007-08-08T04:45:00.000-07:00

I wonder if I can recruit your help with a small favour...

I ask for no money (but, needless to say, if you want to give it...), just a morsel of your time.
Shady dealings ahoy...
Were I to provide a link, would you click it? Note, said link has my personal guarantee of carrying no mailce. It's appropriate for adults, thoug not X-rated. It's appropriate for very small enfants, for it contains no small pieces which may be inhaled, an thus poses no choking hazard. It's appropriate for teens. This is truly a family link, and I don't mean it in the way that The Sound of Music is a family film. This link may be enjoied equally by the whole family.

Would you click it?

If you would, then here it is:

Link!

And, sure enough, if you wouldn't, I'll provide something else, just for you:

Alternate Link! Which just happens to be the same...

So... if everyone's had enough links...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark is done linking here for today. Check back regularly for links of similar and far better quality.

Scorchin'!

2007-07-31T02:35:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd squeeze in one more post this month. Lets get on with it, then, shall we?

Even as I write this, the short-term fix for my lack of internet connectivity is a very precarious would-be broadband... thing, I'm not even sure how to call it. And here to elaborate on the perils of new technologies and their misaplications, we would have Detective John McClane, who wasn't able to provide us with a defenitive answer, yet whom we expect to make an appearence at any time.

This Internet connection thing really has me on edge. I'm working with what calls itself a Z020 Telemodem. It will often disconnect of its own accord, but even worse, even more often it will lose connection with any webserver whilst mantaining some sort of ISP connection, or at least believing as much, meaning it wont provide Internet access, and if you try to disconnect to re-connect, it won't be able to terminate the connection - and well it should not, if there is no connection to terminate... - and should you try to unplug the thing, Windows might crash. I'm not sure what the X factor is here, but it sure is one gargantuan red X.

It's been hot, and it's been about a year since Mr. Bloke made his appearence here to tell us of his dislike of warm weather. Said weather is still just as warm, which, I've just found out, can also give me insomnia. I really ought to invest on a cooling fan for myself, some day... But get this! Just a few days ago, on the news, some reporter made a point of going out and interview people regarding the hot weather. Now is it me or is this a clear sign that 1 hour long news programmes might be a bit more than our networks can handle? At any rate, some norse couple complained about the heat and commented that it made them "feel like doing nothing" and further added that if it was ever this hot in their country "they wouldn't be as productive"! Well, there you have it! Norse insight just excused our lame entropy with the most guilt-free reason - the very weather. What would become of us without norse knowledge...

Detective McClane has yet not arrived, but we expect him to drop by in time for the end of this entry.

Summer time is a poficient time for some things, despite the inexorable truth in the norseman's prespective. Spotting hotties on the beach, for one thing, is rather hard during the Winter. But Summer time is also prolific for movies. Now over here, and contrarily to most of Europe's general practice, we like to subtitle our imported media, be it cinema or TV shows, something which remained from the censorship dodging of the old regime, but lately, dubbing has become more and more of a common practice - which I resent. Just last Thursday I was about to watch The Simpsons Movie ("in glorious 2D") when I'm told it's dubbed over. I see... so we should also probably draft up a letter reading "Your voice acting, superb though it may be, has been deemed unsuitable for our narrow little minds. Thanks for a job well done and subsequently wasted." and send it to Dan Castellanetta, Julie Kavner, Nancy Cartwright, Yeardley Smith, Hank Azaria and Harry Shearer (off the top of my head, I'm not bothering with IMDb links, get them yourself), just to name a few. I wonder how the dubbers would feel if ever they knew of their hard work (which, I hear, in this particular instance, isn't so hard at all...) just being discarded on a whim. I'd dub their whines of protest myself.

Or maybe it's just the heat getting to me. Perhaps I shoulf fly South... Do I hear Australia? It ought to be nice and cool there by now...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to thank Det. John McClane for his contribution to today's edition of Shark Nibbles. Yipee-Ka-Yay, Motherfucker!

We do have contact

2007-07-15T11:33:00.000-07:00

So it all worked fine... ish! The test contacts did arrive in the predicted timeframe and I have them. They're comfortable and I see fairly well with them. So now for the sunny side down bit.

