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
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!
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...
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.
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
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.
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?
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:
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?
| You Belong in the UK |
 Blimey! A little proper, a little saucy. You're so witty and charming... No one notices your curry breath |
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
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.
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.
Spamincidences
"Spamincidence" is, to the best of my knowledge, not a word, but when you combine "spam" (notice the small s, just so you know I'm not talking about pork products) with "coincidence", "spamincidence" pops to mind. Right?
Now I, just like most people I know on "The Internets", recieve some amount of spam in my e-mail, along with the odd - and quite clumsy, may I add - attempt of phishing. Some of this spam comes from the future, oddly enough. Indeed, I do recieve e-mails from people whom I've never heard of with Arabic sounding names (that's what you get for having an alias such as ArabianShark) with the subject composed of some Egyptian city and a date, usually a week after the date of delivery. Most of the spam i get, however, is of pharmaceutical nature.
Every single day I get some five or so e-mails advertising cheap online stores for Viagra, Scialis and other products I've never heard of, which I can only assume serve similar purposes. It's mildly amusing how the advertisers attempt to get past the spam filter (which is the default filter, I haven't deigned to mess with it) with invariant degrees of failure, spelling Viagra like "\/|agra" and Scilais like "$cia|is" and such. Makes me wonder what happened to good old "1337" spelling, like Vi46r4 or 5ci41i5. I don't think it would have fooled the spam filter, but at least it would have been a smidgeon more amusing.
Just as frequent are e-mails advertising all herbal or not so herbal remedies to lengthen the male genitalia. Since these don't have fancy well known names, the subject line on these is often quite straight forward, and just as uselessly alternatively spelled. Some of these treatments even allegedly combine both effects, increasing penile size and compensating for erectile disfunction. These don't mention recognised names or use words the filters are set to look for (such as "dick". This might mean that if you ever decide to send me an offensive e-mail with "You're a dick!" on the subject line, the spam filter will get it first... unless you don't spell dick like "D|CK"), so they might have propper spelling on catch phrases which they use for subject, such as "Want to be a hero in bed?". Well, aren't they spoiling business for other advertisers? What if someone wants to sell me Superman pajamas? Their efforst will be foiled by overzealous spam filters. That's just not right!
So is this the impression advertisers have of me? Just some bloke with a small limp dick? Look, people, I'm perfectly happy with the hand I've been dealt. It might not be a Royal Flush, but it beats a pair of Jacks (I mean Queens... er... Kings... er... oh, there's just no talking out of that one, is there? Well, it is a Straight, at any rate, rest assured) any day.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would, however, like to recieve an apology from the aforementioned advertisers followed by an immediate cessation of their futile efforts, but that might just as well be caught by the spam filter.
The things we do to procrastinate...
Now I, just like most people I know on "The Internets", recieve some amount of spam in my e-mail, along with the odd - and quite clumsy, may I add - attempt of phishing. Some of this spam comes from the future, oddly enough. Indeed, I do recieve e-mails from people whom I've never heard of with Arabic sounding names (that's what you get for having an alias such as ArabianShark) with the subject composed of some Egyptian city and a date, usually a week after the date of delivery. Most of the spam i get, however, is of pharmaceutical nature.
Every single day I get some five or so e-mails advertising cheap online stores for Viagra, Scialis and other products I've never heard of, which I can only assume serve similar purposes. It's mildly amusing how the advertisers attempt to get past the spam filter (which is the default filter, I haven't deigned to mess with it) with invariant degrees of failure, spelling Viagra like "\/|agra" and Scilais like "$cia|is" and such. Makes me wonder what happened to good old "1337" spelling, like Vi46r4 or 5ci41i5. I don't think it would have fooled the spam filter, but at least it would have been a smidgeon more amusing.
Just as frequent are e-mails advertising all herbal or not so herbal remedies to lengthen the male genitalia. Since these don't have fancy well known names, the subject line on these is often quite straight forward, and just as uselessly alternatively spelled. Some of these treatments even allegedly combine both effects, increasing penile size and compensating for erectile disfunction. These don't mention recognised names or use words the filters are set to look for (such as "dick". This might mean that if you ever decide to send me an offensive e-mail with "You're a dick!" on the subject line, the spam filter will get it first... unless you don't spell dick like "D|CK"), so they might have propper spelling on catch phrases which they use for subject, such as "Want to be a hero in bed?". Well, aren't they spoiling business for other advertisers? What if someone wants to sell me Superman pajamas? Their efforst will be foiled by overzealous spam filters. That's just not right!
So is this the impression advertisers have of me? Just some bloke with a small limp dick? Look, people, I'm perfectly happy with the hand I've been dealt. It might not be a Royal Flush, but it beats a pair of Jacks (I mean Queens... er... Kings... er... oh, there's just no talking out of that one, is there? Well, it is a Straight, at any rate, rest assured) any day.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would, however, like to recieve an apology from the aforementioned advertisers followed by an immediate cessation of their futile efforts, but that might just as well be caught by the spam filter.
The things we do to procrastinate...
Addendum
Naturally, that delightful idea of the Kandy Kanes represents a party, which, like any other party, does not stand unopposed. Therefore, it's only fair that Kandy Kanes have a counterpart, preferably a potential equal.
Then again, it's only candy! The only aspect a GDI oriented product would have to match is the aesthetical aspect.
Consider this, then. From my experience, the vast majority of the target market share happens to be of the male persuasion. And lo, the geek aspect probably discarded by making a GDI product may so very easily be offset (again) by the aesthetical side of
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces ! *
An easy recipe for (yet another) success. From the Kandy Kane template, replace the red stripes with gold stripes (not only because it's more attuned to the Original C&C colour scheme but also because blue stripes would conflict with the Blue Tiberium version), the Scorpion Tail icon by the Swooping Eagle icon and the likeness of Joe Kucan by the likeness of Jennifer Morrison. (Captain Kirce James, in Command & Conquer 3, if you're wondering... which you shouldn't be!)
You know you want it.
Naturally, the Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces would be an even greater aesthetical success. Gold and Blue are a perfect match. Deluxe candy with that sort of colour scheme is guaranteed to sell.
Subliminal message #2.
The greatest issue here is finding some small piece of GDI memorabilia to match the very cool NOD rings. So... Perhaps...
I'd still get some.
You know what, I'm fresh out of ideas here. Unless you can figure out a way of squeezing a Mammoth Tank into a small package of Kandy Kirces, I'm going to leave it up to the Marketing types to figure this one out.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how these delicious candy products would actually fare in the real market. Would Westwood still be with us, I'd give a shot. Subliminal messaging works, right?.
Then again, it's only candy! The only aspect a GDI oriented product would have to match is the aesthetical aspect.
Consider this, then. From my experience, the vast majority of the target market share happens to be of the male persuasion. And lo, the geek aspect probably discarded by making a GDI product may so very easily be offset (again) by the aesthetical side of
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces ! *
An easy recipe for (yet another) success. From the Kandy Kane template, replace the red stripes with gold stripes (not only because it's more attuned to the Original C&C colour scheme but also because blue stripes would conflict with the Blue Tiberium version), the Scorpion Tail icon by the Swooping Eagle icon and the likeness of Joe Kucan by the likeness of Jennifer Morrison. (Captain Kirce James, in Command & Conquer 3, if you're wondering... which you shouldn't be!)
You know you want it.
Naturally, the Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces would be an even greater aesthetical success. Gold and Blue are a perfect match. Deluxe candy with that sort of colour scheme is guaranteed to sell.
Subliminal message #2.
The greatest issue here is finding some small piece of GDI memorabilia to match the very cool NOD rings. So... Perhaps...
I'd still get some.
You know what, I'm fresh out of ideas here. Unless you can figure out a way of squeezing a Mammoth Tank into a small package of Kandy Kirces, I'm going to leave it up to the Marketing types to figure this one out.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how these delicious candy products would actually fare in the real market. Would Westwood still be with us, I'd give a shot. Subliminal messaging works, right?.
The New Season Candy of choice
Marketing didn't figure this out yet. Here's my pitch.
Sure, it's not a broad spectrum product, you don't expect nice old ladies to dish these out on Halloween, and you don't expect little kids to appreciate them either (nor should you want them to...). It's meant for the geek masses.
Without further ado...
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! *
Think about it. Straight sugary rods, green with bright red stripes spiraling down the length of the shaft with Joe Kucan's likeness sculpted at the top and the age-old scorpion tail NOD icon embossed at regular intervals. And since nobody has tasted actual Tiberium (and lived to tell... for long), they can just make up any palatable flavour and say that's what the Green crystal tastes like.
But wait! There's more! For those who want only the very best, Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! Just make them blue instead of green, add some mint flavour and nasal decongestant to the mix and jack up the price about 25%. Deluxe edition candy!
Add some gimmick like one free replica of the NOD ring Joe Kucan did not steal put in every fifth pack of the regular Kandy Kanes or every fourth pack of the Deluxe Kandy Kanes and you've got a sugary hit.
And that's not all. Have a sugar free version of each type handy for the geeks who reject the stereotype of the ever snacking couch potato types and you've just broadened your market share. Bimbos who might want to look smart will resort to these as well. Geeks who actually might want to lose weight will swiftly substitute their snack of choice with these in a heartbeat. Supermodels will want to look FAB, licking these high-tech candy sticks in every fashion mag... OK, perhaps the supermodels won't be so attracted to these... but who needs them, anyway? Geeks are Legion! Legion, I tell you! Legion!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how come the folks in engineering figured this out before the marketing types. Or is it that we don't really need cool candy? I'd still buy it.
Sure, it's not a broad spectrum product, you don't expect nice old ladies to dish these out on Halloween, and you don't expect little kids to appreciate them either (nor should you want them to...). It's meant for the geek masses.
Without further ado...
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! *
Think about it. Straight sugary rods, green with bright red stripes spiraling down the length of the shaft with Joe Kucan's likeness sculpted at the top and the age-old scorpion tail NOD icon embossed at regular intervals. And since nobody has tasted actual Tiberium (and lived to tell... for long), they can just make up any palatable flavour and say that's what the Green crystal tastes like.
But wait! There's more! For those who want only the very best, Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! Just make them blue instead of green, add some mint flavour and nasal decongestant to the mix and jack up the price about 25%. Deluxe edition candy!
Add some gimmick like one free replica of the NOD ring Joe Kucan did not steal put in every fifth pack of the regular Kandy Kanes or every fourth pack of the Deluxe Kandy Kanes and you've got a sugary hit.
And that's not all. Have a sugar free version of each type handy for the geeks who reject the stereotype of the ever snacking couch potato types and you've just broadened your market share. Bimbos who might want to look smart will resort to these as well. Geeks who actually might want to lose weight will swiftly substitute their snack of choice with these in a heartbeat. Supermodels will want to look FAB, licking these high-tech candy sticks in every fashion mag... OK, perhaps the supermodels won't be so attracted to these... but who needs them, anyway? Geeks are Legion! Legion, I tell you! Legion!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how come the folks in engineering figured this out before the marketing types. Or is it that we don't really need cool candy? I'd still buy it.
Catch up
It feels like a long time since our lsat update. Quite a bit of catching up to do. Where, oh where to begin...
Movies: My most recent theater trips include Sunshine, Spider-Man 3 and Mr. Bean's Holiday. Neither is particularly brilliant. In fact, Sunshine and Spider-Man 3 are downright pretty bad. Spider-Man 3, like its prequels, displays poor portraits of age-old and suitably well known characters, besides Tobey Maguire's voice being all wrong for Spidey and who writes this day and age's Spidey wit? The character of Venom, included for all the right reasons, is, again, poorly portrayed, both script wise and graphical wise. Same applies to Eddie Brock. Mr. Bean's Holiday wasn't all bad, but after the previous Bean movie and ages of the TV Show, the concept (unlike Mr. Atkinson's talent) begins to wear thin. It's still a good movie for hardcore fans of Bean, though. Sunshine... Well, just scratch that off your list.
Marketing: The definition of Marketing has changed. It no longer is "The Art of Telling Consumers Why They Need What They Can't Afford" or "The Art of Explaining Why You Need Everything in Triplicate but in Different Colours". It is now "The Art of Discovering Consumers' Needs Which They Themselves Didn't Know Of". Don't ask why, it just is. I'm serious.
Savings: I wonder if I can save up € 1600.00 by the end of July. € 500.00 down, € 1100.00 to go. I might luck out, if I add my birthday into the math.
Tech Support: This Acer "check on your repair status" isn't so great after all. All it says is whether they have recieved the package (which they'll text when they do), whether they're waiting for it (which I'd assume they are until they text me upon arrival) or whether they've sent it back (whaich, again, they'll text). Hey, how about saying how long you estimate reapirs will take? Is that too much to ask?
Overheard: I'm fairly sure I've mentioned Overheard in New York here before. Well, now there's a couple of new sites to join that particular family, Overheard at the Beach, Overheard Everywhere and Celebrity Wit. Some of these feature overhearings in Canadia. Not a typo, Canadia. This has, indeed, generated some uproar within the readers, who have submited their opinions (which range from irate "Fix that, you fools" to coy "Umm, I think you made a mistake" to amused and confused "Why?") in e-mail form, which have been compiled for entertainment, along with a very adept speller, who quite irately warned them that the correct spelling of the country in question was "Canada" (notice, no 'i'). The same reader proceded to clarify the misspelling of "Australia", versus the correct spelling, "Australa". Now I'm no whiz with a map, but I can't find "Australa" anywhere. I suppose that's where "Vegemte" (however you pronounce that) comes from. Still, do check out the sister sites (and, why not, the original site, it gets updated all the time). They're a larf or two.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark spins the globe away, combing both hemispheres for this promised land of "Australa". Hey, it sounds like a fair vacaton spot. Not a typo, just a lame pun.
