Remeber a while bach when I had this groovy fiction thing going? Ages (or so it feels now) before I even knew what surgery felt like? Remeber how I had my little clan of vampires breeding in my socks clan?
Well, it wasn't a fad, the little vamps are alive (well, undead) and well. A bit underfed, these days, and dearly needing their exercise, but otherwise alright. They might not have seen the light of day in... well, ever, but they're certainly not gone.
Just this week, I picked up Vampire, the Masquerade: Bloodlines from the bottom of my drawer. I hadn't played it in literally years, but I can scarcely name any othr game I liked as much. Of the many clans I remember having played as a Tremere male (those guys are way greater than bear infantry or bears with rifles, a Malkavian female (that was a laugh) and a Gangrel male (that wasn't as great as I had in mind... plus, by then, it would have been my third consecutive playthough of the game, not counting the halfway playthrough I did before the Tremere male, before I ran into some technical difficulties, e.i., fried RAM). A few days ago I started playing as Nosferatu male (or so the game tells me. I've seen what passes as a Nosferatu female. Could have been a different male. The game designers could have gone a few inches further, not asking for the extra mile, to differentiate the models). I had wanted to do this for a long time. And now that I brought myself to it, I took the chance and installed the unofficial patch 5.5. I digress. My point is, have I become so jaded that this doesn't seem as fun as I remembered or is Nosferatu just a really dull clan to play as? I spent a good third of the game levelling up my Obfuscate discipline (makes you invisible. When you look like a Nosferatu, you have to), and now I find out that I really need to get at least Animalism (summons animals) to par, or this isn't going to cut it. This all means that my stats and skills are absolutely tanked, my feats look like I've just started out (although Obfuscate Level 5 does give a bit of a tactical combat advantage... when you get to make use of it).
See, this is what happens when you don't sleep. You litter the internets with whimsical, pointless dross. Get some sleep, Me!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has been having no end of trouble sleeping. Could use a nasty cold, because then I'd be on Claridon QD, which contains high dose of anti-hystamin and a conveniently inoperative non-drowsy formula that makes me sleep like a baby.
It's happened before, you know, a nasty cold in August. See, there I go again...
Olympics
This year, my just-over-slight interest in the Olympics has grown a bit, as it does every year.
A small explanation of my previous statement: I've never been much for sports. I derive little to no pleasure from practising them and the halcyon days (isn't this a lovely phrase, "halcyon days"? I really should use it more often) of my nation's Olympic prowess are long gone. However, my father is somewhat of a fan, and the Olympics are something to bond over for us. We really don't get enough of this.
Not long ago Swimming was "our" sport. Now it seems swimming has gone into the background for us, along with everything else, as no sport in particular is on the spotlight or even on the foreground, with live transmitions taking place from 3:00 AM to well into the wee hours of dawn.
So, my highlights are as follows:
Jamaican runner Usain "Lightning" Bolt has been having quite the streak, scoring nothing but first places, with the sole exception of Men's 200m Round 1 - Heat 5, where he came second only to Rondell Sorillo, and setting the World Record for the 100 metres dash.
Diving, my all-time spectacle of choice, provided a lovely entertainment for a not-as-lovely bout of insomnia with the Woman's 10 metres platform semifinal. China's Chen Roulin, who would come to take the gold, won first place over 40 points ahead of second place Mexican diver Paola Espinosa, who would see her spot taken by Canada's Emilie Heymans, retaking the spot she'd lost during the semifinal to a bit of bad luck. Not far behind her, China's Wang Xin, who had managed third place during the semifinal, improved slightly on her own performance. Both British divers, Tonia Couch and Powell Stacie qualified, but managed only 8th and 10th place respectively. Australia's Melissa Wu secured 8th place at the semifinal and went on to finish 6th at the final, performing far better than a very disappointing, albeit also Australian Alexandra Croak.
Still in the water, the Women's 10km Marathon was led most of the time by Brits Kerri-Anne Payne and Cassandra Patten. Surprisingly, right at the home stretch, Russia's Lasira Ilchenko pushed herself in a mighty sprint straight to first place. German swimmer Angela Maurer showed a hearty effort herself, but couldn't outdo the two brits.
Australia's Steve Hooker* set the Olympic Record in Men's pole vault after managing a 5.96 metres leap on his third atempt, well above Russian athlete Evgeny Lukyanenko's best result of 5.85 metres.
I've also been watching some volleyball and beach volleyball, but hardly any of it live. I'd just like to leave a bit of a recommendation to all aspiring Olympic Athletes reading this that if you have a funny name, such as, oh say, Brazillian Volleyball player Fofão (not a typo), have your jersey read either your first or your last name accordingly (I can't tell weather Fofão is a first or last name. In either case, I wouldn't have gone on in front of the world with that printed on my back). Best of luck.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
* ArabianShark would like to remind you all the neither Olympic Medalist Steve Hooker nor his father, Eric Hooker, an athlete as well, appreciate you sniggering at their last name, so kindly show these Hookers the respect and admiration they have earned on the field.
A small explanation of my previous statement: I've never been much for sports. I derive little to no pleasure from practising them and the halcyon days (isn't this a lovely phrase, "halcyon days"? I really should use it more often) of my nation's Olympic prowess are long gone. However, my father is somewhat of a fan, and the Olympics are something to bond over for us. We really don't get enough of this.
Not long ago Swimming was "our" sport. Now it seems swimming has gone into the background for us, along with everything else, as no sport in particular is on the spotlight or even on the foreground, with live transmitions taking place from 3:00 AM to well into the wee hours of dawn.
So, my highlights are as follows:
Jamaican runner Usain "Lightning" Bolt has been having quite the streak, scoring nothing but first places, with the sole exception of Men's 200m Round 1 - Heat 5, where he came second only to Rondell Sorillo, and setting the World Record for the 100 metres dash.
Diving, my all-time spectacle of choice, provided a lovely entertainment for a not-as-lovely bout of insomnia with the Woman's 10 metres platform semifinal. China's Chen Roulin, who would come to take the gold, won first place over 40 points ahead of second place Mexican diver Paola Espinosa, who would see her spot taken by Canada's Emilie Heymans, retaking the spot she'd lost during the semifinal to a bit of bad luck. Not far behind her, China's Wang Xin, who had managed third place during the semifinal, improved slightly on her own performance. Both British divers, Tonia Couch and Powell Stacie qualified, but managed only 8th and 10th place respectively. Australia's Melissa Wu secured 8th place at the semifinal and went on to finish 6th at the final, performing far better than a very disappointing, albeit also Australian Alexandra Croak.
Still in the water, the Women's 10km Marathon was led most of the time by Brits Kerri-Anne Payne and Cassandra Patten. Surprisingly, right at the home stretch, Russia's Lasira Ilchenko pushed herself in a mighty sprint straight to first place. German swimmer Angela Maurer showed a hearty effort herself, but couldn't outdo the two brits.
Australia's Steve Hooker* set the Olympic Record in Men's pole vault after managing a 5.96 metres leap on his third atempt, well above Russian athlete Evgeny Lukyanenko's best result of 5.85 metres.
I've also been watching some volleyball and beach volleyball, but hardly any of it live. I'd just like to leave a bit of a recommendation to all aspiring Olympic Athletes reading this that if you have a funny name, such as, oh say, Brazillian Volleyball player Fofão (not a typo), have your jersey read either your first or your last name accordingly (I can't tell weather Fofão is a first or last name. In either case, I wouldn't have gone on in front of the world with that printed on my back). Best of luck.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
* ArabianShark would like to remind you all the neither Olympic Medalist Steve Hooker nor his father, Eric Hooker, an athlete as well, appreciate you sniggering at their last name, so kindly show these Hookers the respect and admiration they have earned on the field.
Trying hard not to laugh
First, the setup:
You can click this piece of text to be taken to another webpage!
Yes, I know, I can embed YouTube videos but I won't embed this.
Now, I could, of course, quote any number of actual scientific rebutals for this, or even argue something of my own, such as "Why, then, would Catholicism have us believe that God created the Earth in seven days about six thousand years ago?", this gets most of them every time, but, again, I won't.
I'll just draw your attention to the description to the left (click "More Info"). Now does that sound like someone is desperate or what? What's more, all of that verborhea can be found in comments, marked as spam. Interestingly enough, only one outdated, praising comment remains, whereas comments are now disabled (one can only imagine how many were deleted and guess what they said), as are ratings. And defending God with the word "logic" is about as coherent as offering hamburgers to promote vegetarianism, as is proving God by limited science knowledge and dubious assumptions, such as the use of the word "before" in a context where time itself is non-existant or that whatever smidgeons of order that can be found in the Universe have always been so and have been set so from the get-go by some intilligence.
If you can believe it, I worked my way into this by watching related videos, stemming from this. So, as you can see, I've had my share of laughter for the day... Oh, but is it ever enough?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has found a much more interesting way to drop weight than sweating my buttocks off at the gym: laughing my buttocks off. My gut might follow suit.
You can click this piece of text to be taken to another webpage!
Yes, I know, I can embed YouTube videos but I won't embed this.
Now, I could, of course, quote any number of actual scientific rebutals for this, or even argue something of my own, such as "Why, then, would Catholicism have us believe that God created the Earth in seven days about six thousand years ago?", this gets most of them every time, but, again, I won't.