Because they're only test contacts, the astigmatism isn't fully corrected which means tha, while I can go on about with them, reading is out of the question. Which isn't too bad, since I wasn't really planning on wearing them to work. The other thing is that the right lens seems to turn around a lot, which really imparts my sight sometimes. Still, not too much, just enough to notice. Also they seem to fit too snugly, which could become hazardous to my eyes, if worn for oo long or too often. For the usage I intend for them, however, they should be fine. The only real issue is that putting them on and taking them off is way more complicated than I originally thought. That and that by the end of my first day (rather, my first few hours, I put them on in the early evening), I had one mean splitting migraine. I couldn't even enjoy the symphony of sensuous screaming from my neighbours (you say voyeur, I say victim. It's not like I'm eavesdropping, she's just... loud. For all I know, they could even get off on making it known that they're having it off. Not that I'm complaining, she has a beautiful voice). And it echoes. A lot.

So today i was just enjoying a lazy Sunday and flipping through the channels when Demolition Man comes up. Now, I had seen it before, quite a few times in fact, but its not like I had annything better to do, so I sat and watched it. Not too long into the movie, much to my surprise, after a quick brush with Wesley Snipes, Nigel Hawthorne invites Sylvester Stallone to dinner at Pizza Hut. I though, "Well, now, If I remember right, wasn't it Taco Bell?". I spent the next few minutes watching intently and listening for any breaks in sound, because I did think I heard somewhat of a dubbing splice when Hawthorne said "Pizza Hut". I searched in vain for a Taco Bell logo not edited out or replaced, tried my best to read the characters lips as they spoke "Pizza Hut" (and I thought I could spot the mismatch every single time, even if the dubing seemed flawless every other time). Not happy, I looked it up on IMDb and found out that, for some countries, they produced a "second version" in which all references to Taco Bell are replaced with Pizza Hut.

So that was the hand we were dealt. A version sophisticated enough to dub the name of a worldwide known franchise over that of a not quite so widespread one (with multiple degrees of proficiency), but not sophisticated enough to have the mention to an alledgedly alive convict fellow actually deceased edited out. I hate living off the tablecraps of the Spanish, I really do.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark will give Systems Analysis one last go before shipping off to Summer Vacation. And that's nearly all I can think of right now. Summer Vacation...

We have contact

2007-07-03T09:45:00.000-07:00

Or have we?

So as yo might recall, I am severely myopic. I also have quite a bit of astigmatism. As you may know, I rather dislike bright lights... with a passion. So Summer time is often uncomfortable for me. Granted, shades come in to save the day, to some degree, at least. The thing is, when you're so severely myopic as I am, shades don't come in so ample a supply as you may find at an optician's shop. If you'd like a pair of curved sunglasses that still fits your sight impairment, adequate lens must be cut and assembled at the manufacturer. This usually isn't a problem, until your myopia becomes in excess of about 3,5 diopters. You see, if your lens needs to be quite vergent, the edges must become rather thick. If you'd like your lens to be curved, the edge must become much thicker. My flat (as opposed to curved) uncut lenses vaguely resemble throwing weapons, so thick that they are (my miopia is in excess of 7 diopters, further aggravated by the astigmatism). A curved lens befitting me would be unreasonable to assemble. Of course, I have little trouble, if any, arranging for a pair of flat prescription sunglasses. In fact, that's not my point entirely. What really bothers me is that whenever I go out I must carry my regular glasses with me, or be plunged into darkness whenever I go indoors for some reason. And when I do go indoors I have to swap my glasses and again when I leave. Is it worth the trouble, not being blinded by sunlight and not finding myself running for shelter with bloodshot, aching eyes? Defenitely, but isn't there an easier way around the ordeal?

Certainly. Radial keratomy to the rescue!

OK, let's back down a little here, shall we? Forgive me if I'm just a smidgeon reluctant to start cutting up my corneas in order to reduce their curvature. Let's hear alternatives, if you please...