Movies: My most recent theater trips include Sunshine, Spider-Man 3 and Mr. Bean's Holiday. Neither is particularly brilliant. In fact, Sunshine and Spider-Man 3 are downright pretty bad. Spider-Man 3, like its prequels, displays poor portraits of age-old and suitably well known characters, besides Tobey Maguire's voice being all wrong for Spidey and who writes this day and age's Spidey wit? The character of Venom, included for all the right reasons, is, again, poorly portrayed, both script wise and graphical wise. Same applies to Eddie Brock. Mr. Bean's Holiday wasn't all bad, but after the previous Bean movie and ages of the TV Show, the concept (unlike Mr. Atkinson's talent) begins to wear thin. It's still a good movie for hardcore fans of Bean, though. Sunshine... Well, just scratch that off your list.
Marketing: The definition of Marketing has changed. It no longer is "The Art of Telling Consumers Why They Need What They Can't Afford" or "The Art of Explaining Why You Need Everything in Triplicate but in Different Colours". It is now "The Art of Discovering Consumers' Needs Which They Themselves Didn't Know Of". Don't ask why, it just is. I'm serious.
Savings: I wonder if I can save up € 1600.00 by the end of July. € 500.00 down, € 1100.00 to go. I might luck out, if I add my birthday into the math.
Tech Support: This Acer "check on your repair status" isn't so great after all. All it says is whether they have recieved the package (which they'll text when they do), whether they're waiting for it (which I'd assume they are until they text me upon arrival) or whether they've sent it back (whaich, again, they'll text). Hey, how about saying how long you estimate reapirs will take? Is that too much to ask?
Overheard: I'm fairly sure I've mentioned Overheard in New York here before. Well, now there's a couple of new sites to join that particular family, Overheard at the Beach, Overheard Everywhere and Celebrity Wit. Some of these feature overhearings in Canadia. Not a typo, Canadia. This has, indeed, generated some uproar within the readers, who have submited their opinions (which range from irate "Fix that, you fools" to coy "Umm, I think you made a mistake" to amused and confused "Why?") in e-mail form, which have been compiled for entertainment, along with a very adept speller, who quite irately warned them that the correct spelling of the country in question was "Canada" (notice, no 'i'). The same reader proceded to clarify the misspelling of "Australia", versus the correct spelling, "Australa". Now I'm no whiz with a map, but I can't find "Australa" anywhere. I suppose that's where "Vegemte" (however you pronounce that) comes from. Still, do check out the sister sites (and, why not, the original site, it gets updated all the time). They're a larf or two.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark spins the globe away, combing both hemispheres for this promised land of "Australa". Hey, it sounds like a fair vacaton spot. Not a typo, just a lame pun.
Tales from Tech Support
I should really start this post by re-stating that I am not a xenophobe. Granted, my pet peeve doesn't do much in the way of confirming it, nor will this entry, but I am not a xenophobe. Onwards.
A few weeks ago my laptop took a small bump whick caused the power jack to burrow dep into the laptop body. So deep in fact that the charger jack no longer makes contact, making battery charging and battery-less operation impossible. It is my understanding that the jack is directly welded into the motherboard, so replacing it should probably be left to the professionals. As it happend, however, said professionals happen to be extremely rare, and I don't mean undercooked. My only way out was to resort to the brand tech support.
Where matters of warranty and sending back products are concerned, I'm always a bit weary. This is swampy grounds for me. Usually this just means my stuff will be "at the shop" for months only to return partially repaired or deemed unsuitable for warranty repair. Still, never would I imagine this.
My first call to tech support was awkward enough. Even though it was a business day and not 17:00 yet, I got no more response than a recording commanding (not politely asking, brutally commanding) that I called Monday to Friday, from 9:00 to 17:00, with a very thick accent (Italian, I guess), and hung up. How wierd is it when a machine hangs up on you? Still I tried again the next day. Making myself clear before the operator (whose accent wasn't quite as thick as the on on the record) took most of the call. After some wasted half hour struggling to make myself understood, she tells me the system is down and she cannot process my request.
So let me get this straight, fellows. You make computers, but your computer isn't working? Oh, yeah, that's guaranteed to impress even the most skeptic consumer.
I called later that day with the same results. I called the other day, and the operator had the nerve to hang up on me. I called again, and finally my request was granted. I was assigned an RMA and told to ship my computer over to their tech support labs... in Spain. At least DHL would do it free of charge for me. Still, packing and padding were my responsability, which I'm thinking it shouldn't be. Nonetheless.
At least the good people at DHL gave me no grief of any sort. The operator, bless her heart, was more than helpful with packaging guidelines, arrangements for pickup, etc. She was even polite. How often does that come around these days?
So sure enough they pick up my laptop at the arranged date, and a few days ago I got a text (in Spanish) telling me my laptop was ready and being shipped back (or at least that's what I figured). Indeed, just yesterday the good people at DHL delivered it straight to my door. However, the contents of their delivery couldn't be more ghastly.
The repair report was written in some melange of languages I could barely make out. My name was mispelled and not even capitalised. Even the problem wasn't propperly stated. It was "battery can't charge." While this is true, it's but a result of the problem, not the cause. And sure enough, the geniuses at the repair labs shipped it back with a new battery (which I have no intention of giving back. For my greivancve). They didn't even bother turning the damned thing on, even though they claim to have updated my BIOS from v.0.3.1.22 to v0.3.1.22, a major change.
So come Monday I'll be going through the motions to send it back again. Only this time I'm sticking some post-it notes around the little power hole, with pointing arrows stating "look here" and "reapir this".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders why the hell there isn't a better solution. What happened to those Knights of the Soldering Iron who'd clearly state that your warranty will be void, but the job will get done? Because these wops aren't pulling through, you know...
A few weeks ago my laptop took a small bump whick caused the power jack to burrow dep into the laptop body. So deep in fact that the charger jack no longer makes contact, making battery charging and battery-less operation impossible. It is my understanding that the jack is directly welded into the motherboard, so replacing it should probably be left to the professionals. As it happend, however, said professionals happen to be extremely rare, and I don't mean undercooked. My only way out was to resort to the brand tech support.
Where matters of warranty and sending back products are concerned, I'm always a bit weary. This is swampy grounds for me. Usually this just means my stuff will be "at the shop" for months only to return partially repaired or deemed unsuitable for warranty repair. Still, never would I imagine this.
My first call to tech support was awkward enough. Even though it was a business day and not 17:00 yet, I got no more response than a recording commanding (not politely asking, brutally commanding) that I called Monday to Friday, from 9:00 to 17:00, with a very thick accent (Italian, I guess), and hung up. How wierd is it when a machine hangs up on you? Still I tried again the next day. Making myself clear before the operator (whose accent wasn't quite as thick as the on on the record) took most of the call. After some wasted half hour struggling to make myself understood, she tells me the system is down and she cannot process my request.
So let me get this straight, fellows. You make computers, but your computer isn't working? Oh, yeah, that's guaranteed to impress even the most skeptic consumer.
I called later that day with the same results. I called the other day, and the operator had the nerve to hang up on me. I called again, and finally my request was granted. I was assigned an RMA and told to ship my computer over to their tech support labs... in Spain. At least DHL would do it free of charge for me. Still, packing and padding were my responsability, which I'm thinking it shouldn't be. Nonetheless.
At least the good people at DHL gave me no grief of any sort. The operator, bless her heart, was more than helpful with packaging guidelines, arrangements for pickup, etc. She was even polite. How often does that come around these days?
So sure enough they pick up my laptop at the arranged date, and a few days ago I got a text (in Spanish) telling me my laptop was ready and being shipped back (or at least that's what I figured). Indeed, just yesterday the good people at DHL delivered it straight to my door. However, the contents of their delivery couldn't be more ghastly.
The repair report was written in some melange of languages I could barely make out. My name was mispelled and not even capitalised. Even the problem wasn't propperly stated. It was "battery can't charge." While this is true, it's but a result of the problem, not the cause. And sure enough, the geniuses at the repair labs shipped it back with a new battery (which I have no intention of giving back. For my greivancve). They didn't even bother turning the damned thing on, even though they claim to have updated my BIOS from v.0.3.1.22 to v0.3.1.22, a major change.
So come Monday I'll be going through the motions to send it back again. Only this time I'm sticking some post-it notes around the little power hole, with pointing arrows stating "look here" and "reapir this".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders why the hell there isn't a better solution. What happened to those Knights of the Soldering Iron who'd clearly state that your warranty will be void, but the job will get done? Because these wops aren't pulling through, you know...
Now paging Dr. Phill
Actually, I think the good doctor might be acquainted with the case at hand. He did host it on his show, so hold the page. Onwards.
So this couple comes up on Dr. Phill, during a segment called Conception Deception (and no, I won't make a segment out of that here. I should think I have enough segments as is). The wife complains that the husband has tricked her into pregnancy. Four times.
The first time she got pregnant as a result of a misconducted coitus interruptus, which her husband had no idea of conducting properly in the first place. Well, can't really say that I sympathise with her on this point, she ought to know better. I mean, I must have been 9 when I was told not to rely on "the pull out method". I hardly knew enough not to ask "pull what out of what". That they didn't use adequate contraceptives at that peculiar time is as much her fault as it is his, IMO. Sure, he might have complained about condoms (so many men do... too many men do. Get real fellows), and, as it turns out, he would have complained about birth control pills or a diaphram and foam, but at least then she'd know what to expect.
As it turns out, this fellow is so insecure about his relationship that he needs the children to trap his wife in their marriage. I'm wagering she wouldn't have married him (or at least she might not have had his child) in the first place if she knew, and thus I sympathise with her. But wait, it gets worse.
At least one of her pregnancies (if I recall, they had some four children, although I'm not sure that's with or without the one on the way) was a result of him having unprotectes sex with her while she was asleep. I mean, how is that possible? Without the help of Rohypnol, gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, ketamine or any other such treats of the pharmaceutical industry, that is. Actually, now I wonder if he did use any such "daddy little helpers", in which case the word would plainly and blatanty be "rape". In fact, I see no reason why the word shouldn't plainly and blatantly be "rape" even if he didn't drug her up, other than she stated she didn't feel raped. I suppose that would have been because, either way, she didn't feel it at all.
Shocked yet? Here's the kicker: The couple is introduced by Dr. Phill McGraw and his story is summarised in a brief clip, after which the host asks the couple the ever-the-first question along the lines "How does this make you feel", to which this creep of a husband replies "It came out rather harsh". He actually tried to make himself look like the victim. Sure, tell me that I'm taking sides too soon and that I haven't heard his side of the story (actually, I have, and, for the most part, it was awkward silence, whining and distasteful puns to try to steer the conversation off course), but I dare you to come up with a likely scenario that actually makes a man who will impregnate his wife in her sleep against her will look like a good husband. I'm not questioning his motives; he stated that he loves his wife, and seeing as he'd go that far just to make sure she'd stay with him and not just take off, I just might believe him, but still...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is slightly disturbed that, keeping with the theme of today's entry, he managed to guess Oprah Winfrey's bra size seconds before she'd state it on her own talk show. Does anyone else think it's wierd?
So this couple comes up on Dr. Phill, during a segment called Conception Deception (and no, I won't make a segment out of that here. I should think I have enough segments as is). The wife complains that the husband has tricked her into pregnancy. Four times.
The first time she got pregnant as a result of a misconducted coitus interruptus, which her husband had no idea of conducting properly in the first place. Well, can't really say that I sympathise with her on this point, she ought to know better. I mean, I must have been 9 when I was told not to rely on "the pull out method". I hardly knew enough not to ask "pull what out of what". That they didn't use adequate contraceptives at that peculiar time is as much her fault as it is his, IMO. Sure, he might have complained about condoms (so many men do... too many men do. Get real fellows), and, as it turns out, he would have complained about birth control pills or a diaphram and foam, but at least then she'd know what to expect.
As it turns out, this fellow is so insecure about his relationship that he needs the children to trap his wife in their marriage. I'm wagering she wouldn't have married him (or at least she might not have had his child) in the first place if she knew, and thus I sympathise with her. But wait, it gets worse.
At least one of her pregnancies (if I recall, they had some four children, although I'm not sure that's with or without the one on the way) was a result of him having unprotectes sex with her while she was asleep. I mean, how is that possible? Without the help of Rohypnol, gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, ketamine or any other such treats of the pharmaceutical industry, that is. Actually, now I wonder if he did use any such "daddy little helpers", in which case the word would plainly and blatanty be "rape". In fact, I see no reason why the word shouldn't plainly and blatantly be "rape" even if he didn't drug her up, other than she stated she didn't feel raped. I suppose that would have been because, either way, she didn't feel it at all.
Shocked yet? Here's the kicker: The couple is introduced by Dr. Phill McGraw and his story is summarised in a brief clip, after which the host asks the couple the ever-the-first question along the lines "How does this make you feel", to which this creep of a husband replies "It came out rather harsh". He actually tried to make himself look like the victim. Sure, tell me that I'm taking sides too soon and that I haven't heard his side of the story (actually, I have, and, for the most part, it was awkward silence, whining and distasteful puns to try to steer the conversation off course), but I dare you to come up with a likely scenario that actually makes a man who will impregnate his wife in her sleep against her will look like a good husband. I'm not questioning his motives; he stated that he loves his wife, and seeing as he'd go that far just to make sure she'd stay with him and not just take off, I just might believe him, but still...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is slightly disturbed that, keeping with the theme of today's entry, he managed to guess Oprah Winfrey's bra size seconds before she'd state it on her own talk show. Does anyone else think it's wierd?
Harlot
–noun
a prostitute; whore.