I'll just draw your attention to the description to the left (click "More Info"). Now does that sound like someone is desperate or what? What's more, all of that verborhea can be found in comments, marked as spam. Interestingly enough, only one outdated, praising comment remains, whereas comments are now disabled (one can only imagine how many were deleted and guess what they said), as are ratings. And defending God with the word "logic" is about as coherent as offering hamburgers to promote vegetarianism, as is proving God by limited science knowledge and dubious assumptions, such as the use of the word "before" in a context where time itself is non-existant or that whatever smidgeons of order that can be found in the Universe have always been so and have been set so from the get-go by some intilligence.
If you can believe it, I worked my way into this by watching related videos, stemming from this. So, as you can see, I've had my share of laughter for the day... Oh, but is it ever enough?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has found a much more interesting way to drop weight than sweating my buttocks off at the gym: laughing my buttocks off. My gut might follow suit.
Ah, the Joys of Multiplayer
So, as announced before, I am now having a bit of fun with Red Alert 3 Beta. A few things have taken me by surprise about it:
First, the graphics resemble those of Red Alert 2 much more than they do the more recent Command & Conquer 3. Not so much the graphics quality as much as the style, but still, a bit disappointing.
Second, this game takes a leaf out of the outcast Command & Conquer: Generals and allows players to choose from different powers which they may acquire with some manner of "Honour Points" they earn from building their edifices and demolishing other's edifices and such. The main difference is now the player isn't restricted to a maximum of being a Five Star General, and may purchase the whole tech tree of powers, if the game runs long enough.
Third, similarly to Melbourn House's KKND, Ore isn't available in fields but in pre-placed mines, which, unlike KKND's Oil Puddles, don't really become exhausted, as they keep replenishing, like Ore fields, and at an equally slow rate.
Not surprisingly, water dwelling units are back, as are the series's staple Tesla Coil weapons and Time Rift utilities.
So the Beta is restricted to multiplayer. Not my cup of tea, but still, rather OK. So I've played a few matches and gotten a feel for the game. Wins some, lose some, all good sport. Now, just now, something funny happened: My opponent, who was playing with the Soviet Faction, hurled a satelite at my camp. Taken by surprise, I jokingly asked "What was that, the Mir?". My until then silent opponent, became much more vocal, starting with "YES". Now, I don't mind trash talking - actually, I do, just a little, hardly worth noticing - but would you please have the decency of trash talk with propper spelling? Being trash talked to is one thing, but knowing that you're being trash taked to - trash yelled to, in fact, as ALL CAPS SEEM TO BE THE FASHION - and not even understanding it is a bit more than I'm willing to endure for my defeat. Now I remember why I like single player so much.
I wonder if I should tell EA something about it. You know, as positive feedback, suggest that they implement a filter of sorts.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to end this entry by making a point that he was no ill will against deliberately cronically poor spellers, trash taklers and people who are yet to know moderation for the rather wider key to the right of the 'A' key on any standard qwerty keyboard for as long as they keep well away from me; otherwise I have a bit of a will to carve slits every half inch going all around their bodies from head to toe with a dull, kinky-edged knife and dipping them in molten lead... slowly. I'm a terrible human being
First, the graphics resemble those of Red Alert 2 much more than they do the more recent Command & Conquer 3. Not so much the graphics quality as much as the style, but still, a bit disappointing.
Second, this game takes a leaf out of the outcast Command & Conquer: Generals and allows players to choose from different powers which they may acquire with some manner of "Honour Points" they earn from building their edifices and demolishing other's edifices and such. The main difference is now the player isn't restricted to a maximum of being a Five Star General, and may purchase the whole tech tree of powers, if the game runs long enough.
Third, similarly to Melbourn House's KKND, Ore isn't available in fields but in pre-placed mines, which, unlike KKND's Oil Puddles, don't really become exhausted, as they keep replenishing, like Ore fields, and at an equally slow rate.
Not surprisingly, water dwelling units are back, as are the series's staple Tesla Coil weapons and Time Rift utilities.
So the Beta is restricted to multiplayer. Not my cup of tea, but still, rather OK. So I've played a few matches and gotten a feel for the game. Wins some, lose some, all good sport. Now, just now, something funny happened: My opponent, who was playing with the Soviet Faction, hurled a satelite at my camp. Taken by surprise, I jokingly asked "What was that, the Mir?". My until then silent opponent, became much more vocal, starting with "YES". Now, I don't mind trash talking - actually, I do, just a little, hardly worth noticing - but would you please have the decency of trash talk with propper spelling? Being trash talked to is one thing, but knowing that you're being trash taked to - trash yelled to, in fact, as ALL CAPS SEEM TO BE THE FASHION - and not even understanding it is a bit more than I'm willing to endure for my defeat. Now I remember why I like single player so much.
I wonder if I should tell EA something about it. You know, as positive feedback, suggest that they implement a filter of sorts.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to end this entry by making a point that he was no ill will against deliberately cronically poor spellers, trash taklers and people who are yet to know moderation for the rather wider key to the right of the 'A' key on any standard qwerty keyboard for as long as they keep well away from me; otherwise I have a bit of a will to carve slits every half inch going all around their bodies from head to toe with a dull, kinky-edged knife and dipping them in molten lead... slowly. I'm a terrible human being
Red Alert!
Welcome, Comerades, to blog of ArabianShark. Our forces are even now siezing control of this beacon of communication for to bring it towards the Soviet dominion. Soon we will be... *fizz* *fizz* *garble* *crackle*
*smack!*
Alright, that would have been the sound of a rubber chicken, wielded by a knight in a full suit of armour, being knocked upside the head of a very silly Soviet General. His efforts might have succeded too, if the whole process wasn't so damn slow.
I mean, five bleeding hours just to download the installer? Granted, its over 740 MB, but, geez, EA, it's not like you couldn't have hosted it yourself, did you really have to outsource to FilePlanet to host them for you, you cheapskates? And, though by no means your fault, Firefox crashed on me once, squandering a couple of hours worth of download and lost connection to the file altogether at some point, throwing away even more hours of download. Then, by the time I had managed to download the installer and run the thing (pretty. Well done, lads!), it tells me it needs an update? Bloody hell, the installer file was updated yesterday, says so on your file host, FilePlanet. After more than eleven hours you'd think I could wait another 20+ minutes, but I don't bloody want to! Give me my rightfully purchased Command & Conquer: Red Alert 3 Beta NOW!
It's not done yet. It seems I need to type slower when I'm procrastinating or ranting to make a download seem to go by faster more efficientely, which might sound a bit contradictory, oddly enough.
Right, then, I'll bother my cat for the next 15+ minutes until you're done.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will play RA3 beefore the night is done, rest assured. Jealous? Don't be...
*smack!*
Alright, that would have been the sound of a rubber chicken, wielded by a knight in a full suit of armour, being knocked upside the head of a very silly Soviet General. His efforts might have succeded too, if the whole process wasn't so damn slow.
I mean, five bleeding hours just to download the installer? Granted, its over 740 MB, but, geez, EA, it's not like you couldn't have hosted it yourself, did you really have to outsource to FilePlanet to host them for you, you cheapskates? And, though by no means your fault, Firefox crashed on me once, squandering a couple of hours worth of download and lost connection to the file altogether at some point, throwing away even more hours of download. Then, by the time I had managed to download the installer and run the thing (pretty. Well done, lads!), it tells me it needs an update? Bloody hell, the installer file was updated yesterday, says so on your file host, FilePlanet. After more than eleven hours you'd think I could wait another 20+ minutes, but I don't bloody want to! Give me my rightfully purchased Command & Conquer: Red Alert 3 Beta NOW!
It's not done yet. It seems I need to type slower when I'm procrastinating or ranting to make a download seem to go by faster more efficientely, which might sound a bit contradictory, oddly enough.
Right, then, I'll bother my cat for the next 15+ minutes until you're done.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will play RA3 beefore the night is done, rest assured. Jealous? Don't be...
Ladies' Knight
And other misconceptions.
No point to today's entry, just some teasers, the likes of "why is it that stuff sent by car is a shipment, but sent by boat is cargo".
So... Ever notice how, on any given disco, on a "Ladies' Night", men pay for the so-called "free drinks" for the ladies, but hardly any ladies attend? Naturally, any self respecting lady would realise a Ladie's Night is festering with opportunity for lonely men to try and meet her, and, knowing lonely men (or, even worse, liquored up men), meet might mean harass, even if they don't mean it. Thus, Ladie's Night becomes Overpriced Sausage Fest (just like some department I know...). Now for the depressing bit: clubs still throw these, which means they are profitable, which means at least one of two tings: a) At least enough ladies to ensure Ladies' Night doesn't become a total Sausage Fest don't mind the bad pickup lines, the overly insistent invitations to dance/make out/go back to my place (well, obviously not mine, but you understand what I mean) and the occasional grope; b) Not enough men have wised up to the meaning of a Ladies' Night. And that's plain disturbing. I should talk, just yesterday I was caught smack dab in the middle of one. I'll say this in my defence: I had no idea there was a Ladies' Night going on at that place until minutes before my party and I (so there were two of us. A mob, no doubt) set off to the place and I wasn't going for anything else than some fun times with a mate. It was kind of a bust, as we were promised a female DJ who didn't show up in the time we were there (and it wasn't like we left early, either) and the two punk-arse kids who style themselves as DJ put on a grand total of three decent tunes the whole time we were there (but don't go trusting my taste), and the only request I made was met with "not tonight". What afraid to drive off the ladies? News flash, lad, they've been driven off already.
