It's been a few months since I posted. Funny... It weeded out my collection of asian spambot worshipers.
Mind you, it's not that I didn't want to post. Here's a bit of a breakdown:
Up until very late December last year, I was busy with my thesis. It's done and I'm a fully fledged master engineer. Onwards to new conquests.
The last week of December was spent in London, and, as usual, it made up for every last little bit of bitterness along the other 51 weeks. As a neat little bonus, I got to attend "Legally Blonde: The Musical". Watching Sheridan Smith's performance live more than made up for catching the flu from the man sitting next to me. Really, now, would it have been too much to ask that he had swapped places with his girlfriend(/fiancée/wife/"Oh her? Yeah, we're sleeping together")? I'd have gotten to sit next to a pretty young girl and someone else would have caught his flu. Still, totally worth it!
January was my month off (the first in a while). Sorry I didn't post then.
I actually drafted up a post in February. I would have posted it too, but it had been written in anger and didn't deserve to see the light of publication. It went through several re-writes before earning an uncontested position in the bin. Long story short, some publicists aren't doing a very good job, some website designers are joining the trend, IMDb.com isn't infallible and when can I expect "The Sweet Shop"?
Most of February was spent moving from my adopted hometown, where I spent the last 8 years of my life, back to my birthtown. Some of the crates are still patiently expecting my attention, but, at least I have set up my little study and, by Jove, it looks like a picture straight out of my teenage fantasies (the SFW ones). Expect pictures soon (I mean it!).
Then I joined Twitter. Follow me here!
And, lastly, after three years of mostly excellent functioning, my computer had to undergo a radical reset and re-install. On one hand, I managed to clean up and re-organise my partitioning scheme (which was long overdue), but it seems these things always happen at the worst possible time. Sometimes, it just feels like the universe aligns perfectly to drop what might as well be all questions of life and death (sure, "42", but the question is...) right on your lap, but then you decide to sit down just slightly to the left -- YOU (meaning me) MORON!
Oh well...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders why YouTube occasionally suggests that I should look up Stephen Holland. Doesn't YouTube know he's a swindler of the worst kind?
Excuse me!?
Tonight on Shark Nibbles...
Wouldn't it have been great if I had managed to snag Mr. Clarkson for a one-off introduction to a blog entry like he does on Top Gear?
Tonight we carry on with our great culinary tradition and so we cover yet another topic: Restaurants.
Naturally, you'd be much better off reading AA Gill's column, so instead, let me show you something. That was taken out of the Readers Digest. Entertaining or useful though the majority of the article might be, I ask you now to scroll down to the end section, "Surefire Stereotypes", on page 2, and read item no. 3.
I'll be waiting here.
Still can't be arsed? Alright, I'll transcribe it for you:
"3. If you have a European accent, you are a horrible tipper. Accent = 10 percent. Always."
Now, if there ever were any doubts where this article was taken from, let's take elimination. Its not Europe, for obvious reasons. It's not Africa, because it mentions food. It's not Asia, it's much too rude for that. It's not Oceania, because not once did it employ the words "ute", "barbie", "outback", "spider" or "crikey". Could it then be America?
You see, I don't think it can. America is the place where my mother and I, both European and suitably accented, were charged 5% on top of 15% woth of tips for a maître d' we never so much as met. Where we were asked to leave 15% at the Hard Rock Café for good (but not extraordinary) service. Where we were asked to distribute little "tip slips" to just about the whole crew of a cruise ship, including people we met (exactly) once and only for as long as it took him to fill our glasses with water, which, as it seems, is the entirity of his job description. And we tipped away with a smile on our lips and a kind word on the side.
And now, for a bit of context: regarding tips, my mother and I aren't exactly alike, you see. When I forst noticed tipping, she told me she didn't like to tip because it made her feel as though she was rubbing some pretense of superiority in the faces of servers. I, on the other hand, have no such qualms with tipping, but despise the notion of unduly tipping. Sure, many restaurants and their like pool the tips, meaning that, if I don't tip as much as I would because service was sloppy, I'm unduly punishing all the other waiters, whose job, for all I know, might have been absolutely flawless, but whose fault is that? I submit to every single waiter who ever felt robbed of a well deserved fraction of a tip because the waiter who collected it performed subparly, drag the offending colleague out back behind the restaurant, perform even an half-hearted job of kicking his/her head in and I'll gladly tip as much as I would have had for good service, tuice as much if you promise to cut the offender out of the pool.
In fact, I'd like to tell you a little story that happened just short of a year ago. My mother and I had gone for dinner at Pizza Hut in Leicester Square. Our waiter was a young woman with mediterranean features and a distinctively Italian acccent. That was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most appaling service I ever had. She brought my mother a warm cider with ice. She came by our table to tell my mother they were out of the fish she ordered, but never bothered to ask what she'd like instead (in fact, judging by the expression on another waiter's face when I explained what had happened and placed another order on my mother's behalf, he was even more shocked than we were). Then she brough our entrees before the apetizers. Need I say our entrees, by the (second) time she brought them were cold and stale? And then, at the very end, she had the gall to calculate a standard 12% tip and remind us, on the bill, that it was not included, which I rewarded with the reminder that neither had it been deserved and my mother rewarded with a 10% tip.
Lousy tippers, aren't we?
And in one fell swoop, there goes every little bit of trust and admiration I ever had for Readers Digest.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind his readers from Asia, Africa and Oceania that the bit up there where some fun is poked at them is intended for comic purpuses only and bears no resemblance to my feelings towards them. Any americans who were offended by the rebutal of the stereotype that Europeans are poor tippers can suck it.
Wouldn't it have been great if I had managed to snag Mr. Clarkson for a one-off introduction to a blog entry like he does on Top Gear?
Tonight we carry on with our great culinary tradition and so we cover yet another topic: Restaurants.
Naturally, you'd be much better off reading AA Gill's column, so instead, let me show you something. That was taken out of the Readers Digest. Entertaining or useful though the majority of the article might be, I ask you now to scroll down to the end section, "Surefire Stereotypes", on page 2, and read item no. 3.
I'll be waiting here.
Still can't be arsed? Alright, I'll transcribe it for you:
"3. If you have a European accent, you are a horrible tipper. Accent = 10 percent. Always."
Now, if there ever were any doubts where this article was taken from, let's take elimination. Its not Europe, for obvious reasons. It's not Africa, because it mentions food. It's not Asia, it's much too rude for that. It's not Oceania, because not once did it employ the words "ute", "barbie", "outback", "spider" or "crikey". Could it then be America?
You see, I don't think it can. America is the place where my mother and I, both European and suitably accented, were charged 5% on top of 15% woth of tips for a maître d' we never so much as met. Where we were asked to leave 15% at the Hard Rock Café for good (but not extraordinary) service. Where we were asked to distribute little "tip slips" to just about the whole crew of a cruise ship, including people we met (exactly) once and only for as long as it took him to fill our glasses with water, which, as it seems, is the entirity of his job description. And we tipped away with a smile on our lips and a kind word on the side.
And now, for a bit of context: regarding tips, my mother and I aren't exactly alike, you see. When I forst noticed tipping, she told me she didn't like to tip because it made her feel as though she was rubbing some pretense of superiority in the faces of servers. I, on the other hand, have no such qualms with tipping, but despise the notion of unduly tipping. Sure, many restaurants and their like pool the tips, meaning that, if I don't tip as much as I would because service was sloppy, I'm unduly punishing all the other waiters, whose job, for all I know, might have been absolutely flawless, but whose fault is that? I submit to every single waiter who ever felt robbed of a well deserved fraction of a tip because the waiter who collected it performed subparly, drag the offending colleague out back behind the restaurant, perform even an half-hearted job of kicking his/her head in and I'll gladly tip as much as I would have had for good service, tuice as much if you promise to cut the offender out of the pool.
In fact, I'd like to tell you a little story that happened just short of a year ago. My mother and I had gone for dinner at Pizza Hut in Leicester Square. Our waiter was a young woman with mediterranean features and a distinctively Italian acccent. That was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most appaling service I ever had. She brought my mother a warm cider with ice. She came by our table to tell my mother they were out of the fish she ordered, but never bothered to ask what she'd like instead (in fact, judging by the expression on another waiter's face when I explained what had happened and placed another order on my mother's behalf, he was even more shocked than we were). Then she brough our entrees before the apetizers. Need I say our entrees, by the (second) time she brought them were cold and stale? And then, at the very end, she had the gall to calculate a standard 12% tip and remind us, on the bill, that it was not included, which I rewarded with the reminder that neither had it been deserved and my mother rewarded with a 10% tip.
Lousy tippers, aren't we?
And in one fell swoop, there goes every little bit of trust and admiration I ever had for Readers Digest.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind his readers from Asia, Africa and Oceania that the bit up there where some fun is poked at them is intended for comic purpuses only and bears no resemblance to my feelings towards them. Any americans who were offended by the rebutal of the stereotype that Europeans are poor tippers can suck it.
Moose
No, that's not the word...
Mousse
Much better. Onwards, now.
As a new entry on the Shark Nibbles Cook Book, here's my recentely developed Quadfactor Mousse, so called because I couldn't come up with a better name for it. But stick around and the mousse might prove better than it's name. So, off to the ingredients:
- 200 grams of chocolate (I used half sugar free plain chocolate with about 50% cocoa and half 99% cocoa chocolate, because I couldn't get regular sugar free cooking chocolate with 70% cocoa, which I'd recommend);
- 4 eggs;
- 200 mL heavy cream (any cream suited for whipping will do);
- 5 tablespoons of sweetner (or the equivalent amount of sugar, if you think your teeth and your waistline are worth the puritanism of carbon hydrates);
- 2 tablespoons of creamy peanut butter;
- 100 grams of grated coconut;
- 200 grams of chopped roasted salted peanuts;
- A few shots of your favourite liqueur (I like either mint or anise. Coffee Liqueur should work nicely, as will Bayle);
Now, if you've ever made a chocolate mousse before, you can imagine what comes up next. If you don't, well, then, Uncle Shark's here to help. So:
Melt your chocolate. I like the purism of a bain-marie, but a microwave will do just fine. If you take the latter choice, hold off this step for a bit; otherwise go on and start melting. Meanwhile...