The word harlot nowadays refers to a particular kind of woman, but interestingly it used to refer to a particular kind of man. The word is first recorded in English in a work written around the beginning of the 13th century, meaning "a man of no fixed occupation, vagabond, beggar," and soon afterwards meant "male lecher." Already in the 14th century it appears as a deprecatory word for a woman, though exactly how this meaning developed from the male sense is not clear. For a time the word could also refer to a juggler or jester of either sex, but by the close of the 17th century its usage referring to males had disappeared.
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless, of course, the above applies, in which case Pax would be wasted vobiscum and you're quite incapable of vale.
ArabianShark just needed to get that off his chest. Thanks for listening. Cheers, mates.
a prostitute; whore.
The word harlot nowadays refers to a particular kind of woman, but interestingly it used to refer to a particular kind of man. The word is first recorded in English in a work written around the beginning of the 13th century, meaning "a man of no fixed occupation, vagabond, beggar," and soon afterwards meant "male lecher." Already in the 14th century it appears as a deprecatory word for a woman, though exactly how this meaning developed from the male sense is not clear. For a time the word could also refer to a juggler or jester of either sex, but by the close of the 17th century its usage referring to males had disappeared.
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless, of course, the above applies, in which case Pax would be wasted vobiscum and you're quite incapable of vale.
ArabianShark just needed to get that off his chest. Thanks for listening. Cheers, mates.
Just noticed...
On my wall, above my flatscreen, hangs a calendar, a Star Wars calendar (go figure, a geek like me), the third of its lineage, this one celebrating 30 of Star Wars (a very heart felt Congratulations and Thank You for Mr. Lucas, in the immensely odd chance he might be reading this). For April, the main picture is a frame from Episode II: Attack of the Clones, from the scene in the Naboo Lake district when Padmé and Anakin kiss. This particular frame pertains to just before the kiss, when the charactres' lips are barely an inch apart. What could be more romantic?
How about if Hayden Christensen hadn't that look of (what is that? Revolt? I'll go with) repulse about him. Really, watch the movie again (of course you have watched it once), get it on DVD (now watch me do the mind trick: You will get it on DVD), just get a load of the frickin' frame and tell me if there's not something wrong there. What, does the Jedi Council warp Padawans' minds so that they'll find attractive women repulsive? Or is against Christensen's religion to kiss Natalie Portman without looking like you're only doing this for the cash? Take a leaf from Hugo Weaving's book, you didn't see him grimacing when Ms. Portman kissed the lips of his Guy Fawkes mask in V for Vendetta. Well, actually, for all I know, he could have been choking in disgust behind the mask, provided that he didn't move... but, come on, Weaving? Not likely! Not at all! No! Silly 'Shark, even suggesting such a thing.
Come to think of it, there could have been nobody behind the mask at that particular time. Even more reason to think Mr. Weaving would not be grimacing at that time.
OK, then, on to a better example: Goya's Ghosts. Alas, I am yet to see that one. Oh well.
So what's left? How about senseless movie connctions? I'll attempt to prove, by means of connecting actors and actreses to each other, possibly in ridiculous ways, that Weaving hasn't or wouldn't have grimaced. So:
Hugo Weaving is know to be greatly attatched both to England and Australia, where he currently resides, or so I'm told; actor Hugh Jackman is widely known to be Australian as well; Mr. Jackman had kissing scenes with actress Scarlett Johansson in the movie Scoop, without ever grimacing; Scarlett Johansson has absolutely nothing whatsoever to connect her to Natalie Portman, except for the fact that Johansson stared in Lost in Translation, directed by Sofia Coppola, who also stared with Portman in The Phantom Menace. This should be irrefutable evidence that Hugo Weaving has not/would not/will not grimace in a kissing scene with Natalie Portman unless so specified by the script.
OK, that was plenty strange. I'll just wrap up here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would just remind you all that the once (though I think no more) centre of the Hollywood universe is Christopher Lee, know for roles as Sorcerer, Frankanstein, Sith Lord, Bond Villain and time and again Dracula. Surely you can see the cleverly hidden mystery in this. I know I can.
How about if Hayden Christensen hadn't that look of (what is that? Revolt? I'll go with) repulse about him. Really, watch the movie again (of course you have watched it once), get it on DVD (now watch me do the mind trick: You will get it on DVD), just get a load of the frickin' frame and tell me if there's not something wrong there. What, does the Jedi Council warp Padawans' minds so that they'll find attractive women repulsive? Or is against Christensen's religion to kiss Natalie Portman without looking like you're only doing this for the cash? Take a leaf from Hugo Weaving's book, you didn't see him grimacing when Ms. Portman kissed the lips of his Guy Fawkes mask in V for Vendetta. Well, actually, for all I know, he could have been choking in disgust behind the mask, provided that he didn't move... but, come on, Weaving? Not likely! Not at all! No! Silly 'Shark, even suggesting such a thing.
Come to think of it, there could have been nobody behind the mask at that particular time. Even more reason to think Mr. Weaving would not be grimacing at that time.
OK, then, on to a better example: Goya's Ghosts. Alas, I am yet to see that one. Oh well.
So what's left? How about senseless movie connctions? I'll attempt to prove, by means of connecting actors and actreses to each other, possibly in ridiculous ways, that Weaving hasn't or wouldn't have grimaced. So:
Hugo Weaving is know to be greatly attatched both to England and Australia, where he currently resides, or so I'm told; actor Hugh Jackman is widely known to be Australian as well; Mr. Jackman had kissing scenes with actress Scarlett Johansson in the movie Scoop, without ever grimacing; Scarlett Johansson has absolutely nothing whatsoever to connect her to Natalie Portman, except for the fact that Johansson stared in Lost in Translation, directed by Sofia Coppola, who also stared with Portman in The Phantom Menace. This should be irrefutable evidence that Hugo Weaving has not/would not/will not grimace in a kissing scene with Natalie Portman unless so specified by the script.
OK, that was plenty strange. I'll just wrap up here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would just remind you all that the once (though I think no more) centre of the Hollywood universe is Christopher Lee, know for roles as Sorcerer, Frankanstein, Sith Lord, Bond Villain and time and again Dracula. Surely you can see the cleverly hidden mystery in this. I know I can.
Finally...
At long last, the last piece is set. All is in it's place, and about time, too.
Nearly a month after moving in, today I got my long desired Queen sized bed. That's right - livin' large, sleepin' large and maybe even watchin' DVDs large, because, you know, in a bedsit, there's only so many places you can fit a bed and a screen, and neither would go well in the loo or the kitchen. So there, a busy Friday, with all the delivering, the assembling, the removing of both old small beds and the thorough cleaning of the house (that was overdue, really, but I knew the delivery and assembly would be messy, so I just kept waiting), but it was worth it. I just wished I could have left less of the tasks above for others (all I really did was clean up after them), but it's going to be six more weeks until I'm allowed to make efforts, courtesy of my not missed at all hernia - good riddance to that!
And now to enjoy my just-the-way-I-want-it flat - I even gave myself a purple and pink lava lamp, it goes nicely with my plasma lamp.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark now qualifies as a bachelor, seeing as he now has his very own bachelor pad. That's right, ladies, he's single and available. Come get him! One at a time, please.
Nearly a month after moving in, today I got my long desired Queen sized bed. That's right - livin' large, sleepin' large and maybe even watchin' DVDs large, because, you know, in a bedsit, there's only so many places you can fit a bed and a screen, and neither would go well in the loo or the kitchen. So there, a busy Friday, with all the delivering, the assembling, the removing of both old small beds and the thorough cleaning of the house (that was overdue, really, but I knew the delivery and assembly would be messy, so I just kept waiting), but it was worth it. I just wished I could have left less of the tasks above for others (all I really did was clean up after them), but it's going to be six more weeks until I'm allowed to make efforts, courtesy of my not missed at all hernia - good riddance to that!
And now to enjoy my just-the-way-I-want-it flat - I even gave myself a purple and pink lava lamp, it goes nicely with my plasma lamp.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark now qualifies as a bachelor, seeing as he now has his very own bachelor pad. That's right, ladies, he's single and available. Come get him! One at a time, please.
And the award goes to...
It's a bit early to say. In fact, I don't even know who the nomenees are. And, most importantly, I wonder if we're all clear on what the award is for anyway. So let's address those questions, shall we?
Seeing as this is MY blog, you don't have much of a choice.
This is the "Try a Little Softer" award for 2007. I suppose you all know the history behind this award. If you don't, here's the skinny. The Great (see, not great, but Great) radio host Nuno Markl, in one of his books inspired by his radio segment "The Man Who Bit The Dog", established this award for feats of great (and greatly misused) strenght. The first winner ever for this award was a man from Sydney, whose tale I will summarise in a brand new segment here at Shark Nibbles called:
Tales from Down Under:
This devious man from Sydney was a theif, but no common theif. He thought big. His heist would be to rob an ATM machine from a suburban building. And how would he choose to do that? By battering said building with a mobile crane. To no avail, that was, other than wrecking the building itself. Had it not been night, the building wouldn't have been empty, and casualties would have ensued, but, as luck would have it... The ATM, however, even after the building's collapse, stood adamant (remind me to get me some Aussie ATMs. I see potential), and forced the wrongdoer into a hasty retreat. Now, a hasty retreat whilst comandeering a mobile crane is somewhat less than a trivial matter. In his haste, he knocked down a power post, plunging the whole suburb into darkness. Police officers would soon find him weeping at the wheel of his parked vehicle, bangign his head against said wheel.
Crikey, mate, try a little softer.
And so, it's time for an early nomination for the 2007 award. The nomenee is none than my fridge. that's right, my fridge. Get this: I like to keep sody pop around the house. A little fizz every now and then is good for you. Unfortunately, I can't always get my favourde brand in handy two liter bottles, or bottles at all, and I'm forced to resort to tin cans. Now, I don't much care for tin cans, because I like a swig every now and then, and tin can's aren't that flexible. So I open up this can, have my swig and put it back in the fridge (not the freezer, the fridge). Next time I go for a swig, there are icicles floating around the soda. Lime flavoured, not plain moisture icicles. The fridge (again, fridge, not freezer) froze my soda. Wow.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how exposing the very resilient ATM from Sydney to his freezer would have worked out. I know: cool Austrailian Dollars.
Seeing as this is MY blog, you don't have much of a choice.
This is the "Try a Little Softer" award for 2007. I suppose you all know the history behind this award. If you don't, here's the skinny. The Great (see, not great, but Great) radio host Nuno Markl, in one of his books inspired by his radio segment "The Man Who Bit The Dog", established this award for feats of great (and greatly misused) strenght. The first winner ever for this award was a man from Sydney, whose tale I will summarise in a brand new segment here at Shark Nibbles called:
Tales from Down Under:
This devious man from Sydney was a theif, but no common theif. He thought big. His heist would be to rob an ATM machine from a suburban building. And how would he choose to do that? By battering said building with a mobile crane. To no avail, that was, other than wrecking the building itself. Had it not been night, the building wouldn't have been empty, and casualties would have ensued, but, as luck would have it... The ATM, however, even after the building's collapse, stood adamant (remind me to get me some Aussie ATMs. I see potential), and forced the wrongdoer into a hasty retreat. Now, a hasty retreat whilst comandeering a mobile crane is somewhat less than a trivial matter. In his haste, he knocked down a power post, plunging the whole suburb into darkness. Police officers would soon find him weeping at the wheel of his parked vehicle, bangign his head against said wheel.
Crikey, mate, try a little softer.
And so, it's time for an early nomination for the 2007 award. The nomenee is none than my fridge. that's right, my fridge. Get this: I like to keep sody pop around the house. A little fizz every now and then is good for you. Unfortunately, I can't always get my favourde brand in handy two liter bottles, or bottles at all, and I'm forced to resort to tin cans. Now, I don't much care for tin cans, because I like a swig every now and then, and tin can's aren't that flexible. So I open up this can, have my swig and put it back in the fridge (not the freezer, the fridge). Next time I go for a swig, there are icicles floating around the soda. Lime flavoured, not plain moisture icicles. The fridge (again, fridge, not freezer) froze my soda. Wow.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how exposing the very resilient ATM from Sydney to his freezer would have worked out. I know: cool Austrailian Dollars.
Video time
Embedded, too. So, first things first - copyright issues. Before we start posting (and thus freely distributing) copyrighted material obtained from acquaintances who assure you they hold copyright of whatever they're allowing you to use freely for as long as you credit them, setting you ripe for theyir rightful owner to righteously sue, this is already freely distributed by the prefered means of Times magazine person of the year (2006), i.e., YouTube. And, in case you're wondering about the above little tail of copyright and other legal travails, yes, I'm one of the people to whom that never happened. Onwards, then.
Right off the bat:
How about that? Readily avilable to anyone who can afford it (or acquire it any other way). And since it's classified as a sports weapon, you need only a run of the mill permit for it. (I'm not positive on this point. Could someone elaborate?) Even Homer Simpson could own up to three of them. But wait, let's watch some more:
Wicked awesome, eh?
Sure, you would need some crazy marksmanship skills to shoot eight randomly thrown clay birds in as many shots holding the gun upside down above your head with minimal if any bracing at all, but I invite you to imagine what some disgruntled common mortal could do with one of those things in a crowded place. It doesn't take years of practice to wreak some serious havoc with a gun that can shoot 12 shells in less than 2 seconds. Even I reckon I could poke someone's eye out with one of those things - and I systematically make a fool - nay, a noob - out of myself everytime I dabble in Counter Strike or Unreal Tournment. I mean, you can easily conceal one of those things under a trench coat (suppose you strap it to your back, off to one side. It might not be very comfortable, but it could work) and smuggle it to a myriad of places. Heck, in most banks I've ever been to, you could smuggle it in, no problem.