(Thin) People tell people who want to lose weight and who, for some reason or another don't have time to exercice "you're telling me that you can't take ten minutes every day?" all the time. OK, sure, I believe everyone can take 10 minutes out of their very busy scedulle every day. Here's what else I believe: ten minutes every day are worth absolutely squat. I have my own training regimen, and the warm up alone is twelve minutes. Last time I checked, twelve was greater than ten, but don't go trusting my math either; after all, I'm only an engineering student. I'm supposed to be rotten at math. Go ask the management types. Now I remember when I was wasting my time with a personal trainer, our routine was 45 minutes, three times a week. So 3 x 45 = 135 (approx.), whereas ten minues every day is 10 x 7 = 70 (give or take). Now one might be tempted to rush into the conclusion that 135 > 70. I maintain that I wasted my time on that plan now you do the math. Besides, any ten minutes that most busy people I know could possbly take would be at the end of a very exhausting day, when exercising would be innefficient and only contribute to tire them out even more and make them sore the day after. So, just in case you're an advocate for good health and regular exercise, the next time you want to argue with me that I can take ten minutes every day to exercise, remember that I take two hours at least three times a week to work out, I diet and I'm still struggling to slim down a bit. That and I reserve the right to shatter one of your bones for every sit up I do on the spot. I might come to over half your skelleton. Be ready.
Advocates of good health (I'm picking on them today. Everyone gets a turn) and no smoking will tell you that if you smoke a pack a day you'll spend so much in so long, and you could do so and so with that money. I say balderdash. Assuming you're a smoker, if you didn't smoke you'd have more mony to spend, and you would spend more mony, plain and simple. If you stopped smoking now, you wouldn't be able to take a dream trip by Christmas on account of it, you'd plainly spend whatever you'd save on smokes over time. If you could save the money you'd otherwise spend on tobacco, you should be able to save just as much without quitting. That said, I do think smokers would be well advised to quit for the sake of their healths. However, if any smoker is unwilling to quit for whatever reason, I won't bother you for it, just keep your cancerigen tar-filled foul-smelling billows well away from me and be merry.
So here's the smoking saving plan, from me to you. Get a box. Any box. An old shoe box, a sandbox, a lunch box, a very large matchbox, an X-box or even a computer case, which can refered to as a box. A woman's vagina might also be refered to, in slang, as a box, but I'm afraid that sort of box is unfit for our purposes. Now that we have our box, we're going to smoke a pack a day (or an extra pack a day, if you already smoke). Now, smoking is, sorry to say it, a foul habit, and I could never in clean counscience advise you to hack at your health like that, so instead of actually buying and consumming tobacco products, figure out how much a pack of any given brand of cigarretes costs. Then, every day, slip that much into the box through a slit you would have made into the box (thus making a cardboard box a good choice, a plastic lunch box a fair choice, a computer case a rahter poor choice, an X-box a terrible choice, for this matter, and the other sort of box a disgraceful choice). Here's the important bit: DON'T OPEN THE BOX UNTIL CHRISTMAS!!! (or Summer, if you start after July) When you do open the box, asuming you've kept it properly, well, there should be money in it, no surprise there. Treat yourself to something nice. And you didn't even haev to stop smoking for it.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianSHark would like to sing some praise to "The Dark Knight", but whatever pressure from the studio or the distributor or whatever to make it a PG film really stopped it from attaining its full potential. Still pretty good, though. I recommend it.
No point to today's entry, just some teasers, the likes of "why is it that stuff sent by car is a shipment, but sent by boat is cargo".
So... Ever notice how, on any given disco, on a "Ladies' Night", men pay for the so-called "free drinks" for the ladies, but hardly any ladies attend? Naturally, any self respecting lady would realise a Ladie's Night is festering with opportunity for lonely men to try and meet her, and, knowing lonely men (or, even worse, liquored up men), meet might mean harass, even if they don't mean it. Thus, Ladie's Night becomes Overpriced Sausage Fest (just like some department I know...). Now for the depressing bit: clubs still throw these, which means they are profitable, which means at least one of two tings: a) At least enough ladies to ensure Ladies' Night doesn't become a total Sausage Fest don't mind the bad pickup lines, the overly insistent invitations to dance/make out/go back to my place (well, obviously not mine, but you understand what I mean) and the occasional grope; b) Not enough men have wised up to the meaning of a Ladies' Night. And that's plain disturbing. I should talk, just yesterday I was caught smack dab in the middle of one. I'll say this in my defence: I had no idea there was a Ladies' Night going on at that place until minutes before my party and I (so there were two of us. A mob, no doubt) set off to the place and I wasn't going for anything else than some fun times with a mate. It was kind of a bust, as we were promised a female DJ who didn't show up in the time we were there (and it wasn't like we left early, either) and the two punk-arse kids who style themselves as DJ put on a grand total of three decent tunes the whole time we were there (but don't go trusting my taste), and the only request I made was met with "not tonight". What afraid to drive off the ladies? News flash, lad, they've been driven off already.
(Thin) People tell people who want to lose weight and who, for some reason or another don't have time to exercice "you're telling me that you can't take ten minutes every day?" all the time. OK, sure, I believe everyone can take 10 minutes out of their very busy scedulle every day. Here's what else I believe: ten minutes every day are worth absolutely squat. I have my own training regimen, and the warm up alone is twelve minutes. Last time I checked, twelve was greater than ten, but don't go trusting my math either; after all, I'm only an engineering student. I'm supposed to be rotten at math. Go ask the management types. Now I remember when I was wasting my time with a personal trainer, our routine was 45 minutes, three times a week. So 3 x 45 = 135 (approx.), whereas ten minues every day is 10 x 7 = 70 (give or take). Now one might be tempted to rush into the conclusion that 135 > 70. I maintain that I wasted my time on that plan now you do the math. Besides, any ten minutes that most busy people I know could possbly take would be at the end of a very exhausting day, when exercising would be innefficient and only contribute to tire them out even more and make them sore the day after. So, just in case you're an advocate for good health and regular exercise, the next time you want to argue with me that I can take ten minutes every day to exercise, remember that I take two hours at least three times a week to work out, I diet and I'm still struggling to slim down a bit. That and I reserve the right to shatter one of your bones for every sit up I do on the spot. I might come to over half your skelleton. Be ready.
Advocates of good health (I'm picking on them today. Everyone gets a turn) and no smoking will tell you that if you smoke a pack a day you'll spend so much in so long, and you could do so and so with that money. I say balderdash. Assuming you're a smoker, if you didn't smoke you'd have more mony to spend, and you would spend more mony, plain and simple. If you stopped smoking now, you wouldn't be able to take a dream trip by Christmas on account of it, you'd plainly spend whatever you'd save on smokes over time. If you could save the money you'd otherwise spend on tobacco, you should be able to save just as much without quitting. That said, I do think smokers would be well advised to quit for the sake of their healths. However, if any smoker is unwilling to quit for whatever reason, I won't bother you for it, just keep your cancerigen tar-filled foul-smelling billows well away from me and be merry.
So here's the smoking saving plan, from me to you. Get a box. Any box. An old shoe box, a sandbox, a lunch box, a very large matchbox, an X-box or even a computer case, which can refered to as a box. A woman's vagina might also be refered to, in slang, as a box, but I'm afraid that sort of box is unfit for our purposes. Now that we have our box, we're going to smoke a pack a day (or an extra pack a day, if you already smoke). Now, smoking is, sorry to say it, a foul habit, and I could never in clean counscience advise you to hack at your health like that, so instead of actually buying and consumming tobacco products, figure out how much a pack of any given brand of cigarretes costs. Then, every day, slip that much into the box through a slit you would have made into the box (thus making a cardboard box a good choice, a plastic lunch box a fair choice, a computer case a rahter poor choice, an X-box a terrible choice, for this matter, and the other sort of box a disgraceful choice). Here's the important bit: DON'T OPEN THE BOX UNTIL CHRISTMAS!!! (or Summer, if you start after July) When you do open the box, asuming you've kept it properly, well, there should be money in it, no surprise there. Treat yourself to something nice. And you didn't even haev to stop smoking for it.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianSHark would like to sing some praise to "The Dark Knight", but whatever pressure from the studio or the distributor or whatever to make it a PG film really stopped it from attaining its full potential. Still pretty good, though. I recommend it.
Opera
No, wait, that's misspelt.
Oprah
Much better. Onwards, then, I shant be long. That would be a first...
So I gather Ms. Oprah Winfrey has airings of her worldwide known show, "Oprah", dedicated to her Favourite Things, in a long segment aptly named "Favourite Things". Any number of months ago, though it ran just moments ago (Ah, yes, the magic of re-runs...), one such airing enlighted the watchers on the process of selecting the Favourite Things. I might comment on the whole process, had I had more than a fleeting glimpse between switching channels, but instead I shall comment only on this quote of one staff member.
"... [Oprah] gives small clues, like «this is my new favourite thing»..."
My, my, is that a small clue? Perish the thought of what a big clue should be. Perhaps an All-American Gas-Guzzling "ess-yoo-vee" with "Favourite Thing!" spray painted on the side on top of a picture of the "Favourite Thing" at hand? It rather is the sort of thing you've come to expect from that side of the ocean, money permitting (and, quite often, it does...), isn't it?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is, quite evidentely, procrastinating. But with a mere few days to go, you'd expect me to, wouldn't you?
Oprah
Much better. Onwards, then, I shant be long. That would be a first...
So I gather Ms. Oprah Winfrey has airings of her worldwide known show, "Oprah", dedicated to her Favourite Things, in a long segment aptly named "Favourite Things". Any number of months ago, though it ran just moments ago (Ah, yes, the magic of re-runs...), one such airing enlighted the watchers on the process of selecting the Favourite Things. I might comment on the whole process, had I had more than a fleeting glimpse between switching channels, but instead I shall comment only on this quote of one staff member.