I hear contacts. I like what I hear. So I slap them on in the morning (morning is a relative term... shortly after I'm up, then) and whenever I go out I put on my (stylishly bent around my face) shades. If I happen to pop indoors for a cup of tea or whatnot, I can just hold them for a while. Sounds good? Must be.
And this is how the cookie crumbles.
So what are the steps to salvation? Step one, we need to get an appointment with an oftalmologist. Sure, no sweat. Not so fast, lads. Would you like a timely appointment or an eventual appointment? For the latter, go on, talk to the receptionist, schedule something to about St. Patrick's day. For the former, and this you won't find in the rulebook, approach the receptionist, proceed exactly as per an eventual appointment, and after she tells you "you're not seeing any doctor any time soon", whine a little and - OK, this really is the crucial step, here, listen up - slip her €5,00. Yeah, she's not working for free, here. She gets paid by the boss, she works for the boss. You need to pay her yourself if you want some service. Oh, and if you'd like to have her not squeeze any geezers in front of you just beacuse something or another, well, you're screwed. Let me know if you find a way. I just know what I know the hard way, i.e., skipping the step when I slip her the bill and being told what I should have doon all too late. But don't worry, she'll illuminate you on how to proceed correctly by schedulling several appointments for "tomorrow" as you wait for your appointment.
Bitch...
Step two, we need to find an optician to order a pair of trial contacts. Again, timely v.s. eventual come to play. I haven't found a surefire way around this problem, but stick with me. I might manage. First, find an optician. Any optician. Tell them what you want. They'll put you through yet another full battery of oftalmological exams. Don't worry, it won't hurt a bit. It's just like going to the oftalmologist. In fact, it's exactly like going to the oftalmologist. Yes, I know, we've already done that, we even showed the optician the prescription the good doctor went to college for 5 or 6 years to write. Why can't they trust him, I'll never know. Then thay'll blabber on something you've already know about semi-rigid contacts v.s. disposable contacts and tell you to return in three weeks. Um, news flash, sweethart, in trhee weeks time I expect to be sipping mai-tais under a palm tree in a tropical beach. Well, not really on a beach. And not mai-tais. And the whole idea of going to a tropical spot seems rather unlikely. But you get the point.
Onwards to...
Step three, we need to find an optician who can really come through for us. So flounder about for a bit until you find one. A standard battery of tests ensues, suck it up. Don't moan about how it's the thrid time you've had it in two days, don't flinch at the burning light they all but jam up your eyes to check your retina, just go through it. If you're lucky enough, they might do a full cornea topography. This might mean you're on the right track. It doesn't hurt, but it does make you see concentric white circles for a while after you've done it, rather like a bullseye. Resist the urge to utter "Headshot!". Just listen through the brief lecture and they just might annonouce that your otherwise 3 to 4 weeks long awaiting time just might be cut down to about six working days.

Step four, we need to remember this is still only a pair of trial lenses we're getting, and there is no guarantee that the contacts will suit you perfectly or at all... but, hey, chin up, they just might!

So now I'm almost all set up. I've got the really nice shades (which I just couldn't fully strip of the manufacturer's brand. You know, they don't pay me to advertise for them. At least I removed the name from the lenses themselves), I'm waiting for the trial contacts, and I'm hoping - hoping! - everything will turn out great. This Summer, with any luck, I'll be done fumbling with two pairs of glasses and a gigantic bulge on my pocket. "Yes, it's a rocket, I'm not that happy to see you."

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark wishes Good Luck upon all who must still labour for those courses that didn't make the grade along the last two semesters and those who will labour for the courses that didn't make enough of a grade to suit you. Carry on, fellows!

Long ago...

2007-06-27T14:13:00.000-07:00

Today I took a stroll down a route I hadn't taken since mid 2002, some five years ago. Those who know the place (Oh, so many of you...), come, take my tour.

Our trip goes under the scorching early afternoon sun, but the path of my memories runs through chilly bleak dark mornings.

Early morning, soles meet concrete flooring outside. It's chilly. It's a bleak morning. The sun isn't so high yet. Onwards...

Along the concrete we go, and out of the familiar hiding of the tall building blocks and out into the sloping street. A little climb to wake up. Good for your legs. A little work out. Up to the corner and across the street, and up some more to the parking lot in front of the old Hospital, now darkened and abandones, a shadowy repository of unwanted beds and stretchers, with those cold stony archways and religious statues high atop the roof. On clear winter mornings, about January or February, often the low sun would shine brightly on aluminium window frames just beyond the hill, a little spark in the glummy morning. Across the tarmac and down the small sloped street between the old diner and the tiny mall that never really lived up to its expectations, and out into the rather broad and busy street. The first real whif of activity. Time to pick up our pace.

Again, across the street and up to the corner. Time there was when just nearby the old, perhaps the oldest supermarket in town overlooked that intersection, but not anymore. The old landmark-ish supermarket has been remodeled so far it's no longer where it once was anymore, and a mere shadow of itself, fond memories along with it. Then around the corner and down to another intersection. Here the traffic lights, quite haywire in nature, make for a prickly spot for drivers, and it's been so since 2001, but pedestrians can usually go by just fine. I remember when the road lanes weren't quite so wide. I remember they becoming this wide. In the end, it doesn't really matter.