I'm sure that any argument along the lines of "We make the gun for sporting ends only and it's not our fault someone ends up using it the wrong way" lets the good folks at Beretta sleep comfortaby at night, knowing that they've spent quite the considerable ammount developing a likely implement of death and suffering whereas there is still no cure for cancer, and likely recieved their investment back tenfold - and cancer research might still be underfunded. Good job, lads.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really has nothing against Beretta or professional sports marksmen or marksmen of any sort per se, but isn't it a fair point that where weapons are concerned we've done quite enough and perhaps it would be best to focus our energies in towards less destructive ends?
This post goes out with a
Right off the bat:
How about that? Readily avilable to anyone who can afford it (or acquire it any other way). And since it's classified as a sports weapon, you need only a run of the mill permit for it. (I'm not positive on this point. Could someone elaborate?) Even Homer Simpson could own up to three of them. But wait, let's watch some more:
Wicked awesome, eh?
Sure, you would need some crazy marksmanship skills to shoot eight randomly thrown clay birds in as many shots holding the gun upside down above your head with minimal if any bracing at all, but I invite you to imagine what some disgruntled common mortal could do with one of those things in a crowded place. It doesn't take years of practice to wreak some serious havoc with a gun that can shoot 12 shells in less than 2 seconds. Even I reckon I could poke someone's eye out with one of those things - and I systematically make a fool - nay, a noob - out of myself everytime I dabble in Counter Strike or Unreal Tournment. I mean, you can easily conceal one of those things under a trench coat (suppose you strap it to your back, off to one side. It might not be very comfortable, but it could work) and smuggle it to a myriad of places. Heck, in most banks I've ever been to, you could smuggle it in, no problem.
I'm sure that any argument along the lines of "We make the gun for sporting ends only and it's not our fault someone ends up using it the wrong way" lets the good folks at Beretta sleep comfortaby at night, knowing that they've spent quite the considerable ammount developing a likely implement of death and suffering whereas there is still no cure for cancer, and likely recieved their investment back tenfold - and cancer research might still be underfunded. Good job, lads.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really has nothing against Beretta or professional sports marksmen or marksmen of any sort per se, but isn't it a fair point that where weapons are concerned we've done quite enough and perhaps it would be best to focus our energies in towards less destructive ends?
This post goes out with a
The Exile alone knows...
Let's begin with a show of hands, shall we? Who here is familiar with the Star Wars universe? And how many of those know of the D&D based RPG Knights of the Old Republic? How about the sequel, Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords? That few... Well, then, for all the others, here's the skinny:
The game puts the player in the role of The Exile an ordinary (cannonically) woman, though you can play as a male character (for a different game experience), with no recollection of her past - or her name, for that matter. AS the game begins, she comes to her senses in a kolto (go look it up) tank, and soon after discovers she has the innate ability to use the Force.
As the game progresses, she discovers she is a former Jedi whose connection to the Force has been severed following a trial for her deeds in times of war, and, depending on your choices, will take revenge from a scattered Jedi Council or redeem herself and unite the fleeing Jedi Masters into a new Council.
Menwhile, by way of the many in-game conversations with party members and NPCs, having one's connection to the force severed is described as alike to losing all of one's senses at once. I think I know how that would feel...
You should know of my travails with moving to a house with no utilities. Those were short-lived (thankfully). I moved in on a Sunday, got my accounts on the following Monday and, by Tuesday, all utilities had been connected. All but one... Well, two, if you consider natural gas (I'm still using a Butane canister), but still, all but an all-important one: Cable!
I can live without Cable TV, sure. Without Cable Internet, not so sure. I requested a service migration on Monday, to be effective no sooner than Thursday (I didn't make that rule...), and then, by Thursday, at about 8 p.m., after a delayed instalation and only 4 hours of service, my connection to the Force, I mean, the Internet became severed. Only yesterday did it come up again. So, if you take out the weekend (going home, to an inferior, but active Internet connection), it was still 6 days without Web access and that felt like losing a lot of senses at once... phew!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark recalls some ominous chance that, should the exile ever regain his connection to the Force, echoes in the force would be created so that every single Force sensitive creature in the universe would perish. Lock up your children.
The game puts the player in the role of The Exile an ordinary (cannonically) woman, though you can play as a male character (for a different game experience), with no recollection of her past - or her name, for that matter. AS the game begins, she comes to her senses in a kolto (go look it up) tank, and soon after discovers she has the innate ability to use the Force.
As the game progresses, she discovers she is a former Jedi whose connection to the Force has been severed following a trial for her deeds in times of war, and, depending on your choices, will take revenge from a scattered Jedi Council or redeem herself and unite the fleeing Jedi Masters into a new Council.
Menwhile, by way of the many in-game conversations with party members and NPCs, having one's connection to the force severed is described as alike to losing all of one's senses at once. I think I know how that would feel...
You should know of my travails with moving to a house with no utilities. Those were short-lived (thankfully). I moved in on a Sunday, got my accounts on the following Monday and, by Tuesday, all utilities had been connected. All but one... Well, two, if you consider natural gas (I'm still using a Butane canister), but still, all but an all-important one: Cable!
I can live without Cable TV, sure. Without Cable Internet, not so sure. I requested a service migration on Monday, to be effective no sooner than Thursday (I didn't make that rule...), and then, by Thursday, at about 8 p.m., after a delayed instalation and only 4 hours of service, my connection to the Force, I mean, the Internet became severed. Only yesterday did it come up again. So, if you take out the weekend (going home, to an inferior, but active Internet connection), it was still 6 days without Web access and that felt like losing a lot of senses at once... phew!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark recalls some ominous chance that, should the exile ever regain his connection to the Force, echoes in the force would be created so that every single Force sensitive creature in the universe would perish. Lock up your children.
Boots and Bureaucracy
Does this title remind you the slightest of such Jane Austen novels as "Pride and Prejudice" or "Sense and Sensibility" in the way "Duel and Duality" or "Amy and Amiability" are supposed to? No? Tough!
First and foremost, I should clarify that boots and bureaucracy should be kept well apart and taken care of separately. So:
Boots: I'm finaly able to wear boots again. For quite some time (some six weeks, I think) I couldn't put on my boots because I couldn't stand the pain of bending over long enough to do the long laces and had to wear some lighter footwear. Boots really are my thing, when it comes down to footwear, so those had not been a happy six weaks, though that might have been because of the pain, mobility impediment and overall tiredness and discomfort as well.
Bureaucracy: I'm in the process of moving. For five years (since I moved out) I have been living in rented rooms in houses where just about anyone can rent a room. Now, that's never really been a problem: The first house I moved out into (eh...?) had been rented out to students just like myself, and frshmen as well, for the most part, and even though most of them already knew each other well before moving in together, we hit it off well and became friends. Sure, many people choose to get together in groups and rent a whole flat(and split the rent) instead of renting only one room in a house where it's owner doesn't live (like I did), but fate hadn't that in mind for me. I later moved out and into a room closer to campus with a lower rent (gotta mind that rent...) and with a colleague I already knew quite well. In time, a spare room has been rented out to someone neither of us knew and later to someoene we both knew. And now, I've left to live on my own. How does this relate to bureaucracy? Well, so far, I had had nothing but verbal agreements with my landlords, wherein periodically (moe or less so, for my former landlord) he'd come by the house to collect rent money and payment for whatever services not included in the agreement but under his responsability. This time, I have a full lease, complete with a deed and all. Now, the house has all the utilities (water, power, etc.) ready to use, but the company(ies) should refuse to let them be used without whatever ton of triple stamped paperwork and whatnot, signed by both the landlord and myself. Now, I can always find a litle time to swing by the imobiliary to sign something or another, and such seems to be the case with the landlord, but all the officialising and the stamping and the technicalities have bogged down the process to the stage where I'll be moving into a house with NO utilities. Really, WTF!? Couldn't we just call the company and say "OK, we're going to spend some of your water and power and whatnot, just bill me" and be done with it?
Perhaps the boots would be best suited to deal with the bureaucracy after all...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to challenge the pencil pushers into his own territorial waters: let's see you stamp your precious forms underwater...
First and foremost, I should clarify that boots and bureaucracy should be kept well apart and taken care of separately. So:
Boots: I'm finaly able to wear boots again. For quite some time (some six weeks, I think) I couldn't put on my boots because I couldn't stand the pain of bending over long enough to do the long laces and had to wear some lighter footwear. Boots really are my thing, when it comes down to footwear, so those had not been a happy six weaks, though that might have been because of the pain, mobility impediment and overall tiredness and discomfort as well.
Bureaucracy: I'm in the process of moving. For five years (since I moved out) I have been living in rented rooms in houses where just about anyone can rent a room. Now, that's never really been a problem: The first house I moved out into (eh...?) had been rented out to students just like myself, and frshmen as well, for the most part, and even though most of them already knew each other well before moving in together, we hit it off well and became friends. Sure, many people choose to get together in groups and rent a whole flat(and split the rent) instead of renting only one room in a house where it's owner doesn't live (like I did), but fate hadn't that in mind for me. I later moved out and into a room closer to campus with a lower rent (gotta mind that rent...) and with a colleague I already knew quite well. In time, a spare room has been rented out to someone neither of us knew and later to someoene we both knew. And now, I've left to live on my own. How does this relate to bureaucracy? Well, so far, I had had nothing but verbal agreements with my landlords, wherein periodically (moe or less so, for my former landlord) he'd come by the house to collect rent money and payment for whatever services not included in the agreement but under his responsability. This time, I have a full lease, complete with a deed and all. Now, the house has all the utilities (water, power, etc.) ready to use, but the company(ies) should refuse to let them be used without whatever ton of triple stamped paperwork and whatnot, signed by both the landlord and myself. Now, I can always find a litle time to swing by the imobiliary to sign something or another, and such seems to be the case with the landlord, but all the officialising and the stamping and the technicalities have bogged down the process to the stage where I'll be moving into a house with NO utilities. Really, WTF!? Couldn't we just call the company and say "OK, we're going to spend some of your water and power and whatnot, just bill me" and be done with it?
Perhaps the boots would be best suited to deal with the bureaucracy after all...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to challenge the pencil pushers into his own territorial waters: let's see you stamp your precious forms underwater...
Cut open and sewn shut
Stapled shut, actually. Meaning, obviously, that my surgery has taken place as schedulled and is done with.
The blinding pain in now a very mild pain and a generous handful of soreness in the muscles that were peeled from the bone for my hernia to be excised. I was delighted to know that, unlike what I had previously been led to believe, my vertebra were never separated during surgery, nor have they been fused together by means of staples nor has the disc between them been removed. That said, nothing has been done to impart my stability, so I should recover swiftly and fully. Fingers crossed!
For all of you expecting to undergo surgery (and dreading it), let me put (some) of your fears to rest: It barely hurts. Really, it doesn't. and don't you dread that awful moment when you're in the surgery room, waiting for the anaesthetic to kick in; you're given a pre-anaesthetic shot even before you're taken form your room, and by the time you get there you'll be half assleep anyway. And by the time the anaesthesia does kick in, you'll be much too out of it to know it. Next thing you'll know you'll be lying in the recovery room just glad it's all behind you and saying something utterly silly (I know I did). So just relax, really.
Of course all is not peaches and cream. the anaesthetic messes up your muscles, so you may lose some abilities, for a short period after the surgery (say, some 12 to 24 hours), that is. Quite common among such lost abilities is the ability to urinate. And even though you woun't be allowed to eat or drink anything for the whole day, you'll have been put on saline for so long it's not unusual for someone to have some three oints of urine in their bladder (I know I did). And, unable to pee, I had to be given a urethral catheter. Let me tel you this much about it: I'll never understand this as a fetish. Really, I don't think I ever will. It hurt like hell. That was most defenitely the worse part about this whole ordeal. The soreness and the pain around the incision are expected to subside soon enough and they're not so bad, really.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has two smaller hernias that haven't given him any grief, and may never do. Fingers crossed! Please!
The blinding pain in now a very mild pain and a generous handful of soreness in the muscles that were peeled from the bone for my hernia to be excised. I was delighted to know that, unlike what I had previously been led to believe, my vertebra were never separated during surgery, nor have they been fused together by means of staples nor has the disc between them been removed. That said, nothing has been done to impart my stability, so I should recover swiftly and fully. Fingers crossed!
For all of you expecting to undergo surgery (and dreading it), let me put (some) of your fears to rest: It barely hurts. Really, it doesn't. and don't you dread that awful moment when you're in the surgery room, waiting for the anaesthetic to kick in; you're given a pre-anaesthetic shot even before you're taken form your room, and by the time you get there you'll be half assleep anyway. And by the time the anaesthesia does kick in, you'll be much too out of it to know it. Next thing you'll know you'll be lying in the recovery room just glad it's all behind you and saying something utterly silly (I know I did). So just relax, really.
Of course all is not peaches and cream. the anaesthetic messes up your muscles, so you may lose some abilities, for a short period after the surgery (say, some 12 to 24 hours), that is. Quite common among such lost abilities is the ability to urinate. And even though you woun't be allowed to eat or drink anything for the whole day, you'll have been put on saline for so long it's not unusual for someone to have some three oints of urine in their bladder (I know I did). And, unable to pee, I had to be given a urethral catheter. Let me tel you this much about it: I'll never understand this as a fetish. Really, I don't think I ever will. It hurt like hell. That was most defenitely the worse part about this whole ordeal. The soreness and the pain around the incision are expected to subside soon enough and they're not so bad, really.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has two smaller hernias that haven't given him any grief, and may never do. Fingers crossed! Please!
As if I needed a title...
Today, I'd like to open a new chapter in (my) blog history with a segment entitled "Douchebags Get All The Breaks".
Today's douchebag, and the very first douchebag to get a spot on this outrageously magnificent (at least you're reading it) blog is none other than my maid.