"... [Oprah] gives small clues, like «this is my new favourite thing»..."
My, my, is that a small clue? Perish the thought of what a big clue should be. Perhaps an All-American Gas-Guzzling "ess-yoo-vee" with "Favourite Thing!" spray painted on the side on top of a picture of the "Favourite Thing" at hand? It rather is the sort of thing you've come to expect from that side of the ocean, money permitting (and, quite often, it does...), isn't it?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is, quite evidentely, procrastinating. But with a mere few days to go, you'd expect me to, wouldn't you?
The leisure edition
As I've been told, it's much too hot to be outside engaging in any leisurely outdoor activities such as tennis or some uncivilised deeds such as street fighting, defeating cybernetically enhanced Kaleesh warlords (a cookie for the first ten to pick up on this reference) or football (regular football, that is, or, for those unfortunate enough to be born on the lands of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named-Unless-As-Bush, "soccer", a so-called sport where you're not suppesed to sock anyone or wear full kevlar body armour). Good thing my coat is ready now. It turned out really well. The satin lining is a shade more purple than it seemed on the sample swatch, but it's still fine, it just lends the whole thing a bit of bohemian glamour which the plain lead gray I had in mind wouldn't.
So hang your coat, and be entertained. I have some links for you. The first is Chronotron. For those of you who who enjoyed Portal, this will feel like something completelly different, because there are no portals, fancy physics or excellent voice acting in this little flash game. It's a puzzle game as well, though, where you interact with yourself. Give it a whirl, it might be fun. I liked it.
Children of the 80's shouldn't be children anymore these days, but I imagine they'd recall some of the tunes of those days, so how about reaching into the corners of your memories for the lyrics you haven't heard in fifteen years and put your knowledge of those golden times to the test with Lyric Master: 80's Edition. Check out the rst of the site for other fun filled games and quizzes alike. Mind your children, not all of it is appropriate for all ages.
Keep cool, cats.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has come down with another shift in his sleep cycle, just like last February. A patter emerges...
So hang your coat, and be entertained. I have some links for you. The first is Chronotron. For those of you who who enjoyed Portal, this will feel like something completelly different, because there are no portals, fancy physics or excellent voice acting in this little flash game. It's a puzzle game as well, though, where you interact with yourself. Give it a whirl, it might be fun. I liked it.
Children of the 80's shouldn't be children anymore these days, but I imagine they'd recall some of the tunes of those days, so how about reaching into the corners of your memories for the lyrics you haven't heard in fifteen years and put your knowledge of those golden times to the test with Lyric Master: 80's Edition. Check out the rst of the site for other fun filled games and quizzes alike. Mind your children, not all of it is appropriate for all ages.
Keep cool, cats.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has come down with another shift in his sleep cycle, just like last February. A patter emerges...
So bloody hot...
It's just so bloody hot! It feels like it's the middle of June already, but... Oh, wait, it is the middle of bloody June, isn't it? How the smeg is one supposed to do any measure of good at one's finals with one's brains either baking in their skulls or melting to bloody mush? Remember the Wookie army in Star Wars - Episode III: Revenge of the Sith? Only six actual Wookies were shot with a camera (and plenty more with heavy repeaters, one can only imagine), all of them teenage basketball players. It seems we're yet to see a Wookie played by a professional actor (Chewbacca was played by Peter Mayhew, a nurse at the time, cast for his height. It seems under tonnes of make up and fur, acting range isn't really crucial, especially when you're not expected so actually say any lines that won't be dubbed as roars). I digress. My point is those six Wookie suits, in which the sportsmen were shot repeatedly (too hot to make another bad "shot" pun the likes of "now that's commitment!" or "That's got to hurt...") swapping weapons and places in between shots (not too hot to make a booze pun, such as "An added perk of showbusiness, you see..." or "Wookies can hold their liquer in battle.", but I'll refrain from that) had their own coling system by means of circulating ice cold water.
Can I get one of those? It'd be the thing for the exams. I'll even growl at every sitting, for as long as I'm nice and cool underneath all the fur... Besides, dressed as a Wookie warrior, who's going to contest my answers? I might rip their arms off...
Semper niger, pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is struggling to even breathe under the heat. I can't even be bothered to slip in a secret message.
Can I get one of those? It'd be the thing for the exams. I'll even growl at every sitting, for as long as I'm nice and cool underneath all the fur... Besides, dressed as a Wookie warrior, who's going to contest my answers? I might rip their arms off...
Semper niger, pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is struggling to even breathe under the heat. I can't even be bothered to slip in a secret message.
Overjoyed!
So, keeping with the spirit of change, here's another update on my changing life style.
I no longer live alone. I now share my studio flat with a gorgeous black, middle eastern female. She's been enjoying herself immensely, it seems, ever since she moved in, and has been keeping me busy, as she is very very playful and a bit needy, but that's alright, because she really brings out the best in me. Besides, she's the cutest little thing on four legs.
What, you thought it wasn't a cat I was tlaking about? No, of course you didn't, but it was a good effort, right? No? Well, sod off, then, I don't need your approval!
Onwards. I've ben looking for a persian cat for quite some time, and I had imagined a blue male, but Lady Luck had something else in mind, and that's fine, really, I mean, it's just details.
So after what must have been a bit of a stressful trip home, judging by the mewing my little roommate made, I set the carrier on the floor and opened the grate. I thought I shouldn't force her to come out, because she might be very scared and somewhat untrusting of her new surroundings, so I just let her come out in her own time, and when she did (very soon after) it immediately was the cutest thing that ever happened here. The fist few tentarive steps, and the looking around, still a bit scared. Luckily for her, I had already furnished the kitcher with all of her stuff, so it was all waiting for her. I scooped her up and took her to her little bed, and she nestled there for a moment, which I tok to fill her food and water bowl, then hand fed her some pellets of dry food. She lapped at them eagerly, and came out for more, then had a bit of water and immediately started purring. She must have spent most of her time purring since, hopping and running around the kitchen, exploring and playing with me.
I think she must be pretty tired, because I managed to leave her in the kitchen (I'm leaving her confined for her few first days, just in case) and she hasn't called out to me. Tomorrow we'll go to the vet, see what needs be done and what, if any, shots must be given now. She's only about two months old, so I suppose she'll have to have a shot in a month or so.
But you know what's funnier? I could sit in the kitchen, staring at her all I want and it still seems a bit surreal. It's not like I still can't believe there's a live cat there, and she's my cat, it's more like I haven't registred it yet in my brain. Well, we'll just have to see how this goes. It might all seem more clear after the fist night.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark managed to gather some bile just waitning to be spewed over dinner, but his new cat has mellowed him out enough that it can wait until next time.
I no longer live alone. I now share my studio flat with a gorgeous black, middle eastern female. She's been enjoying herself immensely, it seems, ever since she moved in, and has been keeping me busy, as she is very very playful and a bit needy, but that's alright, because she really brings out the best in me. Besides, she's the cutest little thing on four legs.
What, you thought it wasn't a cat I was tlaking about? No, of course you didn't, but it was a good effort, right? No? Well, sod off, then, I don't need your approval!
Onwards. I've ben looking for a persian cat for quite some time, and I had imagined a blue male, but Lady Luck had something else in mind, and that's fine, really, I mean, it's just details.
So after what must have been a bit of a stressful trip home, judging by the mewing my little roommate made, I set the carrier on the floor and opened the grate. I thought I shouldn't force her to come out, because she might be very scared and somewhat untrusting of her new surroundings, so I just let her come out in her own time, and when she did (very soon after) it immediately was the cutest thing that ever happened here. The fist few tentarive steps, and the looking around, still a bit scared. Luckily for her, I had already furnished the kitcher with all of her stuff, so it was all waiting for her. I scooped her up and took her to her little bed, and she nestled there for a moment, which I tok to fill her food and water bowl, then hand fed her some pellets of dry food. She lapped at them eagerly, and came out for more, then had a bit of water and immediately started purring. She must have spent most of her time purring since, hopping and running around the kitchen, exploring and playing with me.
I think she must be pretty tired, because I managed to leave her in the kitchen (I'm leaving her confined for her few first days, just in case) and she hasn't called out to me. Tomorrow we'll go to the vet, see what needs be done and what, if any, shots must be given now. She's only about two months old, so I suppose she'll have to have a shot in a month or so.
But you know what's funnier? I could sit in the kitchen, staring at her all I want and it still seems a bit surreal. It's not like I still can't believe there's a live cat there, and she's my cat, it's more like I haven't registred it yet in my brain. Well, we'll just have to see how this goes. It might all seem more clear after the fist night.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark managed to gather some bile just waitning to be spewed over dinner, but his new cat has mellowed him out enough that it can wait until next time.
Heartbroken
Not really... but damn near. In fact, it might be a bit soon to tell... In a few days, however, I'll know for sure, and report accordingly, rest assured. At least I'm glad to say it's become an unfamiliar sensation.
Now the last few days have been a turmoil of change. A lot of things have relinquished it's old status quo, so I'll take this wave of change and change my everyday watch. Sure, the Jager-LeCoultre Master Control I've been wearing is fine, but I've worn it for so long all its siblings are crying out for attention, and I've an inkling their tribe is about to grow. I know mine is.
So, firts things, fisrt, practical changes: the clunky not-quite-cellphone and not-quite-palmtop I've had for nearly three years has betrayed me and gone quite amok, devouring texts, dismissing calls or preventing me from placing them, and needs substitution. I'm going to miss the hardware qwerty keyboard on my cell, but I think I can cope. So out with Schroedinger's phone, in with the new.