Separate the yolks from the whites. Add a pinch of salt you the whites, if you like (I do) and beat them to soft peaks. Rinse your beaters and whip the cream to stiff peaks.
Combine the yolks, sweetener and peanut butter in a bowl. Cream them together until you obtain a smooth light caramel coloured mixture. Add the whipped cream and the coconut and mix thoroughly.
If you choose to melt the chocolate in the microwave (which is much faster than the bain marie), do so now. If you chose the bain marie, then your chocolate should be melted by now. Add the liquid chocolate to the eggs, butter, sweetner, coconut and cream mixture and mix thoroughly.
Now fold in the egg whites. Don't use beaters, or you'll just ruin the whites; use a woodden spoon instead. Try not to be too rough, but you don't have to treat them like they're made of lace.
Finally add the liqueur and the chopped peanuts and stir them in. Taste the mousse and adjust the quantities until you find the right balance of flavours.
You're done! Let the mousse set in the fridge for about six hours before serving.
As ever, I'd like to know your opinion on this idea. Remember the quantities are not set in stone. Fiddle about as much as you like until you find what tastes right to you. Suggest some changes too; if you have some ideas, I'd love to know them.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark bids his readers sweet farewells for now and urges you to have sweets in moderation (except for eye candy. Have as much of that as you'd like).
Mousse
Much better. Onwards, now.
As a new entry on the Shark Nibbles Cook Book, here's my recentely developed Quadfactor Mousse, so called because I couldn't come up with a better name for it. But stick around and the mousse might prove better than it's name. So, off to the ingredients:
- 200 grams of chocolate (I used half sugar free plain chocolate with about 50% cocoa and half 99% cocoa chocolate, because I couldn't get regular sugar free cooking chocolate with 70% cocoa, which I'd recommend);
- 4 eggs;
- 200 mL heavy cream (any cream suited for whipping will do);
- 5 tablespoons of sweetner (or the equivalent amount of sugar, if you think your teeth and your waistline are worth the puritanism of carbon hydrates);
- 2 tablespoons of creamy peanut butter;
- 100 grams of grated coconut;
- 200 grams of chopped roasted salted peanuts;
- A few shots of your favourite liqueur (I like either mint or anise. Coffee Liqueur should work nicely, as will Bayle);
Now, if you've ever made a chocolate mousse before, you can imagine what comes up next. If you don't, well, then, Uncle Shark's here to help. So:
Melt your chocolate. I like the purism of a bain-marie, but a microwave will do just fine. If you take the latter choice, hold off this step for a bit; otherwise go on and start melting. Meanwhile...
Separate the yolks from the whites. Add a pinch of salt you the whites, if you like (I do) and beat them to soft peaks. Rinse your beaters and whip the cream to stiff peaks.
Combine the yolks, sweetener and peanut butter in a bowl. Cream them together until you obtain a smooth light caramel coloured mixture. Add the whipped cream and the coconut and mix thoroughly.
If you choose to melt the chocolate in the microwave (which is much faster than the bain marie), do so now. If you chose the bain marie, then your chocolate should be melted by now. Add the liquid chocolate to the eggs, butter, sweetner, coconut and cream mixture and mix thoroughly.
Now fold in the egg whites. Don't use beaters, or you'll just ruin the whites; use a woodden spoon instead. Try not to be too rough, but you don't have to treat them like they're made of lace.
Finally add the liqueur and the chopped peanuts and stir them in. Taste the mousse and adjust the quantities until you find the right balance of flavours.
You're done! Let the mousse set in the fridge for about six hours before serving.
As ever, I'd like to know your opinion on this idea. Remember the quantities are not set in stone. Fiddle about as much as you like until you find what tastes right to you. Suggest some changes too; if you have some ideas, I'd love to know them.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark bids his readers sweet farewells for now and urges you to have sweets in moderation (except for eye candy. Have as much of that as you'd like).
eBay
eBay (and Amazon) can't go for a week without trying to flog their stuff on their registred users. Hardly surprising. It's what they live on. One could make the point that the way they (especially Amazon) figure out what their customers might like is a bit less accurate than you'd think. So one day I looked for mezzalunas on Amazon and, sure enought, the next newsletter (if you can call it that) tried to sell me just about everything they had that could be in some way related to - wait for it - Nigella Lawson. Figures. So once I let them know I own an Xbox 360, and now a game can't come out without them telling me, never you mind that it is perfectly in league with some games which I've rated as "loathsome" on their site (not in so many words). So once I rated some films, and now they keep advertising to me their extensive collection of DVDs... and BluRays... which I can't do anything with. Perhaps they should have noticed I never ordered, looked at or put a BluRay on my Wish List. Lastly, I'd just like to make it perfectly clear I have no idea how they figured out that I might like a book on wearing latex. That's really not what floats my boat (but, it floats yours, drop me a line, I have some Amazon endorsed suggestions for you).
And now on to eBay. Their advertising e-mails are a bit different. They flog you some items pertaining to your last purchase and then go on about not what they think you might like to buy but what they would like you to buy. Can't say that I blame them, but it doesn't really but much ice with me. At least Amazon look like they're trying to please me.
Which brings me to the cherry on top of the eBay cake. The last I heard from them, they were trying to flog their stock of Halloween related stuff. And, to make the whole e-mail more in line with the season, they thought they'd kick it off with a slight fright. And so, the first few words of their message read thus:
"arabianshark, boo! Get your ghoul on at eBay (...)"
Now look here, eBay: Firstly, you'll see I never really forget to capitalise the B in your name; maybe, just maybe, as a courtesy, you wouldn't mind, just once or twice, to properçy capitalise my name as well. There's a reason why I made it ArabianShark (which does not concern you any more than it concerns me why on Earth you chose eBay over Ebay, ebaY or bUyfRomuSpLeasepLeasepRettypLease).
Secondly, "boo" isn't a scary word. It really isn't. What it does is, when heard unexpectedly, startle you. If you call out to me first, than "boo" is about to scare me as much as "soft supple breasts".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark begins to wonder how wise it really was to join eBay... I don't think I've ever made a purchase there that would turn out to have been a good choice (except perhaps the very first one and the one I made on behalf of a friend).
And now on to eBay. Their advertising e-mails are a bit different. They flog you some items pertaining to your last purchase and then go on about not what they think you might like to buy but what they would like you to buy. Can't say that I blame them, but it doesn't really but much ice with me. At least Amazon look like they're trying to please me.
Which brings me to the cherry on top of the eBay cake. The last I heard from them, they were trying to flog their stock of Halloween related stuff. And, to make the whole e-mail more in line with the season, they thought they'd kick it off with a slight fright. And so, the first few words of their message read thus:
"arabianshark, boo! Get your ghoul on at eBay (...)"
Now look here, eBay: Firstly, you'll see I never really forget to capitalise the B in your name; maybe, just maybe, as a courtesy, you wouldn't mind, just once or twice, to properçy capitalise my name as well. There's a reason why I made it ArabianShark (which does not concern you any more than it concerns me why on Earth you chose eBay over Ebay, ebaY or bUyfRomuSpLeasepLeasepRettypLease).
Secondly, "boo" isn't a scary word. It really isn't. What it does is, when heard unexpectedly, startle you. If you call out to me first, than "boo" is about to scare me as much as "soft supple breasts".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark begins to wonder how wise it really was to join eBay... I don't think I've ever made a purchase there that would turn out to have been a good choice (except perhaps the very first one and the one I made on behalf of a friend).
Narrow sight
Today I was having a quiet bout with my conscience when, rahter unexpectedly, even for myself, I argued:
"What have you done for me lately?"
A bit calloes, perhaps. I apologised, but my conscience had decided to sulk and threw the match, as it were. However, I was left wondering that, in retrospect, my would-be winning argument was inheritantely flawed. However much or little a conscience does, one is invariably left never knowing of it, for even if one can plainly see the effects of the options he's taken, one can never see an iota of the effects which any other option pertaining to the same decision would have had.
So now I wonder:
What good is having a conscience?
How much do you think it would go for on eBay?
Just wondering...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders what the voices of your respective consciences sound like. Mine sounds rather like... strawberries. You know, with cream.
"What have you done for me lately?"
A bit calloes, perhaps. I apologised, but my conscience had decided to sulk and threw the match, as it were. However, I was left wondering that, in retrospect, my would-be winning argument was inheritantely flawed. However much or little a conscience does, one is invariably left never knowing of it, for even if one can plainly see the effects of the options he's taken, one can never see an iota of the effects which any other option pertaining to the same decision would have had.
So now I wonder:
What good is having a conscience?
How much do you think it would go for on eBay?
Just wondering...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders what the voices of your respective consciences sound like. Mine sounds rather like... strawberries. You know, with cream.
Masquerade Magic & Stephen Holland
Alright, so here's something new. Usually I come here to complain, muse or glorify something. Today, I'll mix things up a bit.
I'll start this off by making a clear distinction. While it may look like all I'm trying to accomplish with this entry is a bit more whining (there'll be a bit of that too), I'd like this to serve as a bit of a warning to you all. Also, I'll stick to the facts, so you can draw your own conclusions.
Late last year I was under the influence from Assassin's Creed II (non-fact alert), which is, in shoer, bloody awesome. It features, among other things, doctors who you can pay to have your wounds healed. Now, since the game takes place in the 1400s, the doctors depicted don't exactly wear lab coats or canes and stubbles, but rather black cloaks and a distinctive mask. This mask is plainly made of leather, with large round eyeholes and a long bird-like beak shaped protusion. You see, in the 1400s (certainly not the whole century, but I'm not really that good with dates... or history, for that matter) Europe was taken by the plague, and these doctors sought to shield themselves from inhaling the plague airs by stuffing the beaks of those masks with pungent herbs, so as to counter the effects of the smell of plague. Incidentally, some of the herbs used were able to neutralise the pathogen in some measure, but I digress.
My mother's birthday is in mid-December. She also happens to be a doctor and a mask enthusiast. Naturally, I thought I'd give her one said mask for her birthday. So I began searching. I managed to find a few plague doctor masks, but the vast majority of them were kept in the US by American traders. Jest though I may, I have nothing against shopping from American traders, but the toll costs are real killers, so I was quite pleased when I managed to find a masks dealer based in the UK.