Why is she a douchebag? There's a number of reasons. She does a half arsed job at just about everything (i.e., ironing, cleaning...), she has no concept of tidying up, she jumbles stuff around as much as she can in the most ridiculous and presposterous manner (really, why should I find my mother's tank tops in my socks drawer?), manages to break things she doesn't even clean propperly and, according to my grandmother, who also employs her, she is no stranger to raiding the cookie jar or the chocolate drawer. Last, but not least, and just as a mere example of her mischeif, while making my bed she managed to put the quilt - a lovely beige faux fur quilt my mother gave me for Christmas - inside out. I mean, it's not even a stupidity thing - being stupid won't make you do such a thing - you have to be plain old mean. And don't tell me she got confused, it's a fur quilt - one side has lovely faux fur, the other is plain light maroon suede. It's a no-brainer. Sure, take advantage of the situation - the bed won't be checked until I come home for the weekend, she'll have some four days to laugh at imagining our faces when we find out.
Why would I say she gets all the breaks? Think about it: She has no education, no manners, no know how even of her self-chosen profession, and yet she has a job, and a well paid job, it seems, for she does manage to sustain herself, her husband and two children. But, most important of all, she manages to do such a poor job and not get fired. That, my friends, is one hell of a break.
Even the secret message has a bold tag.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark considers becoming a douchebag for a few breaks. But, then again, perhaps rightly earned breaks from hard work are more satisfying. And besides, being a douchebag seems like a lot of work... now watch me say it with a straight face.
Today's douchebag, and the very first douchebag to get a spot on this outrageously magnificent (at least you're reading it) blog is none other than my maid.
Why is she a douchebag? There's a number of reasons. She does a half arsed job at just about everything (i.e., ironing, cleaning...), she has no concept of tidying up, she jumbles stuff around as much as she can in the most ridiculous and presposterous manner (really, why should I find my mother's tank tops in my socks drawer?), manages to break things she doesn't even clean propperly and, according to my grandmother, who also employs her, she is no stranger to raiding the cookie jar or the chocolate drawer. Last, but not least, and just as a mere example of her mischeif, while making my bed she managed to put the quilt - a lovely beige faux fur quilt my mother gave me for Christmas - inside out. I mean, it's not even a stupidity thing - being stupid won't make you do such a thing - you have to be plain old mean. And don't tell me she got confused, it's a fur quilt - one side has lovely faux fur, the other is plain light maroon suede. It's a no-brainer. Sure, take advantage of the situation - the bed won't be checked until I come home for the weekend, she'll have some four days to laugh at imagining our faces when we find out.
Why would I say she gets all the breaks? Think about it: She has no education, no manners, no know how even of her self-chosen profession, and yet she has a job, and a well paid job, it seems, for she does manage to sustain herself, her husband and two children. But, most important of all, she manages to do such a poor job and not get fired. That, my friends, is one hell of a break.
Even the secret message has a bold tag.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark considers becoming a douchebag for a few breaks. But, then again, perhaps rightly earned breaks from hard work are more satisfying. And besides, being a douchebag seems like a lot of work... now watch me say it with a straight face.
Back in Black
It's a brand new semester out there, so go out and get yourselves a handful of it. It's a clean slate and nothing should stop you from realising every lst dream and abition.
Not yet, anyway.
As for me, well, at least now I know what's been giving me hell inthe form of back pain and sciatica. That's right, readers dearest (ooh, almost a play on words with popular publication's title Reader's Digest! How funny!), it's official now: I've got a hernia. And yes, sitting down is still torture and torment, standing is still tiresome, but at least my medication is quite adjusted. If only all of my reverend teachers agree to let me stand during their classes (oh, please, dear sirs, it's nothing much really, is it? I ask for nothing more) I'm sure everything will be just peachy until such time as I get my surgery, should I need it, or whatever treatment my neurosurgeon deems necessary. Alas, this is hardly why I started blogging in the first place. Onwards to nicer thoughts.
TV in this unnofficially third world country I'm forced to call home (for the time being... just you wait...) only recentely (yet not quite as recentely as it my sound here. Should we say a couple of months?) discovered "Tru Calling", featuring Eliza Dushku, Shawn Reaves and Zach Galifianakis, among others. On the review side, and I promise to make it brief, the young renegade Goth slayer gone evil from "Buffy" (what the hell was that, anyway? Vampires being beaten left and right by a cheerleader-ish bombshell? Lame! and the spin-off "Angel" -- the weakest, meekest vampire in creation, it would seem. Oh, Lestat and the likes of you, where art thou?) turnes out not to be just some tough chick made to wear three layers of make up and an attitude - she's an actress alright, if you give her a decent part. The premise of the whole show is pretty good, featuring a young medical school applicant, Tru Davies (Dushku) who works the night shift at the local morgue. As per her special gift, every once in a while a corpse will turn to her and cry out for help, after which she wakes up as though from a dream back at the start of the same day, and it's her job to prevent the death of whoever called to her post mortem. And, for my whole point, and although I do understand that haste would be of the essence in such a situation, must there be so many shots of Eliza Dushku running? Of course I understand the immense aesthetical boon of displaying her finely sculpted figure, and I too appreciate the beauty of the imagery and I really tire of finding a better euphemism for "ok, sure, it's hot", but must the show capitalise on it so much? I wonder how good the makers think it really is, if they have to embelish it that much. Nonetheless, I recommend it. if nothing else... well... you know.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark regrets that his spinal cord, unlike other sharks', isn't cartilaginous. The disc between L4 and L5 is really giving him hell, but hell get over it.
Not yet, anyway.
As for me, well, at least now I know what's been giving me hell inthe form of back pain and sciatica. That's right, readers dearest (ooh, almost a play on words with popular publication's title Reader's Digest! How funny!), it's official now: I've got a hernia. And yes, sitting down is still torture and torment, standing is still tiresome, but at least my medication is quite adjusted. If only all of my reverend teachers agree to let me stand during their classes (oh, please, dear sirs, it's nothing much really, is it? I ask for nothing more) I'm sure everything will be just peachy until such time as I get my surgery, should I need it, or whatever treatment my neurosurgeon deems necessary. Alas, this is hardly why I started blogging in the first place. Onwards to nicer thoughts.
TV in this unnofficially third world country I'm forced to call home (for the time being... just you wait...) only recentely (yet not quite as recentely as it my sound here. Should we say a couple of months?) discovered "Tru Calling", featuring Eliza Dushku, Shawn Reaves and Zach Galifianakis, among others. On the review side, and I promise to make it brief, the young renegade Goth slayer gone evil from "Buffy" (what the hell was that, anyway? Vampires being beaten left and right by a cheerleader-ish bombshell? Lame! and the spin-off "Angel" -- the weakest, meekest vampire in creation, it would seem. Oh, Lestat and the likes of you, where art thou?) turnes out not to be just some tough chick made to wear three layers of make up and an attitude - she's an actress alright, if you give her a decent part. The premise of the whole show is pretty good, featuring a young medical school applicant, Tru Davies (Dushku) who works the night shift at the local morgue. As per her special gift, every once in a while a corpse will turn to her and cry out for help, after which she wakes up as though from a dream back at the start of the same day, and it's her job to prevent the death of whoever called to her post mortem. And, for my whole point, and although I do understand that haste would be of the essence in such a situation, must there be so many shots of Eliza Dushku running? Of course I understand the immense aesthetical boon of displaying her finely sculpted figure, and I too appreciate the beauty of the imagery and I really tire of finding a better euphemism for "ok, sure, it's hot", but must the show capitalise on it so much? I wonder how good the makers think it really is, if they have to embelish it that much. Nonetheless, I recommend it. if nothing else... well... you know.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark regrets that his spinal cord, unlike other sharks', isn't cartilaginous. The disc between L4 and L5 is really giving him hell, but hell get over it.
Keyboard Trauma
Hello, my loyal readers. Today, I'll be caring about your health and your well being, to make up for my late self centered raving. Today I'm going to give a tip to all the keyboard potatoes (I just coined that combining the familiar object, keyboard, with the term, couch potato, to indicate someone who spends much of their time at their keyboard. Isn't it clever?). As you probably know (at least you should), one of the major health hazards of your typing intensive lifestyle is upper limbs distrophy, along with carpal tunnel syndrome and reduced sex life. I'm afraid I can do very little about the two latter, but for the former, I have a little piece of advice for you.
Mind you, I make no claims about how good it is.
First off, let's know a little something extra about the foe at hand. Upper limbs distrophya, in plain English, means the muscles on your arms become weak, so much so in fact that one may become unable to raise his arms above his head. It makes sense, because, unless you keep your keyboard above your head, which, I assume, isn't very comfortable, one usually rests his arms at about waist level as he types.
And now for the prevention. Yes, prevention, not cure. Sorry. Some, quite a few, in fact, will advise you to raise your arms above your head every now and then or wave them around periodically, but imagine how silly that looks. Furthermore, it draws attention from nearby co-workers, no to mention you have to remember to do it, and since it's not much fun, you'll most likely end up thinking of it as a chore. Nevertheless, I suppose you could stick to that. Meanwhile, I have my own ways.
First and foremost, you need silly putty. Clay or plasticine won't do, not as well, at least, but it's counterpart, Thinking Putty, will do superbly, and it might look more sensible. Now that you have your Weapon of Mass Distraction, shape it into a rod about as long as from the base of your piky to the tip of your thumb. Then held one end with your pinky and your ring fingers against your palm and the other with your index and thumb of the other hand. Now stretch it to about three times it's length, but don't tug too hard or it'll tear. SHould that happen, don't panic!!! Calm down, pinch the ends together, take a deep breath (or yawn, that might relax you further) and continue. Once it's three times as long as the initial rod, fold it in three, give it a little twist so the strands stick together and stetch again. After a few dozen stretches, switch hands. Because silly putty is only a litle tough, iy will give your upper arms a mild workout, and becuse it's silly, it's fun! (Thinking can be fun too, if you give it a try)
Why so much methodology? Everything has some reason behind it. The initial length of the putty rod isn't too important, it just feels more comfortable this way, to me, that is. Feel free to go another way. The reason you should hold it by the ends is to ensure no length of the rod goes unstretched, which could make the stretched part too thin, so thin it could break, and nobody wants that! Also I find that it stretches more evenly when you hold it by the ends. Finally, you should stretch to three times as long and fold in three is so that you don't get a thich end and a thin end, which usually happens if you fold it in two, since it tends to grow thin at the middle every time you stretch.
While this silly putty thing might not be much more sensible than holding up your arms like your computer has a gun at you or flapping your arms about as though swatting a swarm of flies, it's not quite as flashy.
So remember, if you stretch your putty while the kernell compiles and whatnot installs, your arms won't let you down too soon. And there may be hope for your sex life after all.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark got two tins of this wonderful Thinking Putty. Unfortunately, whatever thoughts this very entertaining putty has, it keeps them for itself... but it sure is fun to stretch.
Mind you, I make no claims about how good it is.
First off, let's know a little something extra about the foe at hand. Upper limbs distrophya, in plain English, means the muscles on your arms become weak, so much so in fact that one may become unable to raise his arms above his head. It makes sense, because, unless you keep your keyboard above your head, which, I assume, isn't very comfortable, one usually rests his arms at about waist level as he types.
And now for the prevention. Yes, prevention, not cure. Sorry. Some, quite a few, in fact, will advise you to raise your arms above your head every now and then or wave them around periodically, but imagine how silly that looks. Furthermore, it draws attention from nearby co-workers, no to mention you have to remember to do it, and since it's not much fun, you'll most likely end up thinking of it as a chore. Nevertheless, I suppose you could stick to that. Meanwhile, I have my own ways.
First and foremost, you need silly putty. Clay or plasticine won't do, not as well, at least, but it's counterpart, Thinking Putty, will do superbly, and it might look more sensible. Now that you have your Weapon of Mass Distraction, shape it into a rod about as long as from the base of your piky to the tip of your thumb. Then held one end with your pinky and your ring fingers against your palm and the other with your index and thumb of the other hand. Now stretch it to about three times it's length, but don't tug too hard or it'll tear. SHould that happen, don't panic!!! Calm down, pinch the ends together, take a deep breath (or yawn, that might relax you further) and continue. Once it's three times as long as the initial rod, fold it in three, give it a little twist so the strands stick together and stetch again. After a few dozen stretches, switch hands. Because silly putty is only a litle tough, iy will give your upper arms a mild workout, and becuse it's silly, it's fun! (Thinking can be fun too, if you give it a try)
Why so much methodology? Everything has some reason behind it. The initial length of the putty rod isn't too important, it just feels more comfortable this way, to me, that is. Feel free to go another way. The reason you should hold it by the ends is to ensure no length of the rod goes unstretched, which could make the stretched part too thin, so thin it could break, and nobody wants that! Also I find that it stretches more evenly when you hold it by the ends. Finally, you should stretch to three times as long and fold in three is so that you don't get a thich end and a thin end, which usually happens if you fold it in two, since it tends to grow thin at the middle every time you stretch.
While this silly putty thing might not be much more sensible than holding up your arms like your computer has a gun at you or flapping your arms about as though swatting a swarm of flies, it's not quite as flashy.
So remember, if you stretch your putty while the kernell compiles and whatnot installs, your arms won't let you down too soon. And there may be hope for your sex life after all.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark got two tins of this wonderful Thinking Putty. Unfortunately, whatever thoughts this very entertaining putty has, it keeps them for itself... but it sure is fun to stretch.
The pain...
It sears all the way down my leg nearly all the time. It really drives me to tears. I hate being dependant on pain killers and still not getting anything done. You see, I can't sit for very long, half an hour at the most, and I tire from standing a lot (and I mean a LOT. As in a "helluva" LOT) faster than I would without my back pain. The back support belt helps a (very) little, and if I wear it for too long I get all sorts of pain from the constriction on my gut, and the darn thing isn't even that tight - quite the contrary, really, sometimes I wish it would tighten a little.