Summer plans have changed too. So I won't be taking the trip I had in mind, and been looking forward too for over six months now, but don't fret; I have a feeling it's for the best. At least this change was brought about by the vile, everyday enabler and disabler of the best laid plans of mice and men: finance. Better that than falling apart with that mate of mine I'm dreadding to disapoint when I tell him the trip is off.
Most other changes aren't really done yet, but, rest assured, I'll write of them as soon as they're final. But for now
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark might be(come) heartbroken, but lonely will no longer apply in but a paltry few days time.
Now the last few days have been a turmoil of change. A lot of things have relinquished it's old status quo, so I'll take this wave of change and change my everyday watch. Sure, the Jager-LeCoultre Master Control I've been wearing is fine, but I've worn it for so long all its siblings are crying out for attention, and I've an inkling their tribe is about to grow. I know mine is.
So, firts things, fisrt, practical changes: the clunky not-quite-cellphone and not-quite-palmtop I've had for nearly three years has betrayed me and gone quite amok, devouring texts, dismissing calls or preventing me from placing them, and needs substitution. I'm going to miss the hardware qwerty keyboard on my cell, but I think I can cope. So out with Schroedinger's phone, in with the new.
Summer plans have changed too. So I won't be taking the trip I had in mind, and been looking forward too for over six months now, but don't fret; I have a feeling it's for the best. At least this change was brought about by the vile, everyday enabler and disabler of the best laid plans of mice and men: finance. Better that than falling apart with that mate of mine I'm dreadding to disapoint when I tell him the trip is off.
Most other changes aren't really done yet, but, rest assured, I'll write of them as soon as they're final. But for now
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark might be(come) heartbroken, but lonely will no longer apply in but a paltry few days time.
The mail is here
Here's another chapter for my latest blog saga (Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 are also available). With any luck, this will be the final chapter, and we'll have a nice trilogy to remember.
First off, don't worry, US Postal Service, I'm done knocking you down... for now. Although you silly blunderers managed to mangle my home address, even though I relaied it propperly to "The Shipper", who was able to produce it for me in it's full and correct form.
So customs, nonsensical pricks that they are, held my package for an arbitrary number of days. Then the local Post Service did their number. I really shouldn't knock on them too hard, not only because I find them kind of brittle but also because, within the confines of idiocy, they did rather alright... in a way... a very narrow, twisted way, mind you.
So the address the USPS dispatched my package to could have been any of two flats out of the four on my floor, sixteen on my building and more than I care to count on the whole. All in all, could have been a lot worse, even more so considering one of the two flats they narrowed it down to, by mangling my address, actually is the right one. Enter the mailman (or should I say the mailperson, in case it happens to be a lady doing this route? Oh, like anyone on this blog - including you - bloody cares about politically correctness).
So the mailperson was left with the decision of picking one of two adjacent mailboxes to put the delivery attempt notice (not actually attempt to deliver. That would have been much too troublesome) in. Considering their job consists of merely reading addresses and putting letters and postcards on the apropriate box, a decision must have been quite the thrill. I imagine this meek employe(e) of the almighty entity we refer so merely as The State would have had the need to take a deep breath and lie in the shade for a while before continuing on to the next block. Actually I really shouldn't be so mean to the mailmen and mailwomen out there, more often than not they seem to be really kind and competent people, even though this one made quite a blunder, IMO. Regardless, I've a bit of bile to spew.
Needless to say, they put the slip on the wrong box. Now why should I be angry at this? It was an honest mistake, Shark. You cold have done that, you'll say. Well, not quite. See, my neighbours, who got a misplaced delivery slip, weren't the only ones to recieve correspondance that day. I myself got some, a letter, addressed to me personally, not merely "Resident" or any such non-descript nonsense. So, faced with decision, should this mailperson have put the slip for a package addressed to an "Arabian Shark" on the same mailbox as the other letter, addressed to Arabian Shark, which is one of two likely possibilities for the right mailbox for the slip, or assume a different Arabian Shark lives next door to the Arabian Shark who recieved the first letter? "Oh, heck, Arabian Shark is such a common name... I'd swear at least three cousins of mine and two of my wife's have "Arabian" as their first names and most people in the village my father was born had "Shark" for their last name" is not a sentence you hear very often.
So, alright, my name is not Arabian V. Shark, but it's still fairly uncommon, or at least uncommon enough that you don't mistake it for the name of some shrill-voiced, over-excitable, ever-screaming girl the likes of the ones who recieved my slip on Thursday. So, as it would happen, they didn't notice they had recieved a slip by mistake until Friday, and I don't blame them (for that), and when I noticed it, still on Friday, the Post Office was closed for the weekend, meaning I still don't have my package. But at least now I'll be able to get it on Monday... today, that is.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will be required to pay tariffs amounting to less than a fourth of the item's value, even though he's once had to pay nearly three times an item's worth in tariffs alone. Now someone please try to convince me tariffs aren't just some scam "The Man" came up with to arbitrarily bleed out private citizens of their hard-earned finance and punish them for wanting more than their lame country is able to provide.
First off, don't worry, US Postal Service, I'm done knocking you down... for now. Although you silly blunderers managed to mangle my home address, even though I relaied it propperly to "The Shipper", who was able to produce it for me in it's full and correct form.
So customs, nonsensical pricks that they are, held my package for an arbitrary number of days. Then the local Post Service did their number. I really shouldn't knock on them too hard, not only because I find them kind of brittle but also because, within the confines of idiocy, they did rather alright... in a way... a very narrow, twisted way, mind you.
So the address the USPS dispatched my package to could have been any of two flats out of the four on my floor, sixteen on my building and more than I care to count on the whole. All in all, could have been a lot worse, even more so considering one of the two flats they narrowed it down to, by mangling my address, actually is the right one. Enter the mailman (or should I say the mailperson, in case it happens to be a lady doing this route? Oh, like anyone on this blog - including you - bloody cares about politically correctness).
So the mailperson was left with the decision of picking one of two adjacent mailboxes to put the delivery attempt notice (not actually attempt to deliver. That would have been much too troublesome) in. Considering their job consists of merely reading addresses and putting letters and postcards on the apropriate box, a decision must have been quite the thrill. I imagine this meek employe(e) of the almighty entity we refer so merely as The State would have had the need to take a deep breath and lie in the shade for a while before continuing on to the next block. Actually I really shouldn't be so mean to the mailmen and mailwomen out there, more often than not they seem to be really kind and competent people, even though this one made quite a blunder, IMO. Regardless, I've a bit of bile to spew.
Needless to say, they put the slip on the wrong box. Now why should I be angry at this? It was an honest mistake, Shark. You cold have done that, you'll say. Well, not quite. See, my neighbours, who got a misplaced delivery slip, weren't the only ones to recieve correspondance that day. I myself got some, a letter, addressed to me personally, not merely "Resident" or any such non-descript nonsense. So, faced with decision, should this mailperson have put the slip for a package addressed to an "Arabian Shark" on the same mailbox as the other letter, addressed to Arabian Shark, which is one of two likely possibilities for the right mailbox for the slip, or assume a different Arabian Shark lives next door to the Arabian Shark who recieved the first letter? "Oh, heck, Arabian Shark is such a common name... I'd swear at least three cousins of mine and two of my wife's have "Arabian" as their first names and most people in the village my father was born had "Shark" for their last name" is not a sentence you hear very often.
So, alright, my name is not Arabian V. Shark, but it's still fairly uncommon, or at least uncommon enough that you don't mistake it for the name of some shrill-voiced, over-excitable, ever-screaming girl the likes of the ones who recieved my slip on Thursday. So, as it would happen, they didn't notice they had recieved a slip by mistake until Friday, and I don't blame them (for that), and when I noticed it, still on Friday, the Post Office was closed for the weekend, meaning I still don't have my package. But at least now I'll be able to get it on Monday... today, that is.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will be required to pay tariffs amounting to less than a fourth of the item's value, even though he's once had to pay nearly three times an item's worth in tariffs alone. Now someone please try to convince me tariffs aren't just some scam "The Man" came up with to arbitrarily bleed out private citizens of their hard-earned finance and punish them for wanting more than their lame country is able to provide.
Floppy
You guys remember the aging floppy disks, don't you? They used to come in five-and-a-quarer inches and later in three-and-a-half inches (and then they weren't quite as floppy) and carry less than 2MB of data. Of course nowadays most files I handle are nowhere as tiny as that, but, for some wierd reason, I still have a floppy drive.
Right, got a little side tracked there. I meant nothing of the sort. I meant I feel floppy. I started going to a new gym, because those sessions with a personal trainer weren't doing what I was looking for. I mean, in six months of that plus a diet I didn't drop one pound (perhaps that's because we use Euros over here, har har). Furthermore, our shcedulle wasn't very nice. Now flextime I like. I also like propperly equipped facilities. And a regular exercise plan, though I might deviate at any time. And you know what else I like, besides pool facilities? Paying just over half what I was paying before.
But, it's true, the workout is nothing like what I uas used to. For one thing it's much longer - why, it's twice as long, if I go through the entirity of the recommended plan - and it's much more intensive. Having just been there this morning, I'm floppy as a damp old sock. But it feels rather nice. Someone will be sleeping like a baby tonight - and sadly, I don't mean pressed against a pair of warm soft plump round loving breasts, but you can't have it all. Baby steps, though.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark noticed the poll on how my readers' lives rate with the MPAA returned no results. One (a very malicious one, at that) would argue that my readers have no lives, but I'd rather think my readers defiantly reject the MPAA rating. Goodonya!