Just a few more steps along the bushy fence around the park and across the street to our destination, good old High School. The sight brings back memories. The two wings, which, on the fascist days, served boys and girls separately, show only two thirds of the whole building, for, you see, the terrain slopes towards the back, so the ground floor would look like a basement from the front, but easily accessible from the back. But we get ahead of ourselves.
Alves Martins was a most revered bishop from Viseu.
Notice the outer wall, the fence and the gate, how the wall curves inwards around the gate. Just right of the gates, by the fire hydrant, that's where the mates and I would meet before class, before we'd break up into cliques and such. There we'd just talk. We'd always have something to talk about, for we knew, should we run out of talk, we'd have to go inside for class. We didn't dread class, at least I didn't, but never were we in any hurry. So we talked. About classes, and GPAs, and "what did you get for number three of math homework", and the likes. And then, by first bell, we'd go inside.

You know, those chilly dark bleak morings... I miss them.

Pax vobiscum atque vale

ArabianShark cherishes dearly the memoirs of three years in High School. Would that those days would ever come back some time.

It's been a while

2007-06-25T14:19:00.000-07:00

So, yet another bullet point oriented long(ish) post, comming right up. Brace yourselves.

Stage one of exam season is now over (at it has been for a few days...). This year was the first and only to have a very silly system wherein we pick which exam to attend (only too) early in the semester, often only to find we've mqade rather poor choices. Next year, however, only one exam will be available, no re-taking and no early choosing. On the (other) upside, last chance season will follow both semesters, rahter than a last chance season held after the second semester serving both semesters. And for this year only, a special exam season will be held in September. I'm not so sure how useful that is going to be, but I'm glad nonetheless.

Summer's up, and we all know what that usually means, with warm sunny weather and all. This year I'll be trying to add something new: contacts! Yep, this year I've decided that I've had it with my severe myopia preventing me from ever wearing curvy, mirrored shades. This year I might even see clearly unnder water, in the unlikely event that I go swimming. That should prevent another embarassing event, such as the one which happened circa July 1998...
Cue special effects...
Dissolve to white, cut to flashback.

It was Summer in the late nineties. Some unduly assinged duty (like that, unduly assinged duty? Me, I love it) held me in the very bleak capital and away from the Summer activities I did enjoy back in the day, which, believe it or not, invloved beaches and outdoor pools. So, to lightnen up my frstration, I had (limited) access to a work only PC (remember when that phrase used to make some sense?), where I had just managed to run the luscious, although highly pixelated figure of Ms. Lara Croft (way before Angelina Jolie and the very shoddy Tomb Raider pictures corrupted her image and her memory) in 640 x 480 with no 3D acceleration and absolutely no sound but the humming of a 2GB hard drive and a very meek PC fan, fit for a Pentium 166... MMX! Where were we? Ah, yes, my comodities. They also included a very poor community pool, i.e., tiny, crowded and no comodities beyond water closets, which didn't get much use anyway. Crowded, however, is quite the keyword. So picture this: I'm just splashing around in a very clumsy dog stroke (ten years ago, fellows, I wasn't much of a swimmer... I'm still not, but I've come a long way since... which only says how poor a swimmer I was then), and there was a diving board there, so a good quarter of the pool was basically a no-swim area, because you could just as easily be struck with a diver, so both halves adjacent to it were pretty crowded... even more so. So I'm doing laps, and I'm trying hard to shimmy sideways so I don't catch a diver to the head, and other swimmers are going alongside me, others comming the other way and evenothers going across... daredevils that they were. So between the sea of flesh and chlorinated bubbles, I misjudged how close some of the other swimmers were. Next thing I know, my stroke just struck (wow, another play on words... I'm on fire... sarcastic fire) something... something soft. So I try to withraw my hand, but it's tangled on some very thin wires. And some sheet of elastic fabric is preventing my full freedom, so I pop my head out to see where in blazes have I just plunged my hand... and it's some quite buxom swimmer's suit.

So there, a somewhat entertaining little tale of how shortsightedness can influence our bland mundane little lives. Next week I'll do an exposé on the other side of the coin, where you'll learn how incapacitating myopia can be, despite the funny accidents it might lead to.

On the other hand, I don't think I really need to. Come to really think of it, it's a pretty silly idea. Scratch that. Let's all go to Spamalot instead.

So We've had a little handful of points... two and a half of them, to be axact... so it's a toddler's handful. Good enough, right? And I suppose this post's ran long enough. I'll wrap up as per my usual fashion with

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark reminesces about the very first Tomb Raider games, when dear Ms. Croft turned teens' and preteens' minds alike with her simple low poligon beauty, Power Ranger syndrome and yet, back in 1996, Shelley Blond's voice made up for most of her aesthetical shortcomings, which, given the panorama at that time, weren't really that many. In fact, the pretty voice complaining about the crates in the main hall was quite the boon for an otherwise near action/platform game which even today evokes dear memories.