Which brings me to my next point - for nearly a year I dieted - to great effect, really - and now I feeal as all has been for naught. The heavy workload last December left me with little time, let alone little will, to diet and I put on a little weight. Then come Christmas and New Year, and I don't suppose one's expected to diet at those times. Now, when I'd really get my act, not to mention my regime together, I can't walk the 2 Km for a diet meal every night. I can't even walk off the extra weight - it kills me to walk - limp, really - for longer than precious few minutes at a time, sometimes even less.
And guess what else - this year, for the first time since I got into college, i had felt that things really were going well, I was putting out good work, i was getting the grades I wanted and I had always known i could get, even if I hadn't really been getting them, and now, when all was going under way with only the small matter of exams to endy a great semester in glory, i find myself drowsy all the time from muscle relaxants and in pain from sitting at a desk, be it to study or to write the damned exam. Long story short, the whole semester, it feels, has been for naught as well. Even if I make the grades, it will be nothing like the grades I could make, the grades I've been working for for the last three months. And this year I can't even get the grades from the work done throughout the semester carry over to next year, when I would do a lot better, because with this, Bologne Process deal - as good a deal though it may be - next year the courses I've been working my bottom off for won't even exist any more.
It sucks
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is really going belly up with the pain. He even almost forgot to slip in a secret message.
Which brings me to my next point - for nearly a year I dieted - to great effect, really - and now I feeal as all has been for naught. The heavy workload last December left me with little time, let alone little will, to diet and I put on a little weight. Then come Christmas and New Year, and I don't suppose one's expected to diet at those times. Now, when I'd really get my act, not to mention my regime together, I can't walk the 2 Km for a diet meal every night. I can't even walk off the extra weight - it kills me to walk - limp, really - for longer than precious few minutes at a time, sometimes even less.
And guess what else - this year, for the first time since I got into college, i had felt that things really were going well, I was putting out good work, i was getting the grades I wanted and I had always known i could get, even if I hadn't really been getting them, and now, when all was going under way with only the small matter of exams to endy a great semester in glory, i find myself drowsy all the time from muscle relaxants and in pain from sitting at a desk, be it to study or to write the damned exam. Long story short, the whole semester, it feels, has been for naught as well. Even if I make the grades, it will be nothing like the grades I could make, the grades I've been working for for the last three months. And this year I can't even get the grades from the work done throughout the semester carry over to next year, when I would do a lot better, because with this, Bologne Process deal - as good a deal though it may be - next year the courses I've been working my bottom off for won't even exist any more.
It sucks
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is really going belly up with the pain. He even almost forgot to slip in a secret message.
Spam
Whew, seems like over a month since I last posted... Oh, wait!
Yep, over a month... December, my favourite month of the year (and not just because of Christmas), really had me all tied up - leet me rephrase that - really had me swamped. Between System Analysis and Artificial Intleigence, as well as some nonsence generally refered to as Corporate Management, I had my work cut out for me, and blogging was sadly left on hold for a while. Then comes Christmas, and you know it's plain rude to blog during Christmas Dinner and then the week I spend 51 weeks a year waiting for - London - and it's all worth it. So, here's the skinny: As if I cinically believe you would ever expect something skinny here...
The good:
London... What else is there to say? It's good! It's the place where I'd expect to find God vacationing if I weren't an atheist. It's the place - mark my words - where I can see myself living and thriving in five years or less.
Christmas... Well, it's usually fairly good, isn't it? Oh, sure, the religious meaning of the whole thing is way past lost, and I don't find myself waking every morning from December 1st to December 24th just itching to know what's under the wraps, but 'tis still the season to be merry and so on and so forth... live with it!
The bad:
That would be Michael Jackson, or so he claims.
Would you Adam and Eve it, I got a sciatic pain problem at my age? This is going to be a real bitch, since I can't stand for very long, I can't sit for more than half an hour without excruciating pain, I can only lie down in certain positions, I limp when I walk and I can't carry heavy weights. This is going to do wonders for the exam season, as my Network Architectures exam can state - it went like utter smeg. Mind you, the teacher - a great big kudos to him - was kind enough to let me retake it in about two weeks, provided that I get a medical certificate for my condition, but alas, I have a conflicting exam... thank you anyway!
The ugly:
Someone has been spreading around a rumor that I have 30 GB worth of pornography in my computer. Now, having been the "kid kids love to hate" in junior high, being the subject of nasty rumors is nothing new to me. Being the subject of nasty and plausible rumors is nothing new either. Having said rumors carried to my parents and having to dismiss them is still not new. Having them carried by someone I used to hold in great esteem is just plain hurtful. Not being told where said rumors come from, while still not new, is a clear message now, isn't it? So, to the Spreader of Such Rumors, hereafter refered to as "scum", may death not find you for another thousand millenia, but may grievance without end befall every single one of your living hours. Oh, and "fuck you", if you'll excuse my french.
The Spam:
Lots of it! Now, before you do something rash, I don't mean unsolicitd and potentially harmful e-mal - that would have been spam, not Spam. Nor do I mean processed and spiced canned pork. I mean, quite simply, Spamalot, a musical lovingly ripped from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail". I had the chance to watch it during my stay in London and I must say it is certainly amon all the other "best things since sliced bread", which, by the way, you can use to make a Spam sandwich - ripper! A must-see for all Monty Python lovers and non-Monty Python lovers (well, now, it's not they're fault they're that way...) alike.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark missed blogging. But break out the two-notes theme, 'Shark's back with a vengeance. Actually, make that a Vendetta.
Go figure...
Yep, over a month... December, my favourite month of the year (and not just because of Christmas), really had me all tied up - leet me rephrase that - really had me swamped. Between System Analysis and Artificial Intleigence, as well as some nonsence generally refered to as Corporate Management, I had my work cut out for me, and blogging was sadly left on hold for a while. Then comes Christmas, and you know it's plain rude to blog during Christmas Dinner and then the week I spend 51 weeks a year waiting for - London - and it's all worth it. So, here's the skinny: As if I cinically believe you would ever expect something skinny here...
The good:
London... What else is there to say? It's good! It's the place where I'd expect to find God vacationing if I weren't an atheist. It's the place - mark my words - where I can see myself living and thriving in five years or less.
Christmas... Well, it's usually fairly good, isn't it? Oh, sure, the religious meaning of the whole thing is way past lost, and I don't find myself waking every morning from December 1st to December 24th just itching to know what's under the wraps, but 'tis still the season to be merry and so on and so forth... live with it!
The bad:
That would be Michael Jackson, or so he claims.
Would you Adam and Eve it, I got a sciatic pain problem at my age? This is going to be a real bitch, since I can't stand for very long, I can't sit for more than half an hour without excruciating pain, I can only lie down in certain positions, I limp when I walk and I can't carry heavy weights. This is going to do wonders for the exam season, as my Network Architectures exam can state - it went like utter smeg. Mind you, the teacher - a great big kudos to him - was kind enough to let me retake it in about two weeks, provided that I get a medical certificate for my condition, but alas, I have a conflicting exam... thank you anyway!
The ugly:
Someone has been spreading around a rumor that I have 30 GB worth of pornography in my computer. Now, having been the "kid kids love to hate" in junior high, being the subject of nasty rumors is nothing new to me. Being the subject of nasty and plausible rumors is nothing new either. Having said rumors carried to my parents and having to dismiss them is still not new. Having them carried by someone I used to hold in great esteem is just plain hurtful. Not being told where said rumors come from, while still not new, is a clear message now, isn't it? So, to the Spreader of Such Rumors, hereafter refered to as "scum", may death not find you for another thousand millenia, but may grievance without end befall every single one of your living hours. Oh, and "fuck you", if you'll excuse my french.
The Spam:
Lots of it! Now, before you do something rash, I don't mean unsolicitd and potentially harmful e-mal - that would have been spam, not Spam. Nor do I mean processed and spiced canned pork. I mean, quite simply, Spamalot, a musical lovingly ripped from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail". I had the chance to watch it during my stay in London and I must say it is certainly amon all the other "best things since sliced bread", which, by the way, you can use to make a Spam sandwich - ripper! A must-see for all Monty Python lovers and non-Monty Python lovers (well, now, it's not they're fault they're that way...) alike.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark missed blogging. But break out the two-notes theme, 'Shark's back with a vengeance. Actually, make that a Vendetta.
Go figure...
Final Gamble
Some of you might not know this, some of you might. I am a Bond Fan.
Not a Bond Boy! Ugh, wierd!!!!!
Much to my dismay, however, the James Bond franchise, in spite of actor Pierce Brosnan's superb performance as Bond, has been disappointing me for some time now. Goldeneye infused the then though-to-be-declining franchise (especially because, if you recall, it was preceeded by a hiatus of mourning) with new life, but Tomorrw Never Dies failed to match it. Some would say The World Is Not Enough followed the same path, and much as I liked it myself, I have to say Die Another Day is a very dark stain on the world's favourite spy's permanent record, though by no means Bond's fault (at least not Mr. Brosnan's fault, that is). That said, upon hearing of a new bond movie in the making, many felt, as I did, that this was the franchise's last chance to redeem itself. Now, everyone out in the collective of countries other than but my own (hereafter refered to as "The Civilised World") must have either seen it by now or aren't planning on seeing it at all. for the few that remain, here's my review.
A typical Bond movie begins with the trademark gun barrel sequence, wich dissolves into the very first scene with the very first action sequence and a bond pun. This, my friends, is not a typical bond movie. The first action sequence preceedes the gun barrel, and change doesn't stop there. The opening credits sequence follows a very much unexplored graphical philosophy in bond movies, and quite the refreshing change that is. As for Bond Himself, Daniel Craig lives up to the bequeathal of his predecessors and then some.
Right off the bat, those who reveled in George Lazenby's experience as a martial arts instructor for the Australian army's experience put to great effect in realistic fight scenes - no wimpy punches, Roger Moore style - will be thrilled to experience this new Bond's great fight sequences, where realistic hand to hand combat in closed spaces seems to have been emphasised. That, alongside with many complex and no doubt extenuating stunts make for quite the phisically demanding film, but expect no silly, however visually gratifying stunts, Mission: Impossible style.
Charisma abounds, surpassing Moore, Lazenby and Dalton - though I'll hold off saying the same in relation to Brosnan or Connery - as do charm and wit. Quite noteworthy is Judi Dench's interpretation of M, who seems to have taken yet another (dis)liking to Bond, in more tense, yet humorous lines, masterfully delivered not only by Dench, but also by many other secondary characters, not the least of wich Felix Leiter, played by Jeffrey Wright. The villain for this movie seems to take on a deprecated stereotype, carefully re-implemmented to great effect.
Many tense scenes will keep you on the edge of your seat - a gambling scene in particular had me mumbling "five and seven of spades" into my fedora over and over again. Other staples of Bond movies are here as well - Aston Martin, gambling and vodka martini, among others - and in no small amount. Gadgets, however present, despite Q's absence, have been de-emphasised and "sobered down".
This new Bond won't be found suffering for the sake of a hero suffering, yet his stoicism and even spite in the face of agony can be found aplenty, and not without yet another handful of Bond-esque puns. Being a far less nether-regions-driven character, Craig's Bond, while not being a cold hearted Bond, is a far more cold eyed Bond in the face of danger, adversity and overwhelming odds. Alongside being a much more vengeful Bond than we've seen so far, Daniel Craig portrays a less knight and more hero/anti-hero balanced James Bond, as it would befit a James bond for an age when the elitistic separation between good and evil appears far less crisp and clear as before.
The franchise, I dare say, is saved. Good job, Sony Pictures, and Godspeed. For "Bond 22", which, I believe, is in the making already, that is.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
Shark, ArabianShark, too knows what M stands for. But you won't find it here.
Not a Bond Boy! Ugh, wierd!!!!!
Much to my dismay, however, the James Bond franchise, in spite of actor Pierce Brosnan's superb performance as Bond, has been disappointing me for some time now. Goldeneye infused the then though-to-be-declining franchise (especially because, if you recall, it was preceeded by a hiatus of mourning) with new life, but Tomorrw Never Dies failed to match it. Some would say The World Is Not Enough followed the same path, and much as I liked it myself, I have to say Die Another Day is a very dark stain on the world's favourite spy's permanent record, though by no means Bond's fault (at least not Mr. Brosnan's fault, that is). That said, upon hearing of a new bond movie in the making, many felt, as I did, that this was the franchise's last chance to redeem itself. Now, everyone out in the collective of countries other than but my own (hereafter refered to as "The Civilised World") must have either seen it by now or aren't planning on seeing it at all. for the few that remain, here's my review.
A typical Bond movie begins with the trademark gun barrel sequence, wich dissolves into the very first scene with the very first action sequence and a bond pun. This, my friends, is not a typical bond movie. The first action sequence preceedes the gun barrel, and change doesn't stop there. The opening credits sequence follows a very much unexplored graphical philosophy in bond movies, and quite the refreshing change that is. As for Bond Himself, Daniel Craig lives up to the bequeathal of his predecessors and then some.
Right off the bat, those who reveled in George Lazenby's experience as a martial arts instructor for the Australian army's experience put to great effect in realistic fight scenes - no wimpy punches, Roger Moore style - will be thrilled to experience this new Bond's great fight sequences, where realistic hand to hand combat in closed spaces seems to have been emphasised. That, alongside with many complex and no doubt extenuating stunts make for quite the phisically demanding film, but expect no silly, however visually gratifying stunts, Mission: Impossible style.
Charisma abounds, surpassing Moore, Lazenby and Dalton - though I'll hold off saying the same in relation to Brosnan or Connery - as do charm and wit. Quite noteworthy is Judi Dench's interpretation of M, who seems to have taken yet another (dis)liking to Bond, in more tense, yet humorous lines, masterfully delivered not only by Dench, but also by many other secondary characters, not the least of wich Felix Leiter, played by Jeffrey Wright. The villain for this movie seems to take on a deprecated stereotype, carefully re-implemmented to great effect.