Right, got a little side tracked there. I meant nothing of the sort. I meant I feel floppy. I started going to a new gym, because those sessions with a personal trainer weren't doing what I was looking for. I mean, in six months of that plus a diet I didn't drop one pound (perhaps that's because we use Euros over here, har har). Furthermore, our shcedulle wasn't very nice. Now flextime I like. I also like propperly equipped facilities. And a regular exercise plan, though I might deviate at any time. And you know what else I like, besides pool facilities? Paying just over half what I was paying before.
But, it's true, the workout is nothing like what I uas used to. For one thing it's much longer - why, it's twice as long, if I go through the entirity of the recommended plan - and it's much more intensive. Having just been there this morning, I'm floppy as a damp old sock. But it feels rather nice. Someone will be sleeping like a baby tonight - and sadly, I don't mean pressed against a pair of warm soft plump round loving breasts, but you can't have it all. Baby steps, though.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark noticed the poll on how my readers' lives rate with the MPAA returned no results. One (a very malicious one, at that) would argue that my readers have no lives, but I'd rather think my readers defiantly reject the MPAA rating. Goodonya!
Back at the movies
As some of you (I nearly typed "many of you", but I don't think there are many who actually read this blog to begin with) might know, I like cinema. I probably don't qualify as a "movie buff", but I enjoy watching a movie, both at home (even though my TV needs a serious replacement) and at the theater (even though it seems I can't get through a screening without telling someone to shut up these days). I enjoy not only watching, but also getting some insight on the work that goes into the movie, such as behind the scenes, interviews, gag reels and so on. So today let's talk about movies.
One thing I've wondered for quite some time is how does a movie come about it's rating. Ever since I was a very young infant I used to see what was on display at several theaters (there used to be a TV show that would list this, for theaters all over the country, even though many of the places spoken of sounded indeed very far away and totally foreign at the time). I recall noting every movie was tagged as "ages so-and-so and older" (we use that system as opposed to the MPAA's G, PG, PG-13, R and NC-17, formerly X). I also wonder even today how is it that a movie might be suitable for a 12-year-old pre-teen but unsuitable for an 11-year-old pre-teen, but that's a moot point, seeing as I've had movies rated suitable for ages 12 and over (bit of a mouthful, compared to "PG-13", isn't it?) spoiled by very young children (think age 3 or 4) misbehaving. Enter This Film Is Not Yet Rated.
We could discuss this film extensively, but I choose to merely recommend it and take this opportunity to say the movie is slightly dated, as the MPAA now does allow other films to be quoted on appeal to refute a rating and demographical information regarding the reviewers is now made available to the general public. Nonetheless, it's a brilliant documentary, even more so that it forced a change (which, ironically, made it a period piece in the very short span of one year).
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will now leave you with the quote of the day: When all is said and done, more has been said than done.
One thing I've wondered for quite some time is how does a movie come about it's rating. Ever since I was a very young infant I used to see what was on display at several theaters (there used to be a TV show that would list this, for theaters all over the country, even though many of the places spoken of sounded indeed very far away and totally foreign at the time). I recall noting every movie was tagged as "ages so-and-so and older" (we use that system as opposed to the MPAA's G, PG, PG-13, R and NC-17, formerly X). I also wonder even today how is it that a movie might be suitable for a 12-year-old pre-teen but unsuitable for an 11-year-old pre-teen, but that's a moot point, seeing as I've had movies rated suitable for ages 12 and over (bit of a mouthful, compared to "PG-13", isn't it?) spoiled by very young children (think age 3 or 4) misbehaving. Enter This Film Is Not Yet Rated.
We could discuss this film extensively, but I choose to merely recommend it and take this opportunity to say the movie is slightly dated, as the MPAA now does allow other films to be quoted on appeal to refute a rating and demographical information regarding the reviewers is now made available to the general public. Nonetheless, it's a brilliant documentary, even more so that it forced a change (which, ironically, made it a period piece in the very short span of one year).
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will now leave you with the quote of the day: When all is said and done, more has been said than done.
Rapid fire
It seems only a moment ago I was posting here... Oh, wait, I was.
Since I've posted twice in such a short amount of time, it's only fair to warn you this entry comes in sequence of the previous entry. It's only fair that I warn you and let you read it first. Go on, I'll wait.
No point in telling me you'll read it later, I won't go anywhere until you do.
At this point, I'll assume you've read it thoroughly, or at least that you have a rough idea of what it was about. I'll go on, then.
So I went over the e-mail again and found out Fay Korgasm's address. Mighty useful, should I want to send them a letter or a post card asking who they were and what were they trying to send me. But then I thought of going over my banking records and found out what exactly might I have ordered from Seattle. With that in mind, I dug up what I thought was most likely to be Fay's e-mail address, and asked if they were trying to confirm my home address. When Fay did indeed confirm my suspicion, they produced my correct and full address, and said the package had been sent in the morning. So, first and foremost, thank you very much, Fay, which is not your real name, and which I've concealed only so I wouldn't speak unduly ill of you the previous entry.
Now let's go over this one more time, shall we? The USPS sent me an e-mail on the afternoon of the day in which morning they had shipped the package trying to confirm my address, and supplied an incomplete address, whereas the shipper had indeed sent the package to the correct one? Working rather well, aren't we?
On another note, my poll wielded results, three, to be exact, and a clear winner, by absolute majority, Electrocution. The runner-ups, Impaling and Beheading, aren't really mutually exclusive either. So here's what I propose: Find ye a sharp rod of iron or copper no less than two centimeters wide nor wider than five centimeters wide and about 1.8 meters long. This rod shall thou coat in water based lubricant. Ye shall avoid scilicon based or oil based lubricants, superior though they might be for some usages, for these conduct less well. Poke ye the taylor's bottom with the pointy end of thine rod and lift it high in the air, and the taylor, by gravity, shall slide down the shaft and become impaled as the sharp end emerges, likely from his chest or back. At this point, attach thee one jumper cable to each end of the rod and said cables to the high voltage source of your liking, the common power line being a suitable favourite. After the taylor on the spit is sufficently roasted, lof off his head with thine favoured piece of cuttlery, though I shall warn thee: it may take a while if you elect the fruit knife, whereas the popular cleaver might deliver a swifter execution.
That said, my coat is now in the hands of a seamstress, a very trusty seamstress, but definitely not a Seamstress. See, the capitalisation thing matters here, just like de difference in spam and Spam. I trust her needle is much sharper than her tongue, although her tongue is really of little concern to me, provided her needle is sharp and nimble enough. Also, as the lining job was so botched, the whole fabric has to be replaced. We're going with lead colour real satin this time, no cheap nylon "acetinate" crap. Heavy fabric FTW!!1!!ONE
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has been blogging most intesnively as of late. I might need a brake. Or not...
Since I've posted twice in such a short amount of time, it's only fair to warn you this entry comes in sequence of the previous entry. It's only fair that I warn you and let you read it first. Go on, I'll wait.
No point in telling me you'll read it later, I won't go anywhere until you do.
At this point, I'll assume you've read it thoroughly, or at least that you have a rough idea of what it was about. I'll go on, then.
So I went over the e-mail again and found out Fay Korgasm's address. Mighty useful, should I want to send them a letter or a post card asking who they were and what were they trying to send me. But then I thought of going over my banking records and found out what exactly might I have ordered from Seattle. With that in mind, I dug up what I thought was most likely to be Fay's e-mail address, and asked if they were trying to confirm my home address. When Fay did indeed confirm my suspicion, they produced my correct and full address, and said the package had been sent in the morning. So, first and foremost, thank you very much, Fay, which is not your real name, and which I've concealed only so I wouldn't speak unduly ill of you the previous entry.
Now let's go over this one more time, shall we? The USPS sent me an e-mail on the afternoon of the day in which morning they had shipped the package trying to confirm my address, and supplied an incomplete address, whereas the shipper had indeed sent the package to the correct one? Working rather well, aren't we?
On another note, my poll wielded results, three, to be exact, and a clear winner, by absolute majority, Electrocution. The runner-ups, Impaling and Beheading, aren't really mutually exclusive either. So here's what I propose: Find ye a sharp rod of iron or copper no less than two centimeters wide nor wider than five centimeters wide and about 1.8 meters long. This rod shall thou coat in water based lubricant. Ye shall avoid scilicon based or oil based lubricants, superior though they might be for some usages, for these conduct less well. Poke ye the taylor's bottom with the pointy end of thine rod and lift it high in the air, and the taylor, by gravity, shall slide down the shaft and become impaled as the sharp end emerges, likely from his chest or back. At this point, attach thee one jumper cable to each end of the rod and said cables to the high voltage source of your liking, the common power line being a suitable favourite. After the taylor on the spit is sufficently roasted, lof off his head with thine favoured piece of cuttlery, though I shall warn thee: it may take a while if you elect the fruit knife, whereas the popular cleaver might deliver a swifter execution.
That said, my coat is now in the hands of a seamstress, a very trusty seamstress, but definitely not a Seamstress. See, the capitalisation thing matters here, just like de difference in spam and Spam. I trust her needle is much sharper than her tongue, although her tongue is really of little concern to me, provided her needle is sharp and nimble enough. Also, as the lining job was so botched, the whole fabric has to be replaced. We're going with lead colour real satin this time, no cheap nylon "acetinate" crap. Heavy fabric FTW!!1!!ONE
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has been blogging most intesnively as of late. I might need a brake. Or not...