Masquerade Magic is a commercial site that deals in venetian and dress-up masks. It is run by Stephen Holland, who can be reached at xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk. This e-mail address is also used to identify him in PayPal land. And now you've met the villian of our story.
I ordered the mask in early December. Mr. Holland and I spoke via e-mail many times while I waited for the mask. In said conversations, he demonstrated chronical incompetence, which I suppose my be misconstrued as shameless thievery (or the other way around). Over six months after I ordered and paid for the mask to be delivered, I am still yet to see it. For some time, he tried to blame it on the Royal Mail, caliming that they had lost or delayed the package, but he never told me the tracking number for the parcel. Because I waited for too long to complain to the people who run PayPal (sorry to take you from the story for a minute, but let me just say the people I dealt with at PayPal were absolutely impeccable. Though I certainly hope I never have to go through this vicious cabaret again, I wouldn't mind having to deal with them), there was nothing they could do. I kept trying to talk to Holland, but, when (speculation alert) he ran out of excuses (done speculating, thank you for your patience), he simply began to ignore me.
Enter a good friend of mine, whom I won't name, who realised I was feeling a bit blue. I always get retrospective after my birthday, and this year I couldn't shake the thought that if I hadn't been swindled out of nearly 90 quid, I wouldn't have had to go through some financial hardship earlier in the year. When I told him about my dealings with Holland (not the country, but you don't need to be told that), he took it upon himself to impersionate a potential buyer and badger Stephen on my behalf. He got less than 5 e-mails out of him, but that was enough for what he quallified broadly as "bollocks, the lot of it". Having been privy to the conversation, I can tell you that Stephen claimed it was not his fault, as he only claimed ownership of the site after my order had been placed, but before he "ran out of excuses", as it were. He claimed the previous owner used his name because he knew he was going to sell his business.
Now, here's where the fact ends and the questioning begins, so correct me if I'm wrong, but when this Stephen knave bought the company (assuming he bought the company after I was swindled, which, for some reason, I find unlikely. I just have a hard time taking his word), didn't he acquire all of the company's debt? Isn't it his responsability to refund me? Seeing as I paid directly to his PayPal account (see, here's where I think this gets tricky: the PayPal account I paid to didn't belong to "Masquerade Magic" or whoever the previous owner was; it was Stephen Holland's), doesn't that make him directly responsible for seeing that I either get my goods and/or services or my money back?
If any of my readers would like to tell me I'm wong and why, I'd love to know about it. All my other readers, please beware of this crook. It's a bit cliché that a conman would run a mask business (O, the irony), but it didn't stop the wretched Stephen Holland from picking my pocket with this scam of him. Additionally, I will personaly give a one free internet voucher to anyone who can prove to me that he or she has insulted this prick Holland and told him to return my money*.
And now that I have addressed my human readers, here's something for my asian flavoured spambots (you know who you are...):
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs herbal pills for larger breasts;
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs cheap V14GR4 (or however you spell Viagra theses days);
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs his penis enlarged. By a factor of 10^5. Just so he can see it;
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs nude pictures of underage boys;
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk would like to buy replica Rolex watches (but he doesn't care about receiving them, just pocket the money and carry on);
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs to be sent staggering amounts of e-mails in non-roman writing, just so his mailbox is thoroughly jammed up;
- ArabianShark has never deleted any of your scantly-clad women filled comments and hopes you'll be nice to him in turn.
Right, now to address the Cylons. Oh, right...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
* ArabianShark would like to remind you that "a one free Internet voucher" refers to a single voucher, good for one free Internet, which is a token of appreciation and cannot be cashed in or redeemed anywhere, as there is only one Internet that I know of and a great many people are using it, so you can't have it, least of all for free (sorry about that). ArabianShark would also like to remind you that this is not in fine print as there is no fine print to be found at all, as ArabianShark, unlike some cowardly cutpurses out there, is most unwilling to deceive you.
I'll start this off by making a clear distinction. While it may look like all I'm trying to accomplish with this entry is a bit more whining (there'll be a bit of that too), I'd like this to serve as a bit of a warning to you all. Also, I'll stick to the facts, so you can draw your own conclusions.
Late last year I was under the influence from Assassin's Creed II (non-fact alert), which is, in shoer, bloody awesome. It features, among other things, doctors who you can pay to have your wounds healed. Now, since the game takes place in the 1400s, the doctors depicted don't exactly wear lab coats or canes and stubbles, but rather black cloaks and a distinctive mask. This mask is plainly made of leather, with large round eyeholes and a long bird-like beak shaped protusion. You see, in the 1400s (certainly not the whole century, but I'm not really that good with dates... or history, for that matter) Europe was taken by the plague, and these doctors sought to shield themselves from inhaling the plague airs by stuffing the beaks of those masks with pungent herbs, so as to counter the effects of the smell of plague. Incidentally, some of the herbs used were able to neutralise the pathogen in some measure, but I digress.
My mother's birthday is in mid-December. She also happens to be a doctor and a mask enthusiast. Naturally, I thought I'd give her one said mask for her birthday. So I began searching. I managed to find a few plague doctor masks, but the vast majority of them were kept in the US by American traders. Jest though I may, I have nothing against shopping from American traders, but the toll costs are real killers, so I was quite pleased when I managed to find a masks dealer based in the UK.
Masquerade Magic is a commercial site that deals in venetian and dress-up masks. It is run by Stephen Holland, who can be reached at xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk. This e-mail address is also used to identify him in PayPal land. And now you've met the villian of our story.
I ordered the mask in early December. Mr. Holland and I spoke via e-mail many times while I waited for the mask. In said conversations, he demonstrated chronical incompetence, which I suppose my be misconstrued as shameless thievery (or the other way around). Over six months after I ordered and paid for the mask to be delivered, I am still yet to see it. For some time, he tried to blame it on the Royal Mail, caliming that they had lost or delayed the package, but he never told me the tracking number for the parcel. Because I waited for too long to complain to the people who run PayPal (sorry to take you from the story for a minute, but let me just say the people I dealt with at PayPal were absolutely impeccable. Though I certainly hope I never have to go through this vicious cabaret again, I wouldn't mind having to deal with them), there was nothing they could do. I kept trying to talk to Holland, but, when (speculation alert) he ran out of excuses (done speculating, thank you for your patience), he simply began to ignore me.
Enter a good friend of mine, whom I won't name, who realised I was feeling a bit blue. I always get retrospective after my birthday, and this year I couldn't shake the thought that if I hadn't been swindled out of nearly 90 quid, I wouldn't have had to go through some financial hardship earlier in the year. When I told him about my dealings with Holland (not the country, but you don't need to be told that), he took it upon himself to impersionate a potential buyer and badger Stephen on my behalf. He got less than 5 e-mails out of him, but that was enough for what he quallified broadly as "bollocks, the lot of it". Having been privy to the conversation, I can tell you that Stephen claimed it was not his fault, as he only claimed ownership of the site after my order had been placed, but before he "ran out of excuses", as it were. He claimed the previous owner used his name because he knew he was going to sell his business.
Now, here's where the fact ends and the questioning begins, so correct me if I'm wrong, but when this Stephen knave bought the company (assuming he bought the company after I was swindled, which, for some reason, I find unlikely. I just have a hard time taking his word), didn't he acquire all of the company's debt? Isn't it his responsability to refund me? Seeing as I paid directly to his PayPal account (see, here's where I think this gets tricky: the PayPal account I paid to didn't belong to "Masquerade Magic" or whoever the previous owner was; it was Stephen Holland's), doesn't that make him directly responsible for seeing that I either get my goods and/or services or my money back?
If any of my readers would like to tell me I'm wong and why, I'd love to know about it. All my other readers, please beware of this crook. It's a bit cliché that a conman would run a mask business (O, the irony), but it didn't stop the wretched Stephen Holland from picking my pocket with this scam of him. Additionally, I will personaly give a one free internet voucher to anyone who can prove to me that he or she has insulted this prick Holland and told him to return my money*.
And now that I have addressed my human readers, here's something for my asian flavoured spambots (you know who you are...):
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs herbal pills for larger breasts;
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs cheap V14GR4 (or however you spell Viagra theses days);
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs his penis enlarged. By a factor of 10^5. Just so he can see it;
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs nude pictures of underage boys;
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk would like to buy replica Rolex watches (but he doesn't care about receiving them, just pocket the money and carry on);
- xstephenhollandx@hotmail.co.uk needs to be sent staggering amounts of e-mails in non-roman writing, just so his mailbox is thoroughly jammed up;
- ArabianShark has never deleted any of your scantly-clad women filled comments and hopes you'll be nice to him in turn.
Right, now to address the Cylons. Oh, right...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
* ArabianShark would like to remind you that "a one free Internet voucher" refers to a single voucher, good for one free Internet, which is a token of appreciation and cannot be cashed in or redeemed anywhere, as there is only one Internet that I know of and a great many people are using it, so you can't have it, least of all for free (sorry about that). ArabianShark would also like to remind you that this is not in fine print as there is no fine print to be found at all, as ArabianShark, unlike some cowardly cutpurses out there, is most unwilling to deceive you.
Film theory
My relationship with movies is a rather colourful story. When I was very very young, they were something well beyond my reach, as hardly any children appropriate movies ran at my local theatre. However, occasionally, another, smaller theatre (an auditorium, if that's the hair you want to split) ran cartoon deature films on Saturdays and distributed flyers around schools, prompting me to get my first taste of what a cinematigraphical experience should be like.
I remember the first non-animated feature film I ever watched at a cinema was "RoboCop 3", in 1994 (shortly followed by "Jurassic Park", in the same year). "The Mask" would follow soon enough, and then I had a spat of a rather strange phobia. It struck for the fist time in 1996, if memory serves (it hardly ever does...), and went on for a good three years, until in 1999 I would conquer it by watching "Pink Nightmare" (the things teenager boys won't do for a crush on Catarina Furtado...) and several others not consequential enough for me to even remember them. Minf you, for those three years I was scared of the movies, I was absolutely terrified of the very notion of a cinema screen. Even the very sight of what would become my favourite theatre was enough to make my heart race and my stomach turn (mind you, despite there being a small theatre within the confines of a small shopping centre, we were nowhere near the multi-screen cinema complexes you can't not find at any self respecting shopping centre, and The Theatre was a venerated building, which is now, rather sadly, been demolished to make way for a pharmacy. Not so good for what ails you, if you ask me).