Many tense scenes will keep you on the edge of your seat - a gambling scene in particular had me mumbling "five and seven of spades" into my fedora over and over again. Other staples of Bond movies are here as well - Aston Martin, gambling and vodka martini, among others - and in no small amount. Gadgets, however present, despite Q's absence, have been de-emphasised and "sobered down".
This new Bond won't be found suffering for the sake of a hero suffering, yet his stoicism and even spite in the face of agony can be found aplenty, and not without yet another handful of Bond-esque puns. Being a far less nether-regions-driven character, Craig's Bond, while not being a cold hearted Bond, is a far more cold eyed Bond in the face of danger, adversity and overwhelming odds. Alongside being a much more vengeful Bond than we've seen so far, Daniel Craig portrays a less knight and more hero/anti-hero balanced James Bond, as it would befit a James bond for an age when the elitistic separation between good and evil appears far less crisp and clear as before.
The franchise, I dare say, is saved. Good job, Sony Pictures, and Godspeed. For "Bond 22", which, I believe, is in the making already, that is.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
Shark, ArabianShark, too knows what M stands for. But you won't find it here.
At last!!!
So, figure this out...
I was just having dinner tonight (not my usual salad, but some different salad) when out of the blue (um... green?) I get this nagging feeling in my head. Turns out it was... words! Wonderful words! (OK, fair words. I mean, I like them. Get off me, won't you!) I can write again! My vampires (whom, if you recall, I keep in my socks drawer) will be unleashed for at least another prowl. I believe I found my muse. Think "How's your belly where the bat bit ya?".
In other news, my job satisfaction level is higher than ever. I mean, I had never realised what a handfull Systems Analysis could be, but it's a handfull I'm glad to handle. Heck, I hand't had so much fun with my work since... ever!
And for an extra bit of lore, "an apple a day keeps the doctor away". Well, I wouldn't know about that, but it did wonders for my heartburn. And, come to think of it, I haven't seen a single doctor all day long. Maybe it does work.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is quite tired, but even more so happy to let his vampires out again. Off you go, just be home before dawn.
I was just having dinner tonight (not my usual salad, but some different salad) when out of the blue (um... green?) I get this nagging feeling in my head. Turns out it was... words! Wonderful words! (OK, fair words. I mean, I like them. Get off me, won't you!) I can write again! My vampires (whom, if you recall, I keep in my socks drawer) will be unleashed for at least another prowl. I believe I found my muse. Think "How's your belly where the bat bit ya?".
In other news, my job satisfaction level is higher than ever. I mean, I had never realised what a handfull Systems Analysis could be, but it's a handfull I'm glad to handle. Heck, I hand't had so much fun with my work since... ever!
And for an extra bit of lore, "an apple a day keeps the doctor away". Well, I wouldn't know about that, but it did wonders for my heartburn. And, come to think of it, I haven't seen a single doctor all day long. Maybe it does work.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is quite tired, but even more so happy to let his vampires out again. Off you go, just be home before dawn.
Daylight saving time, part II
I'm sure you remember an entry of days gone by, known only as Daylight Saving Time. Onwards.
Error 1336: Error 1337 Imminent.
My Internal Clock (which, the geekiest among my readers might like to know, is a binary blue led one, not unlike those avaliable at Think Geek) feels much better now. And nothing quite like a 49 hours weekend to celebrate. Now, I really can't help but wonder: Where is all the saved daylight stored? Can everyone help themselves to some? Is it for sale? I suppose it would dramatically reduce my electricity bill if I could just crack open a bottle of 2006 saved daylight instead of flicking on the light switch every night. And whenever some small object rolls under a bed or a couch, who wouldn't like to be able to just unscrew a little hip flask of saved daylight rather than feeling with your fingertips around the dirty floor or finding that the batteries in your torch are dead as can be and you've been trying to get yourself to buy some since forever?
On the not-so-bright side, I have a question for my esteemed readers (both of them): At 1:40 A.M. this sunday, would you have said it was twenty to two or twenty to one? On one hand, forty minutes past one makes it twenty to two, but in twenty minutes it would be one again. See the issue?
Trick or treat? Both, I say, both! Trick me, what a treat wouldn't that be! A little fright for jollies, come, come! Halloween is nigh, and I'll be busy... not trick or treating, but reaping the early benefiths of the impending holliday, so I might as well make my point now. All Hallows Eve, or so it was believed by Saxon druids, was the day when witches and their likes walked the earth, and so one would be wise to look like one of them, so they'd find one akin to them and spare them any harm (or so I've been told). Saxon druids no longer abound, not even in good old UK, but the tradition lives on, as even today in one of their former colonies which shall not be named, little children come out on the streets dressed as ghouls and other fantasy archetypes more or less related to the old superstition to knock on doors and extort candy with the threat of tricks. I judge them no, lest they judge me, and, really, any chance for the little angels (or fiends, if it suits the occasion better) to get their hands on a little treat should ge promtly grasped... by the dentist, at the very least. A few thousand kilometers across the Ocean (and I mean over here, should you need that I spell it out), it hasn't been long since that tradition became popular as well. Sure, kids aren't carying carved pumpkins around and they don't even do it propperly, they just knock on your door all dressed up in whatever most wierd rags they can find and plastered with ridiculous amounts of ghastly make up and drably say "It's like, you know, it's Halloween and so..." and they can be dissuaded with as little as "... so?". What saddens me (very slightly only, mind you) is that we used to have our own similar tradition, although entirely unrelated to any such belief as the wenches of Satan roaming amongst common folk, and the theme phrase which takes the place of "Trick or treat" roughly translates to "bread by God", but that tradittion was forgotten a long time ago. It saddens me (agin, very, very slightly) that kids would rather inherit (poorly) a tradition from beyond the sea than perpetuate a nearly equal tradition deeply rooted in their own history and ancestry. Oh, well, what are you going to do about it... Kids there days...
Speaking of which... having several relatives who are teachers, I'm often confounded with some acts of not-so-brightness (to use a kinder expression) from their students. Now, you should know these are Junior Hgih and High School students only that we're talking about, but seeing how daft these kids can be sometimes, it scares me that someday I might find myself turning to them for medical attention or any other life-or-death sort of service. Immigration... now that's a word with a nice ring to it. Off to...
Do I have an error 1337 yet? No?
New Zealand, which formearly had motto quite similar to my own, is as far as you can get from here without the help of Oxygen-Hydrogen powered engines and a wicked strong heat-proof and air tight hull. For those kind folks Daylight Saving has just begun. Stay strong, it's only six months.
How about now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders if he should start saving Nightlight Time. Ah, good ol' days when I had a nightlight... '94, you'll hardly be forgotten... in spite of all the ugly business therein.
Error 1336: Error 1337 Imminent.
My Internal Clock (which, the geekiest among my readers might like to know, is a binary blue led one, not unlike those avaliable at Think Geek) feels much better now. And nothing quite like a 49 hours weekend to celebrate. Now, I really can't help but wonder: Where is all the saved daylight stored? Can everyone help themselves to some? Is it for sale? I suppose it would dramatically reduce my electricity bill if I could just crack open a bottle of 2006 saved daylight instead of flicking on the light switch every night. And whenever some small object rolls under a bed or a couch, who wouldn't like to be able to just unscrew a little hip flask of saved daylight rather than feeling with your fingertips around the dirty floor or finding that the batteries in your torch are dead as can be and you've been trying to get yourself to buy some since forever?
On the not-so-bright side, I have a question for my esteemed readers (both of them): At 1:40 A.M. this sunday, would you have said it was twenty to two or twenty to one? On one hand, forty minutes past one makes it twenty to two, but in twenty minutes it would be one again. See the issue?
Trick or treat? Both, I say, both! Trick me, what a treat wouldn't that be! A little fright for jollies, come, come! Halloween is nigh, and I'll be busy... not trick or treating, but reaping the early benefiths of the impending holliday, so I might as well make my point now. All Hallows Eve, or so it was believed by Saxon druids, was the day when witches and their likes walked the earth, and so one would be wise to look like one of them, so they'd find one akin to them and spare them any harm (or so I've been told). Saxon druids no longer abound, not even in good old UK, but the tradition lives on, as even today in one of their former colonies which shall not be named, little children come out on the streets dressed as ghouls and other fantasy archetypes more or less related to the old superstition to knock on doors and extort candy with the threat of tricks. I judge them no, lest they judge me, and, really, any chance for the little angels (or fiends, if it suits the occasion better) to get their hands on a little treat should ge promtly grasped... by the dentist, at the very least. A few thousand kilometers across the Ocean (and I mean over here, should you need that I spell it out), it hasn't been long since that tradition became popular as well. Sure, kids aren't carying carved pumpkins around and they don't even do it propperly, they just knock on your door all dressed up in whatever most wierd rags they can find and plastered with ridiculous amounts of ghastly make up and drably say "It's like, you know, it's Halloween and so..." and they can be dissuaded with as little as "... so?". What saddens me (very slightly only, mind you) is that we used to have our own similar tradition, although entirely unrelated to any such belief as the wenches of Satan roaming amongst common folk, and the theme phrase which takes the place of "Trick or treat" roughly translates to "bread by God", but that tradittion was forgotten a long time ago. It saddens me (agin, very, very slightly) that kids would rather inherit (poorly) a tradition from beyond the sea than perpetuate a nearly equal tradition deeply rooted in their own history and ancestry. Oh, well, what are you going to do about it... Kids there days...
Speaking of which... having several relatives who are teachers, I'm often confounded with some acts of not-so-brightness (to use a kinder expression) from their students. Now, you should know these are Junior Hgih and High School students only that we're talking about, but seeing how daft these kids can be sometimes, it scares me that someday I might find myself turning to them for medical attention or any other life-or-death sort of service. Immigration... now that's a word with a nice ring to it. Off to...
Do I have an error 1337 yet? No?
New Zealand, which formearly had motto quite similar to my own, is as far as you can get from here without the help of Oxygen-Hydrogen powered engines and a wicked strong heat-proof and air tight hull. For those kind folks Daylight Saving has just begun. Stay strong, it's only six months.
How about now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders if he should start saving Nightlight Time. Ah, good ol' days when I had a nightlight... '94, you'll hardly be forgotten... in spite of all the ugly business therein.
Windows Experience
Hello there!
Thinking about a Windows XP related entry, are we? Well, then, we're plain wrong! Today's entry will be about something far deeper. Far more unfathomable. Far more... senseless. Senseless is good, right? Onwards.
Let's try not to fall into error 1337 agian, shall we?
Staring through a window, the whole world looks and feels so unlike it does through empty air, doesn't it? Much like a movie pales in comparison with reality, so does a window often show a bland and drab world. And yet, what ineffable sensation is it one gets from a window? What magic property does the plain sheet of glass endow? It it transparence? Or is it... invisibility!
Ninja!!! ... OK, let's not do that again.
This magically wondeful effect hardly ever works on a ground floor window. But part of the magic of it is that... it does work, on occasion.
Staring through a window, a small window, likely a dirty one, smudged with dirt and dust, high atop on a third floor, looking down at people on the street, going about their lives... it all can seem so surreal at times. Partially because you can't (usually) listen to them, partially because you can see a larger picture than when you're among them... it feels quite different. But most importantly, you know, or at least feel like they can't see you, that they're unnaware that you're there... looking at them... watching them... And so, while it should hardly strike you as surprising that a window, when looked through from the outside should become quite the voyeuristic object, isn't it strange that it should become just as voyeuristic an object when looked out of? But most strikingly, isn't it funny how invisible one can feel when just looking out a window?
Have no clue what the hell I'm talking about? Just look out any old window and wave at someone. And then at someone else. And then wave at some more people. Then count how many waves back you got.
Can you feel it now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to take this opportunity to discourage most other sharks to do any such thing. If, by any chance, there's a window a shark can look out of, most likely the people on the other side are indeed able and most willing to see it.
Thinking about a Windows XP related entry, are we? Well, then, we're plain wrong! Today's entry will be about something far deeper. Far more unfathomable. Far more... senseless. Senseless is good, right? Onwards.
Let's try not to fall into error 1337 agian, shall we?
Staring through a window, the whole world looks and feels so unlike it does through empty air, doesn't it? Much like a movie pales in comparison with reality, so does a window often show a bland and drab world. And yet, what ineffable sensation is it one gets from a window? What magic property does the plain sheet of glass endow? It it transparence? Or is it... invisibility!
Ninja!!! ... OK, let's not do that again.
This magically wondeful effect hardly ever works on a ground floor window. But part of the magic of it is that... it does work, on occasion.
Staring through a window, a small window, likely a dirty one, smudged with dirt and dust, high atop on a third floor, looking down at people on the street, going about their lives... it all can seem so surreal at times. Partially because you can't (usually) listen to them, partially because you can see a larger picture than when you're among them... it feels quite different. But most importantly, you know, or at least feel like they can't see you, that they're unnaware that you're there... looking at them... watching them... And so, while it should hardly strike you as surprising that a window, when looked through from the outside should become quite the voyeuristic object, isn't it strange that it should become just as voyeuristic an object when looked out of? But most strikingly, isn't it funny how invisible one can feel when just looking out a window?
Have no clue what the hell I'm talking about? Just look out any old window and wave at someone. And then at someone else. And then wave at some more people. Then count how many waves back you got.
Can you feel it now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to take this opportunity to discourage most other sharks to do any such thing. If, by any chance, there's a window a shark can look out of, most likely the people on the other side are indeed able and most willing to see it.
Never blog in anger...
Today's post wasn't going to be even remotely simillar to what it'll turn out to be. Nor will it be even slightly similar to the wide majority of all entries. Live with it!