What else is new?

2007-06-04T16:14:00.000-07:00

It's not like I pay much heed to these quick and dirty personality tests you can get out of some 5 - 10 questions, especially not since I thought of combining the results of several tests, which, some years ago, had me arrive at the conclusion that I would be, simultaneously, Dracula's cousin, Bataman, Gambit(from X-Men. As if! Frog...), Hephesto (yes, the Greek god), a velociraptor and a wooden cube. But this, for a change, actually makes some sense:

You Belong in the UK

Blimey!
A little proper, a little saucy.
You're so witty and charming...
No one notices your curry breath

What English Speaking Country Are You?

So there. So long, chaps, I'm off to live my dream, which, appearently, seems to suit reality a lot. Just give me a couple more years.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would also remind you that some other test from Blogthings revealed that my "power animal" is the shark. Who would have thought? What, no irony tag either?

It's one of those times of the year again

2007-06-01T18:59:00.000-07:00

Yep, Exam Season. This means it is now legal to shoot Exams in the wild. Or does that defenition of season only applies to game season (e.g., rabbit season, duck season, Elmer Fudd season, etc.)? I wonder if we could possibly make an Examiner Season, break out our "elephant guns" and be vewy vewy quiet, we're hunting Examiners. Not all examiners, of course (we need to leave some alive so there'll be more to hunt in January), but I can name a few I'd like to tie to the hood of a pickup I don't plan to own. Can I borrow a pickup truck, anyone?

In other news, I was watching some talk show (don't aske which, I wasn't watching that hard) and someone refered to what American Soldiers are doing in Iraq as "Defending their Country". Against what, I'd like to ask? I'm not saying there isn't actual combat to be had there or that American soldiers don't get injured or killed out there, but what are they defending against? "Loose Change" (look it up, don't expect links to every last word, this isn't Wikipedia) made it quite clear that the matter of 9/11 is quite unclear at best. "Farenheit 911" raised some good questions I'm yet to see answered as well. What I am fairly certain of is that even if the American Armed Forces would fully retreat from the middle east no bombers or the like would cross half a world to deliver their payload onto the Land of the Free and even if they don't retreat, I fail to see how it would prevent events the likes of what is reported of 9/11. So how exactly is it that American soldiers being woulded and killed in Iraq is Defending their Country?

You might wonder why this troubles me. First, let's clarify something: the phrase "Defending my Country" wasn't spoken by some top brass military chief or otherwise some politician who'd quite comfortably sip his liquor and puff oh his fine cigar while the pawns fell half a world away; it had been spoken by a soldier even before she had become a soldier, which means this mediatically powerful position that American soldier serving in Iraq are defending their country is mantained by hte people, who have, the way I see it, little to gain in perpetuating this idea, yet quite a lot to lose. This is symptomatic of a highly powerful propaganda machine, steered by those who do stand to gain from conflict. Who those would be, I'm yet to be sure, but, rest assured, whenever people are dying for no appearent reason, some douchebag is pretty sure he/she's turning a profit.

Besides, when has there been a clear (don't answer this until you've seen at least "Loose Change") attack on American soil? I can't recall a single armed conflict opposing the United States to another country that actually took place in the United States. The closest I can think of is Vietnam, and last I checked (on GoogleEarth, too) it was still pretty far away from America. What concerns me is that if there is such a powerful Propaganda Engine in America, there might be no stopping the driver of this infernal device from turning the American people's efforts against some other nation. While I'm not really afraid that Mr. Bush and his ilk might turn their attention to my little slice of heaven (Oh, right, there is no sarcasm tag in HTML...), there are other nations I care about (you'd never guess, from some of my previous posts, but, really, they're there. Look hard enough).

Then you might think, "But, Sharky, ol' bean, doesn't it bother you that some other country might do the same? Some other country with even more man power? Say, China?" My answer to that is, "Not really". First and foremost, if China was to strike here, where would the Chinese immigrants go? On a serious note, here, have a link, courtesy of an American Army Brat, ergo, presumably someone who has at least a smidgeon of a clue of the matter at hand. And by that I mean "Listen up and listen up good, the lady knows what she's saying".

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to make perfectly clear that despite the quip about Chinese immigrants, he holds no prejudice or otherwise ill will against them. Loveable chaps, every last one of those I've had the pleasure of meeting.