Long story short, I now love the movies. As such, you'd understand that if I spend what really is a trifle (compared to what people in civilized countries spend) to watch a movie at a proper cinema and the experience turns out not to be at least as satisfying as I expected it to be, I should feel at least a bit ripped-off. Usually, this could serve as a stepping stone towards an apology of piracy and a demand that corporate advertising be removed from cinema screens and (especially) DVDs, but not today.
I'll assume everyone here knows there is such a thing as a school for people who want to make movies (and no, this is not me setting you up for a special education pun; I have a great deal of respect for the good people delivering my high-grade entertainment). Sadly, I have never attended such a school, and so my theories might sound strange, silly or downright idiotic, but I'm allowed to, as I don't expect anyone to be made to pay to watch some movie loaded with what I should think are great ideas that would turn out to be absolute crap.
So today I submit to you one such crazy idea: Drama relief.
The concept of comic relief should be familiar to just about everyone: in the middle of a tense or sad movie, one bumbling character keeps the whole thing from being entirely too depressing or a despair-wracked character delivers one well turned pun or makes a joke of his dire straits (no, not the band) to lighten up the mood.
And now, for the novelty: amidst a comedy, one certain character, likely perfectly useless, as far as the plot is concerned (and, then again, maybe not...) does asolutely nothing funny. Despite madness and pantomine all around him (or her), they keep perfectly level headed, handle every situation in a most sensible manner and manage to avoid every situation that would make for a risible setting.
Case in point: well, there aren't any that I've noticed, but picture a comedy set in an English girls boarding school. (Oi! I said comedy, you perverts!) I can think of two I watched last night, one of them quite good, on spote of a not-so-great sequel (pro tip: You don't cast Russel Brand in a movie only to leave him out of the sequel! That would be akin to Mr. George Lucas deciding he'll be making three more Star Wars films, but none of them will feature any Force users.) Each film has a perfectly sensible, albeit bumbling, teacher who manages to be bullied or otherwise caught in some setting made to tickle a larf out of your sense of schadenfreude. Even their appearence (especially their apparel) is made to indicate a gentleman of tranquil reason, but not much fortune.
Consider instead, in keeping with the theme here, Professor Snape of Harry Potter fame, transplanted from Hogwarts to whatever boarding school the film is set at, leaving behind his magical prowess, his knowledge of both potions and the Dark Arts and any semblance of relevance to the grand scheme of things (a. k. a., the plot) and instead gaining the uncanny ability of teaching math (well, you try it, then).
Much as I like Alan Rickman, I wonder if the man has ever said anything funny in his career. He does, however, make great dramatical characters, and his seemingly out-of-place presence in an otherwise irreverent and inconsequent comedy might oerhaps act like that pinch of salt in your merengue or that dash of vineagre in your Pavlova (assuming that does do anything for taste, rather than just help with the consistency of the egg whites) that makes the dominant sweetness seem all the more intense by contrast.
You know, just a thought. I'll be banging this drum much harder the day I make a major grossing film featuring my concepts. Don't hold your breath.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is still waiting for an English chef to suggest an asian recipe featuring Spam to blatantly rip off here, where it would be most adequate. Now who would like to see Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsey compete for the priviledge? We only need a Drama Relief character to make a comedy out of that, now. Until then, let's have a new poll.
I remember the first non-animated feature film I ever watched at a cinema was "RoboCop 3", in 1994 (shortly followed by "Jurassic Park", in the same year). "The Mask" would follow soon enough, and then I had a spat of a rather strange phobia. It struck for the fist time in 1996, if memory serves (it hardly ever does...), and went on for a good three years, until in 1999 I would conquer it by watching "Pink Nightmare" (the things teenager boys won't do for a crush on Catarina Furtado...) and several others not consequential enough for me to even remember them. Minf you, for those three years I was scared of the movies, I was absolutely terrified of the very notion of a cinema screen. Even the very sight of what would become my favourite theatre was enough to make my heart race and my stomach turn (mind you, despite there being a small theatre within the confines of a small shopping centre, we were nowhere near the multi-screen cinema complexes you can't not find at any self respecting shopping centre, and The Theatre was a venerated building, which is now, rather sadly, been demolished to make way for a pharmacy. Not so good for what ails you, if you ask me).
Long story short, I now love the movies. As such, you'd understand that if I spend what really is a trifle (compared to what people in civilized countries spend) to watch a movie at a proper cinema and the experience turns out not to be at least as satisfying as I expected it to be, I should feel at least a bit ripped-off. Usually, this could serve as a stepping stone towards an apology of piracy and a demand that corporate advertising be removed from cinema screens and (especially) DVDs, but not today.
I'll assume everyone here knows there is such a thing as a school for people who want to make movies (and no, this is not me setting you up for a special education pun; I have a great deal of respect for the good people delivering my high-grade entertainment). Sadly, I have never attended such a school, and so my theories might sound strange, silly or downright idiotic, but I'm allowed to, as I don't expect anyone to be made to pay to watch some movie loaded with what I should think are great ideas that would turn out to be absolute crap.
So today I submit to you one such crazy idea: Drama relief.
The concept of comic relief should be familiar to just about everyone: in the middle of a tense or sad movie, one bumbling character keeps the whole thing from being entirely too depressing or a despair-wracked character delivers one well turned pun or makes a joke of his dire straits (no, not the band) to lighten up the mood.
And now, for the novelty: amidst a comedy, one certain character, likely perfectly useless, as far as the plot is concerned (and, then again, maybe not...) does asolutely nothing funny. Despite madness and pantomine all around him (or her), they keep perfectly level headed, handle every situation in a most sensible manner and manage to avoid every situation that would make for a risible setting.
Case in point: well, there aren't any that I've noticed, but picture a comedy set in an English girls boarding school. (Oi! I said comedy, you perverts!) I can think of two I watched last night, one of them quite good, on spote of a not-so-great sequel (pro tip: You don't cast Russel Brand in a movie only to leave him out of the sequel! That would be akin to Mr. George Lucas deciding he'll be making three more Star Wars films, but none of them will feature any Force users.) Each film has a perfectly sensible, albeit bumbling, teacher who manages to be bullied or otherwise caught in some setting made to tickle a larf out of your sense of schadenfreude. Even their appearence (especially their apparel) is made to indicate a gentleman of tranquil reason, but not much fortune.
Consider instead, in keeping with the theme here, Professor Snape of Harry Potter fame, transplanted from Hogwarts to whatever boarding school the film is set at, leaving behind his magical prowess, his knowledge of both potions and the Dark Arts and any semblance of relevance to the grand scheme of things (a. k. a., the plot) and instead gaining the uncanny ability of teaching math (well, you try it, then).
Much as I like Alan Rickman, I wonder if the man has ever said anything funny in his career. He does, however, make great dramatical characters, and his seemingly out-of-place presence in an otherwise irreverent and inconsequent comedy might oerhaps act like that pinch of salt in your merengue or that dash of vineagre in your Pavlova (assuming that does do anything for taste, rather than just help with the consistency of the egg whites) that makes the dominant sweetness seem all the more intense by contrast.
You know, just a thought. I'll be banging this drum much harder the day I make a major grossing film featuring my concepts. Don't hold your breath.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is still waiting for an English chef to suggest an asian recipe featuring Spam to blatantly rip off here, where it would be most adequate. Now who would like to see Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsey compete for the priviledge? We only need a Drama Relief character to make a comedy out of that, now. Until then, let's have a new poll.
Fast food
Before we get to the meat (no pun intended. Yeah, right...) of this post, I'd just like to thank Blog Interview, to whom I have recentely submitted an interview (a sensible redundancy, it seems) for awarding me yet another follower. As they have asked me nicely to mention them, don't forget to visit Blog Interview as soon as you're done here. They would have liked a badge on my sidebar, but they have failed to provide me with one.
Onwards, then. When Nigella Lawson speaks of fast food, she usually means lemon and egg spaghetti, which sounds absolutely delicious and she makes it look so easy to prepare. Now, my standards are quite a bit lower, so when I speak of fast food, I mean McDonald's and their ilk.
Today I would like to take the time to tell you about a little treat I discovered recentely. Credit should go to Cracked.com, probably the only good thing to come out of America aside from Scarlett Johansson (1). This particular article mentions something called "the McGangBang". You should read it for what it is, and, if not, for some backgroung into this entry, but here's the highlights: The McGangBang is the unofficial name for a McDonald's sandwich composed of a McChicken inside a McDouble, both off the dollar menu. With the name being less than family friendly, not only is this combination not on the menu but also most employees won't recognise it, although some will have heard of it and will prepare it for you.
And now, for a hop over the pond.
So here I was, a few days ago, my mind adamantly set on having one of those, when a few differences would have thrown some flies in the ointment. So, to address them:
- There is no dollar menu, which should hardly come out as a surprise, seeing as we don't use dollars at all.
- The names are a bit different, which is to be expected. Naturally, ordering a McGangBang in a non-English speaking country will get you either slightly more or slightly less confused and judgemental looks than ordering a McGangBang on a native English speaking country depending on whether yhe cashier knows what a gang bang is. So ordering it by name is off the table (or is it off the counter?).
- Meat is a bit more expensive here. It's been said that, pound for pound (mass measuring pounds, not sterling pounds), McDonald's hamburgers are more expensive than American new cars. It doesn't help that American cars are cheap buckets of bolts (2). Let it just be said that even an Euro (that's as much as 1.2889 American dollars) won't get you a McDouble here. It will get you a McSingle, which, obviously, isn't called a McSingle and will get you nowhere near a McChicken.
So I got around those issues easily. It didn't cost me $2.5778, however. In fact, it cost me over €7.00, but, then again, I went for fries, a beverage and, to make matters worse, a supersize. Oh, and fries dip, which I got under the guise of "mayo"... which it isn't.