Sir Austin Danger Powers, KBE's father, Nigel Powers (thank you very much, Mr. Caine), hated (or is it "hates"?) only two sorts of people: people intolerant of other cultures and the Dutch. I myself am yet to meet any Dutch person, nor have I ever been to the Netherlands, thus, I cannot possibly tell what might Mr. Powers hold against the Dutch. Now the French, however, are a pet peeve of mine.
Is it pollitically incorrect to say such a thing? I'm sure it is, but, really, I can't bring myself to lie on this. I've seen the French tourists in my country be nothing but obnoxious, refusing to even attempt to speak the native tongue (or any other tongue besides their own, not even any one the natives might be fluent in or at least familiar with. "English, motherfucker, do you speak it!?" Thank you, Mr. Jackson), I've seen the French being obnoxious abroad (Dominican Republic, Summer of 1999 and the UK, last week of 2005. Appearentely, it was my fault that I had a breathing condition and I was struggling and gasping for breath and thus I should take lip from some French snot because I was "ruining" her otherwise perfect evening at the opera.) and, needless to say, I've seen the French be obnoxious in France, where I should never return unless heavily (and, ironically, I mean heavilly) coherced. The French can have all of France to themselves, for all I care, and, by all means, never, ever leave. And really, I ask of you, what good things have come from France? Champagne? I'd very much settle for (prefer, actually) fine Itallian sparkling wine. Cognac? What's wrong with brandy? French movies? The endless futility of French fashion and cosmetics? Prolog? Oh please...
This, however, takes the cake. How is it that non-French scientists have never thought of this? Well, I suppose one could say they're all fatter than the French scientologists... ahem, scientists. I'd never think I'd say this, but now I very much support the Americans' decision of deprecating the phrase "french fries" in favour of "freedom fries". As for me, I'll never eat another francesinha until they change its name.
Well, then, my BMI, once of 34.259, is now 27.778 and I dare this bold statement: my overwheight tummy is smarter than all of your skinny French arses combined. Come prove me wrong!
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless you're French, that is, in which case "vale" won't really apply, would it? And "Pax"...
ArabianShark would like to take this chance to advertise to all man-eating sharks out there that Frenchman meat is, it would appear, extremely lean and quite the smart food. Get them while they last.
Sir Austin Danger Powers, KBE's father, Nigel Powers (thank you very much, Mr. Caine), hated (or is it "hates"?) only two sorts of people: people intolerant of other cultures and the Dutch. I myself am yet to meet any Dutch person, nor have I ever been to the Netherlands, thus, I cannot possibly tell what might Mr. Powers hold against the Dutch. Now the French, however, are a pet peeve of mine.
Is it pollitically incorrect to say such a thing? I'm sure it is, but, really, I can't bring myself to lie on this. I've seen the French tourists in my country be nothing but obnoxious, refusing to even attempt to speak the native tongue (or any other tongue besides their own, not even any one the natives might be fluent in or at least familiar with. "English, motherfucker, do you speak it!?" Thank you, Mr. Jackson), I've seen the French being obnoxious abroad (Dominican Republic, Summer of 1999 and the UK, last week of 2005. Appearentely, it was my fault that I had a breathing condition and I was struggling and gasping for breath and thus I should take lip from some French snot because I was "ruining" her otherwise perfect evening at the opera.) and, needless to say, I've seen the French be obnoxious in France, where I should never return unless heavily (and, ironically, I mean heavilly) coherced. The French can have all of France to themselves, for all I care, and, by all means, never, ever leave. And really, I ask of you, what good things have come from France? Champagne? I'd very much settle for (prefer, actually) fine Itallian sparkling wine. Cognac? What's wrong with brandy? French movies? The endless futility of French fashion and cosmetics? Prolog? Oh please...
This, however, takes the cake. How is it that non-French scientists have never thought of this? Well, I suppose one could say they're all fatter than the French scientologists... ahem, scientists. I'd never think I'd say this, but now I very much support the Americans' decision of deprecating the phrase "french fries" in favour of "freedom fries". As for me, I'll never eat another francesinha until they change its name.
Well, then, my BMI, once of 34.259, is now 27.778 and I dare this bold statement: my overwheight tummy is smarter than all of your skinny French arses combined. Come prove me wrong!
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless you're French, that is, in which case "vale" won't really apply, would it? And "Pax"...
ArabianShark would like to take this chance to advertise to all man-eating sharks out there that Frenchman meat is, it would appear, extremely lean and quite the smart food. Get them while they last.
Psyched
After a rocky start, it's one of those days. What sort of days, you ask? The sort of days when the fluffy sky blue tinted sunstruck cluds look all the more pretty and one feels ten feet tall and utterly unstoppable with as little encouragement as Beethoven's Fifth randomly popping up on his MP3 player. notice how I used a generic "MP3 player" instead of an all too common "iPod" and the likes.
You could say I'm high. You could then ask what I'm high on. Well, love, two words for you: Job Satisfaction. Nothing quite like it. Instant, long lasting high with no sided effects and perks upon perks.
Cue in guest voice: Mike Myers's Austin Powers.
"Yeah, baby!"
Back on track, then. What got me this high? And why do I ask all these questions? Well, one thing at the time, won't you! Firs things first. Do you know Magic: the Gathering? It's a Trading Card Game set in a mystical environment where two (or more) sorcerers battle amongst themselves with magic spells. If you'd like to know more about the game, here, have a link, they don't pay me to advertise their game for them. I'll merely state it's an aquired taste and not for the very meek, for it takes time, practice and preserveerance to get the hang of it, but once you do it's countless hours of fun. It's not for the very poor either, unless you find a casual circle where you can just scribble the cards' names on any old piece of paper you can shove into a propper card sleeve and call it a playable proxy. Either that or Apprentice. And here's the kicker: I managed to make my Systems Analysis project, which should carry on to Databases Handling next semester, be about that. Job satisfaction, love!
I rule!!!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is barely skimming on his territorial waters today. He's practically flying over them.
You could say I'm high. You could then ask what I'm high on. Well, love, two words for you: Job Satisfaction. Nothing quite like it. Instant, long lasting high with no sided effects and perks upon perks.
Cue in guest voice: Mike Myers's Austin Powers.
"Yeah, baby!"
Back on track, then. What got me this high? And why do I ask all these questions? Well, one thing at the time, won't you! Firs things first. Do you know Magic: the Gathering? It's a Trading Card Game set in a mystical environment where two (or more) sorcerers battle amongst themselves with magic spells. If you'd like to know more about the game, here, have a link, they don't pay me to advertise their game for them. I'll merely state it's an aquired taste and not for the very meek, for it takes time, practice and preserveerance to get the hang of it, but once you do it's countless hours of fun. It's not for the very poor either, unless you find a casual circle where you can just scribble the cards' names on any old piece of paper you can shove into a propper card sleeve and call it a playable proxy. Either that or Apprentice. And here's the kicker: I managed to make my Systems Analysis project, which should carry on to Databases Handling next semester, be about that. Job satisfaction, love!
I rule!!!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is barely skimming on his territorial waters today. He's practically flying over them.
Ephemerality
Have I ever told you about the place where I usually go for dinner? I figure now's as good a time as ever. Ergo...
Months ago (nearing twelve of them now) I went searching for a fast food place that wouldn't make my scale go "One at a time, please" or "No livestock!". I'm not much of a cook (or at least can't be bothered to be much of a cook night in and night out) and à la carte is a luxury my budget can't withstand on a daily basis. The fast food chain whose name starts with M, ends with s, contains the letters "cDonald" and shall remain unnamed was very obviously not a choice. Many other places provide a very narrow choice of two or three dishes and are very affordable (because you get no service to pay for, othar than putting the food on the tray you carry to a free table and busing the tray), but they too weren't all that kind to my scale. Enter the salad joint.
This place too offers little service: you pay (a little bit more than you'd like to) upfront, they make your salad (or sandwich) there and then, before your eyes and bus your tray when you're done and, if you're lucky, you get a good glimpse at a pair of the (second) most beautiful blue eyes... but I digress. Onwards.
Why do I go there every night? First off, it's a bit far from home. Now, I don't drive, so I walk, nearly a mile to get there and another on my way back, but, in my book, that's a perk. I love to walk, at my pace, no rush (or wait... my pace has been called "fast-ish"), and I don't get much of a chance to do it. Then, there's the healthy food factor. Salads and fruit do a body good, remember? And there's always the blue eyes...
A few days ago, I got a good snicker out of some character I spotted there. People there are usually like people everywhere: all the same, equal to myself and each other. Sure, they all have that little (or maybe not so little) something that makes them special and unique in their own ways, but you never notice it, unless you try. Not this character. He's prancing around in a brand new designer black pinstripped suit with a broad collar white shirt, top button undone in casual chic fashion, topped off with designer reading glasses, in a place where there isn't as much as a menu to read. Needless to say, he wasn't carying a book with him. I mean, really, where have you heard of a designer book? The only non-designer object about him was his top-of-the-line Nokia Communicator, which he boasted about with broad gestures, talking with his escort. I (almost) wonder why on Earth he was holding his phone if the person he was talking to was sitting right in front of him. Now I could tell you of the broad gestures (which I believe I did) or the arrongant disdain with which he looked around and down on everyone around him or the smugness of his every atitude, but I think you already get the picture of how much better than everyone else this character though himself to be.
Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against a healthy dose of materialism. I myself have some very prized posessions which I like very much and am very proud of, but they don't define me. I created them (um... bought them... ahem). They are mine, not the other way around, and I know, and don't fear, that some day I might just wake up and find that they are no longer what they used to be or not even there at all. Just as easily, they might be replaced. My point? Posession is good, much as the Jedi forbid it, but it's neither the beginning nor the end of the world as we know it. It's not the stake or the teeth, just the spice. (hey, it's a food entry after all)
You know what I realise about the charecter with the world at his fingertips? Someday he'll wake up and find that the suit doesn't fit him, the glasses are nowhere thick enough, the phone is some old piece of junk and his hair, once carefully cut and styled, has all but fallen off his scalp. All his possessions will then mean nothing to him, and the truth that he's not as better than everyone else as he once thought (or at all, for that matter) will strike him as all the more bitter. But, most importantly, and though he might not realise it, the salad he (thought he) bought was only rented, and if he ever logs on to World of Warcraft, he'll be pweend left and right like everyone else. And that's worth a little snicker to me.
In other news, the cat welded my fish to great effect. Thank you!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will go on treasuring his posessions, for he has not all he likes, but he likes all he has.
Months ago (nearing twelve of them now) I went searching for a fast food place that wouldn't make my scale go "One at a time, please" or "No livestock!". I'm not much of a cook (or at least can't be bothered to be much of a cook night in and night out) and à la carte is a luxury my budget can't withstand on a daily basis. The fast food chain whose name starts with M, ends with s, contains the letters "cDonald" and shall remain unnamed was very obviously not a choice. Many other places provide a very narrow choice of two or three dishes and are very affordable (because you get no service to pay for, othar than putting the food on the tray you carry to a free table and busing the tray), but they too weren't all that kind to my scale. Enter the salad joint.
This place too offers little service: you pay (a little bit more than you'd like to) upfront, they make your salad (or sandwich) there and then, before your eyes and bus your tray when you're done and, if you're lucky, you get a good glimpse at a pair of the (second) most beautiful blue eyes... but I digress. Onwards.
Why do I go there every night? First off, it's a bit far from home. Now, I don't drive, so I walk, nearly a mile to get there and another on my way back, but, in my book, that's a perk. I love to walk, at my pace, no rush (or wait... my pace has been called "fast-ish"), and I don't get much of a chance to do it. Then, there's the healthy food factor. Salads and fruit do a body good, remember? And there's always the blue eyes...
A few days ago, I got a good snicker out of some character I spotted there. People there are usually like people everywhere: all the same, equal to myself and each other. Sure, they all have that little (or maybe not so little) something that makes them special and unique in their own ways, but you never notice it, unless you try. Not this character. He's prancing around in a brand new designer black pinstripped suit with a broad collar white shirt, top button undone in casual chic fashion, topped off with designer reading glasses, in a place where there isn't as much as a menu to read. Needless to say, he wasn't carying a book with him. I mean, really, where have you heard of a designer book? The only non-designer object about him was his top-of-the-line Nokia Communicator, which he boasted about with broad gestures, talking with his escort. I (almost) wonder why on Earth he was holding his phone if the person he was talking to was sitting right in front of him. Now I could tell you of the broad gestures (which I believe I did) or the arrongant disdain with which he looked around and down on everyone around him or the smugness of his every atitude, but I think you already get the picture of how much better than everyone else this character though himself to be.
Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against a healthy dose of materialism. I myself have some very prized posessions which I like very much and am very proud of, but they don't define me. I created them (um... bought them... ahem). They are mine, not the other way around, and I know, and don't fear, that some day I might just wake up and find that they are no longer what they used to be or not even there at all. Just as easily, they might be replaced. My point? Posession is good, much as the Jedi forbid it, but it's neither the beginning nor the end of the world as we know it. It's not the stake or the teeth, just the spice. (hey, it's a food entry after all)
You know what I realise about the charecter with the world at his fingertips? Someday he'll wake up and find that the suit doesn't fit him, the glasses are nowhere thick enough, the phone is some old piece of junk and his hair, once carefully cut and styled, has all but fallen off his scalp. All his possessions will then mean nothing to him, and the truth that he's not as better than everyone else as he once thought (or at all, for that matter) will strike him as all the more bitter. But, most importantly, and though he might not realise it, the salad he (thought he) bought was only rented, and if he ever logs on to World of Warcraft, he'll be pweend left and right like everyone else. And that's worth a little snicker to me.
In other news, the cat welded my fish to great effect. Thank you!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will go on treasuring his posessions, for he has not all he likes, but he likes all he has.
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