Well done!
And I thought I had it bad...
Looks like I've started at the middle. Might be a side effect of the tear in the space time continuum which is prone to engulf us all and send us hurtling into chrono-spatial chaos. Don't be alarmed.
So I'm fairly sure most of my readers are even slightly aware of the Postal Service I have in this wretched country I'm strugling to flee. It's the sort of Postal Service who won't grant you the right to not recieve undesired publicity to the point your mailbox bursts (meaning you have to acquire said right elsewhere). It's the sort of Postal Service who'll pretend to have tried to deliver your package to your doorstep at 11:35 AM on a Friday, then announce your failed delivery might be reatempted at your discretion or you might want to pick up said package at (one of) your local Post Office(s, assuming you can find out which one) from 5:00 PM onwards, even though you might be sweating it until 7:00 PM, when (all of) your local Post Office(s) will have closed for the day. It's the sort of Postal Service who'll make you walk (or drive) for nearly 10 bloody miles to find what they'll assign as (one of) your local Post Office(s), despite the very handy one just around the corner. It's the... well, you get the point. I thought I had it bad.
So today I got this e-mail from a sender I didn't recognise, and frankly, by the looks of it, at first glance I thought this was another invitation to "World Blowjob Day" that had managed to circumvent the spam filter, but, upon a closer look, turned out to be the United States (presumably of America) Postal Service. Seeing as I am not an American, have never lived in America, haven't been to that side of the Atlantic in oh say some five years or so and haven't been to the US this century, it caught me by surprise. Turns out someone by the name of Fay Korgasm (not really, but I saw this somewhere and thought it was somewhat amusing... no? Never mind...) or something just as helpful has sent a package for me, so the USPS needs to confirm the "Shipping to" address. Right off the bat they tell me that, should the address be incorrect, I should contact the shipper. Furthermore, the package is schedulled to be sent today. I'm guessing there's a safe chance the package has, indeed been sent. Indulge me in the math of it. I got the e-mail at about 9:20 PM, local time. With the time difference, I imagine it would have been sent at about 4:20 PM EST or 1:20 PM PST or somewhere in between, I suppose. Now doesn't this make you feel as though the package might have already been sent? I, for one, thought packages were expedited in the morning of the day they're schedulled for shipping, yet they contact me in the early to mid afternoon. Furthermore, there is nothing even slightly similar to a shipper's contact, just the name. Who the hell is Fay Korgasm? I've never seen a Fay Korgasm in my life. How do I get ahold of a Fay Korgasm to tell him/her/it that they left out some of my address?
Well done, US Postal Service. Is this what it means to "go Postal", then? That was a fun game...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is hoping - hoping! - to still be able to recieve this item. Yet I shudder to think of the tarrifs alone...
Looks like I've started at the middle. Might be a side effect of the tear in the space time continuum which is prone to engulf us all and send us hurtling into chrono-spatial chaos. Don't be alarmed.
So I'm fairly sure most of my readers are even slightly aware of the Postal Service I have in this wretched country I'm strugling to flee. It's the sort of Postal Service who won't grant you the right to not recieve undesired publicity to the point your mailbox bursts (meaning you have to acquire said right elsewhere). It's the sort of Postal Service who'll pretend to have tried to deliver your package to your doorstep at 11:35 AM on a Friday, then announce your failed delivery might be reatempted at your discretion or you might want to pick up said package at (one of) your local Post Office(s, assuming you can find out which one) from 5:00 PM onwards, even though you might be sweating it until 7:00 PM, when (all of) your local Post Office(s) will have closed for the day. It's the sort of Postal Service who'll make you walk (or drive) for nearly 10 bloody miles to find what they'll assign as (one of) your local Post Office(s), despite the very handy one just around the corner. It's the... well, you get the point. I thought I had it bad.
So today I got this e-mail from a sender I didn't recognise, and frankly, by the looks of it, at first glance I thought this was another invitation to "World Blowjob Day" that had managed to circumvent the spam filter, but, upon a closer look, turned out to be the United States (presumably of America) Postal Service. Seeing as I am not an American, have never lived in America, haven't been to that side of the Atlantic in oh say some five years or so and haven't been to the US this century, it caught me by surprise. Turns out someone by the name of Fay Korgasm (not really, but I saw this somewhere and thought it was somewhat amusing... no? Never mind...) or something just as helpful has sent a package for me, so the USPS needs to confirm the "Shipping to" address. Right off the bat they tell me that, should the address be incorrect, I should contact the shipper. Furthermore, the package is schedulled to be sent today. I'm guessing there's a safe chance the package has, indeed been sent. Indulge me in the math of it. I got the e-mail at about 9:20 PM, local time. With the time difference, I imagine it would have been sent at about 4:20 PM EST or 1:20 PM PST or somewhere in between, I suppose. Now doesn't this make you feel as though the package might have already been sent? I, for one, thought packages were expedited in the morning of the day they're schedulled for shipping, yet they contact me in the early to mid afternoon. Furthermore, there is nothing even slightly similar to a shipper's contact, just the name. Who the hell is Fay Korgasm? I've never seen a Fay Korgasm in my life. How do I get ahold of a Fay Korgasm to tell him/her/it that they left out some of my address?
Well done, US Postal Service. Is this what it means to "go Postal", then? That was a fun game...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is hoping - hoping! - to still be able to recieve this item. Yet I shudder to think of the tarrifs alone...
Uhhhh...?
Placeholder for favourite (non-religious, please) interjection, it seems like ages since I've last been here. I can't help to feel some measure of clearvoyance was in place then, as I set the expiry date for the poll that accompanied my last post to a rather long time. At any rate, an update is much overdue. I'll keep the bricklaying down, so we don't end up with an all-mighty wall of text.
I just got a blender. You see, ever since I moved to the place I live now I haven't really done a lot of cooking (however, only as of late have I become proficient at cooking entire, conventional meals and more complex main courses, such as noodles and tuna casserole), so I have been able to do well enough without one, but now that's changed, I've been looking for the best milkshake recepie (and I don't mean "non-dairy gum based beverage", such as what you actually get under the misleading title of "shake" at nearly every fast food joint but Krusty Burger). So far, I can't figure out why this young lady would put so much ice on hers. It really doesn't seem to add to the shake, and I'd very much appreciate if someone could explain this to me. Is there some fundamental difference between "shake" and "smoothie" that I don't get?
No, actuall, this should be in the previous paragraph. Do adjust your set. Scroll down a line so it seems there is no change in paragraph. So far I've found out some ready-bought gelatin is an interesting addition. I'm yet to try with powdered geltatin. Could work well...
The hour has changed, the days are getting longer and even this rainy spell we've had for a few days seems to be at an end. The inexorable news approach. Warmth is coming. Flee! South, preferably. Someone said Australia?
I don't think I'll ever quite grasp why it is that some movies take four bloody months to come from the civilised world to this wretched land where fate accursed me with birth, whereas others take but weeks. You'd expect that, after months of longing, said movies would be well recieved, but no; instead, you get overgrown, overage children paying to shriek in disgust at the most revered elements of Pantomine, uttering poorly borrowed mannerisms at the least suited times. And they charge you to wittness this.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has just been able to resist the urge of impulse buying an Exotic Shorthair Pesian, cute and fluffy though it was. I want a standard, longhair Persian, me.
I just got a blender. You see, ever since I moved to the place I live now I haven't really done a lot of cooking (however, only as of late have I become proficient at cooking entire, conventional meals and more complex main courses, such as noodles and tuna casserole), so I have been able to do well enough without one, but now that's changed, I've been looking for the best milkshake recepie (and I don't mean "non-dairy gum based beverage", such as what you actually get under the misleading title of "shake" at nearly every fast food joint but Krusty Burger). So far, I can't figure out why this young lady would put so much ice on hers. It really doesn't seem to add to the shake, and I'd very much appreciate if someone could explain this to me. Is there some fundamental difference between "shake" and "smoothie" that I don't get?
No, actuall, this should be in the previous paragraph. Do adjust your set. Scroll down a line so it seems there is no change in paragraph. So far I've found out some ready-bought gelatin is an interesting addition. I'm yet to try with powdered geltatin. Could work well...
The hour has changed, the days are getting longer and even this rainy spell we've had for a few days seems to be at an end. The inexorable news approach. Warmth is coming. Flee! South, preferably. Someone said Australia?
I don't think I'll ever quite grasp why it is that some movies take four bloody months to come from the civilised world to this wretched land where fate accursed me with birth, whereas others take but weeks. You'd expect that, after months of longing, said movies would be well recieved, but no; instead, you get overgrown, overage children paying to shriek in disgust at the most revered elements of Pantomine, uttering poorly borrowed mannerisms at the least suited times. And they charge you to wittness this.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has just been able to resist the urge of impulse buying an Exotic Shorthair Pesian, cute and fluffy though it was. I want a standard, longhair Persian, me.
Where's Simon?
Did you order a rant with extra bile? Well, you had better, because you're getting one...
So I have this gorgeous long black leather trenchcoat I adore, impervious to rain, cold or wind, and alternately rugged glamorous and sleek sinister. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the garment of choice for Winter, especially Chrismas Vacation in London, where style and sophistication would like one to look their best.