But I thik it was worth it. Eating a sandwich that tall is a task more suitable for a python (not Monty Python, the sort of python that can dislocate it's jaw at will to swallow large prey whole), but, with a bit of effort, it's manageable. combining the two sandwiches at home was simpler than I expected, but I kept all the buns, which might have helped. I now believe removing at least one of them would have been best. All the more reason to have another sometime soon.
The chaser: having a chaser after this monstrosity of a meal might sound mad (right up my alley, then), but anything worth foing is woeth overdoing, so I chased it with a screening of Iron Man 2 in great company for some balance, because I'm rather sure among the likes of Robert Downey Jr., Scarlett Johansson, Don Cheadle and Gwyneth Paltrow there are very few McGangBangs to be known of.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind his most recent follower that the McGangBang contains no mango, but it still might not do wonders for her complexion. Or her waistline. Still, only one can't hurt...
(1) Shark Nibbles and their associates recognise the existence of other good things and stemming from across the pond. They're just not as frequent as the other stuff.
(2) Shark Nibbles and their associates recognise that the new Ford GT-40 is a superly constructed piece of machinery and not quite as cheap as it might be made to seem. Mind you, not only is it based on a British car, but also it includes a fair share of other European bits.
Onwards, then. When Nigella Lawson speaks of fast food, she usually means lemon and egg spaghetti, which sounds absolutely delicious and she makes it look so easy to prepare. Now, my standards are quite a bit lower, so when I speak of fast food, I mean McDonald's and their ilk.
Today I would like to take the time to tell you about a little treat I discovered recentely. Credit should go to Cracked.com, probably the only good thing to come out of America aside from Scarlett Johansson (1). This particular article mentions something called "the McGangBang". You should read it for what it is, and, if not, for some backgroung into this entry, but here's the highlights: The McGangBang is the unofficial name for a McDonald's sandwich composed of a McChicken inside a McDouble, both off the dollar menu. With the name being less than family friendly, not only is this combination not on the menu but also most employees won't recognise it, although some will have heard of it and will prepare it for you.
And now, for a hop over the pond.
So here I was, a few days ago, my mind adamantly set on having one of those, when a few differences would have thrown some flies in the ointment. So, to address them:
- There is no dollar menu, which should hardly come out as a surprise, seeing as we don't use dollars at all.
- The names are a bit different, which is to be expected. Naturally, ordering a McGangBang in a non-English speaking country will get you either slightly more or slightly less confused and judgemental looks than ordering a McGangBang on a native English speaking country depending on whether yhe cashier knows what a gang bang is. So ordering it by name is off the table (or is it off the counter?).
- Meat is a bit more expensive here. It's been said that, pound for pound (mass measuring pounds, not sterling pounds), McDonald's hamburgers are more expensive than American new cars. It doesn't help that American cars are cheap buckets of bolts (2). Let it just be said that even an Euro (that's as much as 1.2889 American dollars) won't get you a McDouble here. It will get you a McSingle, which, obviously, isn't called a McSingle and will get you nowhere near a McChicken.
So I got around those issues easily. It didn't cost me $2.5778, however. In fact, it cost me over €7.00, but, then again, I went for fries, a beverage and, to make matters worse, a supersize. Oh, and fries dip, which I got under the guise of "mayo"... which it isn't.
But I thik it was worth it. Eating a sandwich that tall is a task more suitable for a python (not Monty Python, the sort of python that can dislocate it's jaw at will to swallow large prey whole), but, with a bit of effort, it's manageable. combining the two sandwiches at home was simpler than I expected, but I kept all the buns, which might have helped. I now believe removing at least one of them would have been best. All the more reason to have another sometime soon.
The chaser: having a chaser after this monstrosity of a meal might sound mad (right up my alley, then), but anything worth foing is woeth overdoing, so I chased it with a screening of Iron Man 2 in great company for some balance, because I'm rather sure among the likes of Robert Downey Jr., Scarlett Johansson, Don Cheadle and Gwyneth Paltrow there are very few McGangBangs to be known of.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind his most recent follower that the McGangBang contains no mango, but it still might not do wonders for her complexion. Or her waistline. Still, only one can't hurt...
(1) Shark Nibbles and their associates recognise the existence of other good things and stemming from across the pond. They're just not as frequent as the other stuff.
(2) Shark Nibbles and their associates recognise that the new Ford GT-40 is a superly constructed piece of machinery and not quite as cheap as it might be made to seem. Mind you, not only is it based on a British car, but also it includes a fair share of other European bits.
Oh what a treat!
Alright, that title wasn't the best thing since sliced bread. Boo-bloody-hoo.
And now you probably think I'm in a bit of a foul mood. Quite the contrary, really; this has been a rather good day so far, and the evening looks promising for matters of a rather secret nature right now (i. e., it's a surprise).
So far: I nearly ran out of kitty treats. Even if I don't much care for them myself (mind you, I never tried them, but the smell alone rather makes me want to. Besides, they're made of malt and salmon, none of that nasty ground fish flour dog biscuits are made of... if you want to call those foul things biscuits), my cat loves them. She likes them so much she is willing to learn tricks for treats as a reward. I was, therefore, a bit aprehensive to find out they were sold out at the pet shop, and had to bring plain malt treats instead. Now, I knew Kunoichi (like you're pet's name is any better) loves salmon, and was a bit afraid she wouldn't care much for plain malt treats, but, as it turns out, she loves them just as much (or at least she's managed to spare my feelings much better than a human female would in that manner they all alledgedly try to spare a man's feelings... you know who you are).
Also today I got a delivery for some manga I had ordered from Amazon. Again, I don't much care for manga myself (mango, on the other hand, I rather like... if only I could have some and not spoil my diet), but my teenage cousin has succumbed to the current vampire craze.
A short (riiight...) parenthesis here: my long-time readers know I liked vampires before the current craze. They know I liked propper vampires before those abominations portraied by "Twilight" made vampires as a whole popular and should bloody well know I spurn "Twilight" and have done so even before I realised it was also almost a cool as vampires themselves in the current conjuncture.
That said, she's said to go ballistic over "Vampire Knight". So, with one fell swoop, my cousin is happy to have the first nine volumes of the thing, my aunt is happy she got to make her daughter happy and I got free vouchers out of the whole deal - oh, and some family members of mine are happy too, so, you know, sunflowes and rainbows, puppies and sunshine and butterflies and so forth (even my most recent readers should note that particular bit of cynicism is meant only for comical purposes, unless they're Twilight fans, in which case, allow me to point you in the general direction of a dictionary so you can look up "cynicism", "comical", "vampire" and "read").
On other news, I seem to have gathered yet another follower. I hope you enjoy your time.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is now typing on a blacked-out keyboard (well, silvered out, as I used aluminium tape), to prove or disprove claims by the manufacturers of Das Keyboard. So far, I have inly realised how hard it is to tell I apart from O.
And now you probably think I'm in a bit of a foul mood. Quite the contrary, really; this has been a rather good day so far, and the evening looks promising for matters of a rather secret nature right now (i. e., it's a surprise).
So far: I nearly ran out of kitty treats. Even if I don't much care for them myself (mind you, I never tried them, but the smell alone rather makes me want to. Besides, they're made of malt and salmon, none of that nasty ground fish flour dog biscuits are made of... if you want to call those foul things biscuits), my cat loves them. She likes them so much she is willing to learn tricks for treats as a reward. I was, therefore, a bit aprehensive to find out they were sold out at the pet shop, and had to bring plain malt treats instead. Now, I knew Kunoichi (like you're pet's name is any better) loves salmon, and was a bit afraid she wouldn't care much for plain malt treats, but, as it turns out, she loves them just as much (or at least she's managed to spare my feelings much better than a human female would in that manner they all alledgedly try to spare a man's feelings... you know who you are).
Also today I got a delivery for some manga I had ordered from Amazon. Again, I don't much care for manga myself (mango, on the other hand, I rather like... if only I could have some and not spoil my diet), but my teenage cousin has succumbed to the current vampire craze.
A short (riiight...) parenthesis here: my long-time readers know I liked vampires before the current craze. They know I liked propper vampires before those abominations portraied by "Twilight" made vampires as a whole popular and should bloody well know I spurn "Twilight" and have done so even before I realised it was also almost a cool as vampires themselves in the current conjuncture.
That said, she's said to go ballistic over "Vampire Knight". So, with one fell swoop, my cousin is happy to have the first nine volumes of the thing, my aunt is happy she got to make her daughter happy and I got free vouchers out of the whole deal - oh, and some family members of mine are happy too, so, you know, sunflowes and rainbows, puppies and sunshine and butterflies and so forth (even my most recent readers should note that particular bit of cynicism is meant only for comical purposes, unless they're Twilight fans, in which case, allow me to point you in the general direction of a dictionary so you can look up "cynicism", "comical", "vampire" and "read").
On other news, I seem to have gathered yet another follower. I hope you enjoy your time.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is now typing on a blacked-out keyboard (well, silvered out, as I used aluminium tape), to prove or disprove claims by the manufacturers of Das Keyboard. So far, I have inly realised how hard it is to tell I apart from O.
Second wind
After what most likely will have seemed like a period of that all too common idleness we mere mortals comfortably came to denote as "death", this blog seems to be alive and once more kicking (meekly, as though not to hurt anyone).
And, speaking of hurt, not long ago I had a sudden bout of the most heart-gripping guilt I have ever bore, for twice I have spoken aloud and ill of what you might now know to be my often sworn foe, Fate (which should not, under any circumstances, be mistaken with Faith, the name of both the protagonist of the (IMO) massively underrated game "Mirror's Edge" and Eliza Dushku's character in the (IMO) massively overrated series "Buffy the (IMO, very very silly) vampire slayer", who lent her voice to the protagonist of yet another (IMO) somewhat underrated game, "Wet".
For the sake of disambiguation, it should be noted that the qualifier "very very silly" should be applied both to the vampires in the show and to their slayer in equal measure. Aside from the particiaptions of Ms. Dushku, as stated above, and Allison Hannigan, there isn't a single redeeming characteristic in the whole show (IMO, mind you).
Now, about undully putting down Fate - would Madam Fate kindly accept a heartfelt apology for my earlier scathing remarks in the face of what I consider to be a peace offering in the form of that most lovely young lady who, after an absence of several months (starting on the very day I was about to propose we should meet outside of the parameters of our regular meeting medium, the theater, thank you for that, Madam Fate) and perhaps even grace me with the good fortune of not becomming thoroughly disenchanted with her after a single outing for coffee (which I don't even drink of my own volition, mind you) as was the case with the lovely (in a purely platonic sense, mind you) girl from the salad bar? Or is she (Ms. Fate, that is, naturally) merely setting me up for a massive disappointment, as was the case with the first incident that drove me to scathing remarks? Really, I have good faith in Fate (no pun intended), but you must make some allowance for my suspicion.
And now, for something completely different. Mr. Idle has the copyright to "a man with three buttocks", so we'll haev to make do with a short story I conceived on the back of a thought, last night (or, technically, this early morning), whilst preparing a sandwich:
"I was quite thrilled to have met you. Your first impression on me was, quite simply, marvellous. I'd venture mine on you can't have been all bad, quite the contrary, for, for some reason, you picked me - imagine, me, exactly me - from the ranks of all the others, my peers, each and every last one of them so much like myself. It must have been love at first sight - I know it was for me.
"Then you took me to your home. I can't say it was all peaches and cream for me - the transition, I mean. I was not accustomed to familiarity, to being cared for, so to speak, and that's exactly how it felt from then on, that you had given me a seat in the bosom of your house, of your own free will, because you liked me. The elation, once I came to terms with my new reality, was more than I can put on words.
"Then, over however long or short as it may have been - truly, it seemed like a lifetime to me, as long as it takes to live out a wonderful life too, mind you, even if clearly it wasn't quite as long, not for you, at any rate - you made me feel things I never thought I'd experience. You showed me what it was like to be liked. You showed me what it was like to be wanted. You showed me what it was like to be appreciated. Seeing you enjoy the fruits of my labour felt oh-so-wonderful I often wondered if I ever performed more out of selfishly wanting to feel like only you could make me feel.
"I never even mentioned - let alone complain about - feeling neglected when you went for longer than usual without paying me any attention. I really didn't care. If ever I suspected you might again call upon me, the thrill of the possibility alone was quite enough to scatter any doubt or disappointment. You never really treated me wrong. Nor did I, did I?
"But, of course, every time you called on my service - which, I am proud to say, I never refused to offer, nor did I ever perform anything less than my best, and always entirely up to your demands, and I dare you to even say otherwise - I could feel myself depleting little by little, emptying, as it was, realising, with dread, that someday I'd have given all that I had, all that I was, and shuddered to think what then I could possibly offer you, should that seemingly vaccuous notion of "my love" not suffice.
"I never asked for anything in return of all I have given, for, honestly, I never felt I needed anything in return. You sated all of my needs, as I did my very best to sate yours, even if, for the most part, I would have been only massively inadequate. Mind you, I was always proud of my strengths, and you need not say it for me to know you agree with me on this point.
"Still, the day I dreaded the most came about: you found me empty - void - unable to go on serving you in exchange for the joy of seeing you happpy with me, as I had from the very day we'd met. The turmoil of emotions - sorrow, inadequacy, fear, despair, longing - in that great big void within me, where once had been all you really ever wanted from me - all I had given to you - was matched only by your cold, callous casualness, as though you expected this to happen from the moment you first laid eyes on me.
"It was then that I knew for sure you didn't feel about me anything like the way I felt about you. You didn't even feel anything remotely like they way I thought you felt about me. To you, I was just some disposable thing, some plaything you found and took in for your entertainment alone, someone you could wring the lifeforce from to the last drop and coldy chuck away the moment they became a dessicated rag, lifeless and useless, a thing not to be loved or had or even thought of in the least.
"It was so evident, as you merely brought about my replacement the very moment you saw me falter. Everly last bit like any of the others around me when you picked me from them, every last bit like myself, really, bright eyed and eager and deliciously scared and expectant of his new surroundings, of being about to find a drive and a purpose and a raison d'être. I can only be sorry for the poor bastard - though no more than I feel for myself.
"And what of myself? You stripped me of my rank, of my seat, and, as you casually gave them to my readily begotten replacement, I realised these things meant nothing to you - yet I had tricked myself into believing them something else, something bright and beautiful, indeed, something to be proud of, just like the one before me - and the one after me, no doubt - had done and will do, respectively. And now, in exchange for however long I unwaveringly gave you my service and my very being, you discard me, dispose of me like common rubbish. I have to wonder if you ever cared about me at all.
"I know you'll never know this - any of this. You'll never read or even come across my words, and why should you? I am not the sort of thing you'd care for, I know this quite well now. Know only this: I don't resent you. No, not in the least. It was I that was a fool for not having seen things for what they were - and, in retrospect, perhaps I should have. It was all quite evident, wasn't is? I wished only you could hear me, my true voice, if I ever had one, if only once. I wished you'd hear my all too silent cry.
"I thought you loved me..."
-- A mayonaise bottle.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders what makes a good gift for an immaterial, everlasting, omnipresent, seemingly random, yet oh-so-deterministic driving force. Do you suppose Fate cares for flowers?
And, speaking of hurt, not long ago I had a sudden bout of the most heart-gripping guilt I have ever bore, for twice I have spoken aloud and ill of what you might now know to be my often sworn foe, Fate (which should not, under any circumstances, be mistaken with Faith, the name of both the protagonist of the (IMO) massively underrated game "Mirror's Edge" and Eliza Dushku's character in the (IMO) massively overrated series "Buffy the (IMO, very very silly) vampire slayer", who lent her voice to the protagonist of yet another (IMO) somewhat underrated game, "Wet".
For the sake of disambiguation, it should be noted that the qualifier "very very silly" should be applied both to the vampires in the show and to their slayer in equal measure. Aside from the particiaptions of Ms. Dushku, as stated above, and Allison Hannigan, there isn't a single redeeming characteristic in the whole show (IMO, mind you).
Now, about undully putting down Fate - would Madam Fate kindly accept a heartfelt apology for my earlier scathing remarks in the face of what I consider to be a peace offering in the form of that most lovely young lady who, after an absence of several months (starting on the very day I was about to propose we should meet outside of the parameters of our regular meeting medium, the theater, thank you for that, Madam Fate) and perhaps even grace me with the good fortune of not becomming thoroughly disenchanted with her after a single outing for coffee (which I don't even drink of my own volition, mind you) as was the case with the lovely (in a purely platonic sense, mind you) girl from the salad bar? Or is she (Ms. Fate, that is, naturally) merely setting me up for a massive disappointment, as was the case with the first incident that drove me to scathing remarks? Really, I have good faith in Fate (no pun intended), but you must make some allowance for my suspicion.
And now, for something completely different. Mr. Idle has the copyright to "a man with three buttocks", so we'll haev to make do with a short story I conceived on the back of a thought, last night (or, technically, this early morning), whilst preparing a sandwich:
"I was quite thrilled to have met you. Your first impression on me was, quite simply, marvellous. I'd venture mine on you can't have been all bad, quite the contrary, for, for some reason, you picked me - imagine, me, exactly me - from the ranks of all the others, my peers, each and every last one of them so much like myself. It must have been love at first sight - I know it was for me.
"Then you took me to your home. I can't say it was all peaches and cream for me - the transition, I mean. I was not accustomed to familiarity, to being cared for, so to speak, and that's exactly how it felt from then on, that you had given me a seat in the bosom of your house, of your own free will, because you liked me. The elation, once I came to terms with my new reality, was more than I can put on words.
"Then, over however long or short as it may have been - truly, it seemed like a lifetime to me, as long as it takes to live out a wonderful life too, mind you, even if clearly it wasn't quite as long, not for you, at any rate - you made me feel things I never thought I'd experience. You showed me what it was like to be liked. You showed me what it was like to be wanted. You showed me what it was like to be appreciated. Seeing you enjoy the fruits of my labour felt oh-so-wonderful I often wondered if I ever performed more out of selfishly wanting to feel like only you could make me feel.
"I never even mentioned - let alone complain about - feeling neglected when you went for longer than usual without paying me any attention. I really didn't care. If ever I suspected you might again call upon me, the thrill of the possibility alone was quite enough to scatter any doubt or disappointment. You never really treated me wrong. Nor did I, did I?
"But, of course, every time you called on my service - which, I am proud to say, I never refused to offer, nor did I ever perform anything less than my best, and always entirely up to your demands, and I dare you to even say otherwise - I could feel myself depleting little by little, emptying, as it was, realising, with dread, that someday I'd have given all that I had, all that I was, and shuddered to think what then I could possibly offer you, should that seemingly vaccuous notion of "my love" not suffice.
"I never asked for anything in return of all I have given, for, honestly, I never felt I needed anything in return. You sated all of my needs, as I did my very best to sate yours, even if, for the most part, I would have been only massively inadequate. Mind you, I was always proud of my strengths, and you need not say it for me to know you agree with me on this point.
"Still, the day I dreaded the most came about: you found me empty - void - unable to go on serving you in exchange for the joy of seeing you happpy with me, as I had from the very day we'd met. The turmoil of emotions - sorrow, inadequacy, fear, despair, longing - in that great big void within me, where once had been all you really ever wanted from me - all I had given to you - was matched only by your cold, callous casualness, as though you expected this to happen from the moment you first laid eyes on me.
"It was then that I knew for sure you didn't feel about me anything like the way I felt about you. You didn't even feel anything remotely like they way I thought you felt about me. To you, I was just some disposable thing, some plaything you found and took in for your entertainment alone, someone you could wring the lifeforce from to the last drop and coldy chuck away the moment they became a dessicated rag, lifeless and useless, a thing not to be loved or had or even thought of in the least.
"It was so evident, as you merely brought about my replacement the very moment you saw me falter. Everly last bit like any of the others around me when you picked me from them, every last bit like myself, really, bright eyed and eager and deliciously scared and expectant of his new surroundings, of being about to find a drive and a purpose and a raison d'être. I can only be sorry for the poor bastard - though no more than I feel for myself.
"And what of myself? You stripped me of my rank, of my seat, and, as you casually gave them to my readily begotten replacement, I realised these things meant nothing to you - yet I had tricked myself into believing them something else, something bright and beautiful, indeed, something to be proud of, just like the one before me - and the one after me, no doubt - had done and will do, respectively. And now, in exchange for however long I unwaveringly gave you my service and my very being, you discard me, dispose of me like common rubbish. I have to wonder if you ever cared about me at all.