Now, I've had that coat for over six years, and the lining never got any younger. It tore a bit. Now the leather is perfectly fine, and there's no reason to discard the whole coat, so I had the lining replaced. I thought a tanner should do well enough, but , wanting to spoil my beloved trenchcoat a bit, I sought out a taylor. Ian Dury, advising any who'd listen to
"See my taylor
He's called Simon
I know it's going to fit"
might have had something to do with it. This taylor, obviously not Simon, bothced the job. Big time. So off the bat, en lieu of the plain canvas off-white lining the coat came with (and which I liked well enough), I asked him for something with a little more sparkle, like a silvery satin lining. You'd think a half decent taylor would either have such a fabric or be able to find it, but no, he delegated such responsability on me. Where in blazes would I find fabrics? I'm an Engineering student, not a seamstress's apprentice! So I leave it to him to pick a suitable fabric, and he did an alright job. At choosing a fabric, mind you.
The moment I saw the finished coat, I noticed two things wrong: First, the coat used to be of a prestigious Norwegian leather goods designer, as a large label on the inside was clear to state; now, such label is nowere to be found. But, sure enough, I can live with a label none could see being removed. What I should find harder to abide is the missing inner breast pocket.
"Oh, but it's a leather coat..." The incompetent taylor moaned in more of a complaint than an excuse.
Well, I should rather think that if I had wanted the pocket to be removed I'd have bloody asked for it, now wouldn't I? The previous lining had a pocket, he can't have missed it. I even took the care to emphasise that it should have a zipper along the opening to close the pocket, as the original had. Now I realise I ought to have demanded that the original be put back in its place, as it's shape, size, and the very nice leather patch around the opening are lost now. Instead, the coat now has an overly wide, not nearly deep enough pocket set far to close to the edge of the lining and with some icky synthetic wool patch. To make matters worse, the lizard stained the leather with glue, to no avail, as I can easily slide my finger in between the leather and the lining near the glue stains. Furthermore, I took the chance to observe just how shoddy his stitching was. The lining now meets the leather along a dizzyingly contorted line, whereas it used to be a crisp, straight line. In some spots, he left pieces of the old, mismatching lining and stiched the new one to it along a very unsightly seam.
I ask your oermission to be candid and break etiquette with a vernacular expression, but what the fuck did I pay him for? Let my warning serve you all: never, ever, under any circumstances, allow your first dealings with anyone you expect quality service from to be mediated by a helpful relative. The bastard has been paid for a half arsed job which, in all likely, he'll have to do over, and be the skies ablaze with brimstone if I'm shedding another cent into his pockets.
On a (much) lignter note, I got a (spam) e-mail from someone claiming to be called "marissa" and a "lonely russian girl". Apparently, capitalisation is only required among capitalists. She was alledgedly quite eager to offer me photos of herself. Google took notice and quickly set its AdSense feature to recommend ads about "Russian Mail Order Brides". Thank, but no, thanks.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark almost didn't shed his bile over the vile taylor, but, alas, the joy he'd be posting about was villanously robbed from him just the same. It seems nothing goes right this week...
So I have this gorgeous long black leather trenchcoat I adore, impervious to rain, cold or wind, and alternately rugged glamorous and sleek sinister. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the garment of choice for Winter, especially Chrismas Vacation in London, where style and sophistication would like one to look their best.
Now, I've had that coat for over six years, and the lining never got any younger. It tore a bit. Now the leather is perfectly fine, and there's no reason to discard the whole coat, so I had the lining replaced. I thought a tanner should do well enough, but , wanting to spoil my beloved trenchcoat a bit, I sought out a taylor. Ian Dury, advising any who'd listen to
"See my taylor
He's called Simon
I know it's going to fit"
might have had something to do with it. This taylor, obviously not Simon, bothced the job. Big time. So off the bat, en lieu of the plain canvas off-white lining the coat came with (and which I liked well enough), I asked him for something with a little more sparkle, like a silvery satin lining. You'd think a half decent taylor would either have such a fabric or be able to find it, but no, he delegated such responsability on me. Where in blazes would I find fabrics? I'm an Engineering student, not a seamstress's apprentice! So I leave it to him to pick a suitable fabric, and he did an alright job. At choosing a fabric, mind you.
The moment I saw the finished coat, I noticed two things wrong: First, the coat used to be of a prestigious Norwegian leather goods designer, as a large label on the inside was clear to state; now, such label is nowere to be found. But, sure enough, I can live with a label none could see being removed. What I should find harder to abide is the missing inner breast pocket.
"Oh, but it's a leather coat..." The incompetent taylor moaned in more of a complaint than an excuse.
Well, I should rather think that if I had wanted the pocket to be removed I'd have bloody asked for it, now wouldn't I? The previous lining had a pocket, he can't have missed it. I even took the care to emphasise that it should have a zipper along the opening to close the pocket, as the original had. Now I realise I ought to have demanded that the original be put back in its place, as it's shape, size, and the very nice leather patch around the opening are lost now. Instead, the coat now has an overly wide, not nearly deep enough pocket set far to close to the edge of the lining and with some icky synthetic wool patch. To make matters worse, the lizard stained the leather with glue, to no avail, as I can easily slide my finger in between the leather and the lining near the glue stains. Furthermore, I took the chance to observe just how shoddy his stitching was. The lining now meets the leather along a dizzyingly contorted line, whereas it used to be a crisp, straight line. In some spots, he left pieces of the old, mismatching lining and stiched the new one to it along a very unsightly seam.
I ask your oermission to be candid and break etiquette with a vernacular expression, but what the fuck did I pay him for? Let my warning serve you all: never, ever, under any circumstances, allow your first dealings with anyone you expect quality service from to be mediated by a helpful relative. The bastard has been paid for a half arsed job which, in all likely, he'll have to do over, and be the skies ablaze with brimstone if I'm shedding another cent into his pockets.
On a (much) lignter note, I got a (spam) e-mail from someone claiming to be called "marissa" and a "lonely russian girl". Apparently, capitalisation is only required among capitalists. She was alledgedly quite eager to offer me photos of herself. Google took notice and quickly set its AdSense feature to recommend ads about "Russian Mail Order Brides". Thank, but no, thanks.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark almost didn't shed his bile over the vile taylor, but, alas, the joy he'd be posting about was villanously robbed from him just the same. It seems nothing goes right this week...
Amazon agh
Right, so a few... ok, scratch that, a lot of months ago, a fellow blogger at whose blog I'm a regular was rather upset, to say the least, with Amazon. While I understood her grievance at the time, I, being quite happy with Amazon myself, didn't think much of it.
Then just this week, I committed an act of extreme intelligence (alas, I keep forgetting that < sarcasm > and < /sarcasm > aren't valid tags): I went on to place an order through Amazon. All was fine until I remembered I had moved since last time I had used Amazon, and my order was being dispatched to my old address.
Now, unfortunately, my keyboard, among its 105 keys, has no button labeled "PANIC". It really should, though. So I clicked my way to finding out what to do in this sort of emergency. The best Amazon could do was send an e-mail with the text of my liking to the seller. So I explained that I had made a blunder and please deliver to my correct address which is as follows and so. Unbeknownst to me (at the time, that is), Amazon encased my e-mail in between two segments of text of their own, the first one being as follows:
Important Notice: Only dispatch to the address shown in your seller account. Do not honour buyer requests to dispatch orders to any address other than the one provided by Amazon.co.uk. Do not accept any payment method other than Amazon Payments. Payment for the sale may be withheld if these guidelines are not followed.
So what was poor Paul (let's assume that's the seller's name) to do? Well, alledgedly, at the time of his reply (two days after my original e-mail, yet well within the expected time of dispatch) he had not seen my message until he had sent my item. Might be true, but a nagging feeling at the back of my head tells me Paul had, indeed, read my e-mail, but prefered to tell a little white lie and respect Amazon's terms. I can't blame him for that, and, had I known of Amazon's guidelines, I wouldn't have asked him to ship my stuff to my actual, current address, but you'd think Amazon could have put a bit more effort into dealing with these situations? I mean, sure I made a blunder and I have only myself to blame, but I expect others might have erred in even worse ways. Think of the Americans...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has ways of retrieving his ill-posted objects, rest assured. Your concern is appreciated.
Then just this week, I committed an act of extreme intelligence (alas, I keep forgetting that < sarcasm > and < /sarcasm > aren't valid tags): I went on to place an order through Amazon. All was fine until I remembered I had moved since last time I had used Amazon, and my order was being dispatched to my old address.
Now, unfortunately, my keyboard, among its 105 keys, has no button labeled "PANIC". It really should, though. So I clicked my way to finding out what to do in this sort of emergency. The best Amazon could do was send an e-mail with the text of my liking to the seller. So I explained that I had made a blunder and please deliver to my correct address which is as follows and so. Unbeknownst to me (at the time, that is), Amazon encased my e-mail in between two segments of text of their own, the first one being as follows:
Important Notice: Only dispatch to the address shown in your seller account. Do not honour buyer requests to dispatch orders to any address other than the one provided by Amazon.co.uk. Do not accept any payment method other than Amazon Payments. Payment for the sale may be withheld if these guidelines are not followed.
So what was poor Paul (let's assume that's the seller's name) to do? Well, alledgedly, at the time of his reply (two days after my original e-mail, yet well within the expected time of dispatch) he had not seen my message until he had sent my item. Might be true, but a nagging feeling at the back of my head tells me Paul had, indeed, read my e-mail, but prefered to tell a little white lie and respect Amazon's terms. I can't blame him for that, and, had I known of Amazon's guidelines, I wouldn't have asked him to ship my stuff to my actual, current address, but you'd think Amazon could have put a bit more effort into dealing with these situations? I mean, sure I made a blunder and I have only myself to blame, but I expect others might have erred in even worse ways. Think of the Americans...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has ways of retrieving his ill-posted objects, rest assured. Your concern is appreciated.
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