"I know you'll never know this - any of this. You'll never read or even come across my words, and why should you? I am not the sort of thing you'd care for, I know this quite well now. Know only this: I don't resent you. No, not in the least. It was I that was a fool for not having seen things for what they were - and, in retrospect, perhaps I should have. It was all quite evident, wasn't is? I wished only you could hear me, my true voice, if I ever had one, if only once. I wished you'd hear my all too silent cry.
"I thought you loved me..."
-- A mayonaise bottle.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders what makes a good gift for an immaterial, everlasting, omnipresent, seemingly random, yet oh-so-deterministic driving force. Do you suppose Fate cares for flowers?
Following the deceased
I can imagine your shock to see how a blog which hasn't seen activity for nigh on five months suddenly gets a jolt of posting. Imagine now my shock as I found out that a very much dead blog has three followers (and two comments in a language I can't even begin to read). So here's looking at brightening up the day of my three followers (and then, how about we start a cult?)
This is a bit of a variation on a recipe by Mrs. Nigella Lawson, whom I not only admire as a cook, but also to whom I'm more than slightly attracted, even though she's only young enough to be my mother.
Ferrero Rocher and Mon Cherie might make themselves unavailable in the summertime, allegedly due to the warm weather (like I haven't heard that before...), but ice cream will give you no such cop outs, regardless of the weather. So brighten up these last few chilli pre-equinox nights (or wait until those first chilly spring nights, really) with some lively citrusy frosty delight... E!
Please excuse me while I blow my nose; bit of a cold, here, sorry.
Alright, so, you'll need the following:
- 1 orange;
- 2 limes;
- 600mL of heavy cream;
- 4 tablespoons of sugar-free sweetener (give or take...);
- 1 cup of cat (every recipe calls for it!).
This recipe has two distinct components: the medium component, which is the cream; and the flavouring component, which is just about everything else (except for the cat). Start by combining the zest of the orange and of one of the limes with the sweetener and the juice of the orange and both limes. If you're doing this away from the judgemental eyes of other humans, don't deprive yourself of a whiff of that lovely lime scent, even covening your nose with the dried husk of half a juiced lime like a bizzarro clown, if you'd like. Your cat, however, might not be quite as fond of that particular scent and recoil from it if you let it smell the limes, which only means more to you, really. I find that juicing a zested orange is not as easy as juicing one with it's peel intact, but I can't imagine zesting a floppy hollow skin to be any easier (quite the contrary), but gladly I'll take your input and other opinions. Limes, however, seem to have no such issues (juicing them after they've been zested, I mean). Also, remember that rolling your citruses on a flat, hard surface with the palm of your hand before halving them helps get all the juice out. Stir for a while so the sweetener dissolves in the juice.
Now pour your cream into a large container (2L and up, ideally. You've been warned....) and add the flavourful mix. Remember to stir it again so the zest doesn't gather in the bottom of whatever container you've put it in. The sadistic among you will enjoy this next bit: proceed to beat the subject at hand (that's the cream mixture, not the cat). Mind you, as the juice, being both liquid and acidic, will severely lower the viscosity of the cream, you'll need to start at a low speed, and even so you're bound to get quite a bit of splatter on your sink, on your apron, on the cat and on the side of the microwave. Remember to wipe them afterwards (better yet, wait until the eve of a cleaning to do this). Yet another little tip is to tilt your mixer back and hold a lid closely in front of the actual beaters so it can take the brunt of the splatter.
Stop before you have propper citrusy whipped cream, beat it only to soft peaks (no matter how much it begs you for more, Masters and Mistresses). Then pour your mixture into an airtight sealable container, such as a Tupperware (which pays me nothing to advertise it, so go ahead and use something from any other brand with my blessing) and leave it in the freezer for five hours (although we all know this means overnight, for even better results). Take it out some 15 minutes before you serve or leave it in the fridge for 30 to 40 minutes and enjoy.
This is probably when you'll want to lick the beaters. If you find yourself thinking you should spare some for the cat, remember that cats don't have sweet-perceiving taste buds, usually don't like citruses and are generally lactose intolerant, so there's really nothing in those beaters to impress it. Again, more for you.
If this isn't enough and you just can't have it without some chocolate sauce (you glutton), take a (preferably sugar free) dark chocolate bar of your choice. Make sure it's a high cocoa content chocolate, anything under 70% is unnacceptable. You might like 70% cocoa culinary chocolate, but my favourite, hands down, is Lindt Excelence 99% cocoa chocolate (mind you, it'll knock your teeth out with bitterness). Regardless of the actual chocolate you choose, break it in little pieces and combine it with an equal volume of double cream in a pot (do not weigh the chocolate or the cream; only volume matters here) and stir on a low heat until all the cocolate melts and you're left with a smooth, homogeneous mixture. Remeber, as ther's liquid in the pot, you don't need (or want) a bain-marie. You might want to add some more sweetener before you take your pot to the stove, especially if you go for the more bitter chocolate. I wouldn't. Just saying... And remember to let it cool before you pour over the ice cream.
And there you go, a lively tangy fruity icy treat to enjoy with your friends (if they're good).
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind you that Claymore isn't the only cook around these parts... but probably still the best one.
This is a bit of a variation on a recipe by Mrs. Nigella Lawson, whom I not only admire as a cook, but also to whom I'm more than slightly attracted, even though she's only young enough to be my mother.
Ferrero Rocher and Mon Cherie might make themselves unavailable in the summertime, allegedly due to the warm weather (like I haven't heard that before...), but ice cream will give you no such cop outs, regardless of the weather. So brighten up these last few chilli pre-equinox nights (or wait until those first chilly spring nights, really) with some lively citrusy frosty delight... E!
Please excuse me while I blow my nose; bit of a cold, here, sorry.
Alright, so, you'll need the following:
- 1 orange;
- 2 limes;
- 600mL of heavy cream;
- 4 tablespoons of sugar-free sweetener (give or take...);
- 1 cup of cat (every recipe calls for it!).
This recipe has two distinct components: the medium component, which is the cream; and the flavouring component, which is just about everything else (except for the cat). Start by combining the zest of the orange and of one of the limes with the sweetener and the juice of the orange and both limes. If you're doing this away from the judgemental eyes of other humans, don't deprive yourself of a whiff of that lovely lime scent, even covening your nose with the dried husk of half a juiced lime like a bizzarro clown, if you'd like. Your cat, however, might not be quite as fond of that particular scent and recoil from it if you let it smell the limes, which only means more to you, really. I find that juicing a zested orange is not as easy as juicing one with it's peel intact, but I can't imagine zesting a floppy hollow skin to be any easier (quite the contrary), but gladly I'll take your input and other opinions. Limes, however, seem to have no such issues (juicing them after they've been zested, I mean). Also, remember that rolling your citruses on a flat, hard surface with the palm of your hand before halving them helps get all the juice out. Stir for a while so the sweetener dissolves in the juice.
Now pour your cream into a large container (2L and up, ideally. You've been warned....) and add the flavourful mix. Remember to stir it again so the zest doesn't gather in the bottom of whatever container you've put it in. The sadistic among you will enjoy this next bit: proceed to beat the subject at hand (that's the cream mixture, not the cat). Mind you, as the juice, being both liquid and acidic, will severely lower the viscosity of the cream, you'll need to start at a low speed, and even so you're bound to get quite a bit of splatter on your sink, on your apron, on the cat and on the side of the microwave. Remember to wipe them afterwards (better yet, wait until the eve of a cleaning to do this). Yet another little tip is to tilt your mixer back and hold a lid closely in front of the actual beaters so it can take the brunt of the splatter.
Stop before you have propper citrusy whipped cream, beat it only to soft peaks (no matter how much it begs you for more, Masters and Mistresses). Then pour your mixture into an airtight sealable container, such as a Tupperware (which pays me nothing to advertise it, so go ahead and use something from any other brand with my blessing) and leave it in the freezer for five hours (although we all know this means overnight, for even better results). Take it out some 15 minutes before you serve or leave it in the fridge for 30 to 40 minutes and enjoy.
This is probably when you'll want to lick the beaters. If you find yourself thinking you should spare some for the cat, remember that cats don't have sweet-perceiving taste buds, usually don't like citruses and are generally lactose intolerant, so there's really nothing in those beaters to impress it. Again, more for you.
If this isn't enough and you just can't have it without some chocolate sauce (you glutton), take a (preferably sugar free) dark chocolate bar of your choice. Make sure it's a high cocoa content chocolate, anything under 70% is unnacceptable. You might like 70% cocoa culinary chocolate, but my favourite, hands down, is Lindt Excelence 99% cocoa chocolate (mind you, it'll knock your teeth out with bitterness). Regardless of the actual chocolate you choose, break it in little pieces and combine it with an equal volume of double cream in a pot (do not weigh the chocolate or the cream; only volume matters here) and stir on a low heat until all the cocolate melts and you're left with a smooth, homogeneous mixture. Remeber, as ther's liquid in the pot, you don't need (or want) a bain-marie. You might want to add some more sweetener before you take your pot to the stove, especially if you go for the more bitter chocolate. I wouldn't. Just saying... And remember to let it cool before you pour over the ice cream.
And there you go, a lively tangy fruity icy treat to enjoy with your friends (if they're good).
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind you that Claymore isn't the only cook around these parts... but probably still the best one.
Oobleck is a funny word
As most of you totally serious scientists who regularly come here certainly know, oobleck, which is a saturated solution of cornstarch and water, is a non-newtonian fluid which displays some quite amazing characteristics.
For the totally serious scientist types who regularly come here and do not know what a non-newtonian fluid is (the void is shrinking!), a non-newtonian fluid is one which displays varying degrees of viscosity at any given temperature depending on the force that is being exerted upon it. In this case, you might be able to run on the surface of oobleck, but not walk. This is because, as you run, the force at which your feet strike the surface is usually enough to make it so viscous it will seem nearly solid. In fact, it might not even break up the surface tension, leaving you dry after running across a body of liquid, but, as you walk, the force of your calm, slow steps is much slower, and you might sink. Tragically (oh noes!), as you struggle to break free of the vicious - sorry, viscous - Oobleck (what, is a great name for a monster!), the force of your squirming might make it viscous enough to trap you, just like quicksand is rumored to behave.
On the smaller, lighter scale, you can so dome neat things, such as pouring a little on the cupped palm of your hand. It will feel and slosh about like a liquid (which it is), but the moment you try to roll it up into a little ball like you might do with silly putty or modelling clay, it will take a shape - until you stop rolling it, that is, at which point it will instantly revert to oozing out of your hands like light honey. You can also make it bounce off walls and floors - so long as you don't even consider enlisting my services or even my help to clean up after your science (fluid dynamics is, after all, a branch of physics, and, thus, totally serious science).
Here's a recepy for disaster: mix up a batch of oobleck. If you don't know how, then I'm fining you in one free internet, to be collected at my lesiure, but, out of the kindness of my heart, allow me to explain: pour about half a cup of cornstarch into a bowl and add just a little water. Stir slowly. At first, you'll get nothing but hard clumps, and nothing even remotely similar to a fluid, newtonian or otherwise. Preservere, and resist the tentation to add more water right away, but go on and add small amounts from time to time, stirring all the way as you go. Eventually, you might get a runny liquid you have absolutely no trouble at all stirring. That's when you know you've added too much water. No problem, just keep adding more cornstarch until you have a coveted non-newtonian fluid. You'll know you're there when it feels like you're breaking up clumps of the flour in the bottom of the bowl (as the resulting liquid will me a milky beige, you won't be able to confirm or deny the presence of said clumps by sight) if you stir as you'd usually do, but you'll feel no such resistance if ou stir very slowly. Alternatively, you might want to stir with your fingers. This will give you a much more accurate feeling for clumps or lack thereof, and some might find it more fun, but it's a bit messier. At this point, quickly strike the surface of the liquid. If you're at the right point, it should bend, but not allow the striking object (spoon, whisk, finger) to penetrate as easily as a regular liquid (or, as totally serious scinetist would call it, a newtonian fluid) would. If not, keep adding more cornstarch and stirring.
Now, let's make something a bit more fun: get some balloons and put them inside one another like a Matrioska (which, in case you don't know, is a hollow doll which you can open at the waist to reveal a smaller version of itself which contains yet a smaller version of it self and so on a few times. Even though these are most commonly associated with Russia, I distinctly recall reading somewhere that they are originally Indian, but so popular in Russia that they would be commonly know as typically Russian. I won't swear by this). Now fill the innermost ballon with the oobleck you just made. If you want a small finished product (about the size of an uninflated balloon), just pouring the goo inside with a funnel will do, but that's hardly any fun. Instead, pour as much as you want inside the balloons into an empty bottle. then blow some ait into the innermost balloon and clamp the neck as low as you can with a clothespin or something to that effect. Carefully stretch the unclamped portion of the neck over the neck of the loaded bottle and secure it with your fingers and thumb, just to be on the safe side. Unclamp the balloon, turn the bottle upside down and wait until all of the oobleck has poured into the balloon. As the air will have to bubble through the (slowly) oozing goop, this will take a little while. Then tie off the innermost balloon and cut off the excess rubber above the knot. SO this for all of the other balloons and presto, a dirt cheap stress ball. This fun little thing will feel very soft if you squeeze it slowly and gentrly, but if you squeeze it quickly and hard, you'll feel it harden against your fingers and very slowly brwak under the pressure.
Note: The most lonely of the totally serious science types who regularly come here should note that this is a poor substitute for a woman's berast. Try this instead.
And now, the disaster: Before I perfected the process of making these little stress balls, I had a balloon with over half a pint of oobleck burst over a shag rug. As I finished panicking, I realised I couldn't just hold it over my tub and rinse it off, as this mixture will percipitate if left undisturbed for long, and clog up your pipes. Always dispose of it in plastic, sealed bags. Then I remembered I should just pick up the rug and pour the oobleck into a large bowl to re-use it. That's when I found out about a property of oobleck I didn't know about: if left undisturbed for even a minute, it will gain a nearly solid skin. I found out about this as it wouldn't ooze into the bowl, and when I touched it, it had about the same consistency as cake icing, but it "melted" into its more familiar texture as soon as I broke off the little pieces.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is considering the possibility of brewing up some hand analogues from unflavoures, unsweetened gelatin and latex gloves for casts.
For the totally serious scientist types who regularly come here and do not know what a non-newtonian fluid is (the void is shrinking!), a non-newtonian fluid is one which displays varying degrees of viscosity at any given temperature depending on the force that is being exerted upon it. In this case, you might be able to run on the surface of oobleck, but not walk. This is because, as you run, the force at which your feet strike the surface is usually enough to make it so viscous it will seem nearly solid. In fact, it might not even break up the surface tension, leaving you dry after running across a body of liquid, but, as you walk, the force of your calm, slow steps is much slower, and you might sink. Tragically (oh noes!), as you struggle to break free of the vicious - sorry, viscous - Oobleck (what, is a great name for a monster!), the force of your squirming might make it viscous enough to trap you, just like quicksand is rumored to behave.
On the smaller, lighter scale, you can so dome neat things, such as pouring a little on the cupped palm of your hand. It will feel and slosh about like a liquid (which it is), but the moment you try to roll it up into a little ball like you might do with silly putty or modelling clay, it will take a shape - until you stop rolling it, that is, at which point it will instantly revert to oozing out of your hands like light honey. You can also make it bounce off walls and floors - so long as you don't even consider enlisting my services or even my help to clean up after your science (fluid dynamics is, after all, a branch of physics, and, thus, totally serious science).
Here's a recepy for disaster: mix up a batch of oobleck. If you don't know how, then I'm fining you in one free internet, to be collected at my lesiure, but, out of the kindness of my heart, allow me to explain: pour about half a cup of cornstarch into a bowl and add just a little water. Stir slowly. At first, you'll get nothing but hard clumps, and nothing even remotely similar to a fluid, newtonian or otherwise. Preservere, and resist the tentation to add more water right away, but go on and add small amounts from time to time, stirring all the way as you go. Eventually, you might get a runny liquid you have absolutely no trouble at all stirring. That's when you know you've added too much water. No problem, just keep adding more cornstarch until you have a coveted non-newtonian fluid. You'll know you're there when it feels like you're breaking up clumps of the flour in the bottom of the bowl (as the resulting liquid will me a milky beige, you won't be able to confirm or deny the presence of said clumps by sight) if you stir as you'd usually do, but you'll feel no such resistance if ou stir very slowly. Alternatively, you might want to stir with your fingers. This will give you a much more accurate feeling for clumps or lack thereof, and some might find it more fun, but it's a bit messier. At this point, quickly strike the surface of the liquid. If you're at the right point, it should bend, but not allow the striking object (spoon, whisk, finger) to penetrate as easily as a regular liquid (or, as totally serious scinetist would call it, a newtonian fluid) would. If not, keep adding more cornstarch and stirring.
Now, let's make something a bit more fun: get some balloons and put them inside one another like a Matrioska (which, in case you don't know, is a hollow doll which you can open at the waist to reveal a smaller version of itself which contains yet a smaller version of it self and so on a few times. Even though these are most commonly associated with Russia, I distinctly recall reading somewhere that they are originally Indian, but so popular in Russia that they would be commonly know as typically Russian. I won't swear by this). Now fill the innermost ballon with the oobleck you just made. If you want a small finished product (about the size of an uninflated balloon), just pouring the goo inside with a funnel will do, but that's hardly any fun. Instead, pour as much as you want inside the balloons into an empty bottle. then blow some ait into the innermost balloon and clamp the neck as low as you can with a clothespin or something to that effect. Carefully stretch the unclamped portion of the neck over the neck of the loaded bottle and secure it with your fingers and thumb, just to be on the safe side. Unclamp the balloon, turn the bottle upside down and wait until all of the oobleck has poured into the balloon. As the air will have to bubble through the (slowly) oozing goop, this will take a little while. Then tie off the innermost balloon and cut off the excess rubber above the knot. SO this for all of the other balloons and presto, a dirt cheap stress ball. This fun little thing will feel very soft if you squeeze it slowly and gentrly, but if you squeeze it quickly and hard, you'll feel it harden against your fingers and very slowly brwak under the pressure.
Note: The most lonely of the totally serious science types who regularly come here should note that this is a poor substitute for a woman's berast. Try this instead.
And now, the disaster: Before I perfected the process of making these little stress balls, I had a balloon with over half a pint of oobleck burst over a shag rug. As I finished panicking, I realised I couldn't just hold it over my tub and rinse it off, as this mixture will percipitate if left undisturbed for long, and clog up your pipes. Always dispose of it in plastic, sealed bags. Then I remembered I should just pick up the rug and pour the oobleck into a large bowl to re-use it. That's when I found out about a property of oobleck I didn't know about: if left undisturbed for even a minute, it will gain a nearly solid skin. I found out about this as it wouldn't ooze into the bowl, and when I touched it, it had about the same consistency as cake icing, but it "melted" into its more familiar texture as soon as I broke off the little pieces.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is considering the possibility of brewing up some hand analogues from unflavoures, unsweetened gelatin and latex gloves for casts.
An evil which resides
On a seemingly unrelated note, "Hot Fuzz" is a delightful British comedy, titles so as to parody film titles that read and sound appealing, yet are somewhat meaningles (e. g., "Die Hard". How hard can one die? How soft can one die, for that matter? Is the hardness of one's death a means to gauge the likeliness of his or her ressurection?).
Resident Evil seems to be one such title. Apparentely, in Japan, where it was originally made, it was known as Biohazzard, which, from what little I gather of the story of the original game, seems to be a more adequate title. After all, what is a "resident evil"? Or, for that matter, how can can (an) evil (not) reside? Or does that mean that this particular evil is confined to its place of residence, and is therefore of no consequence to the rest of the world? Really, why didn't they just call it Biohazzard?
Enough with that. Resident Evil 5 is an action game for multiple platforms that's been out for quite a while, and so it's about time I reviewed it. Now, Yahtzee has already reviewed it, so you may think my review is just about pointless, but he did it so long ago now that you might like a little refresher course.
Fans of the Resident Evil storyline have an opinion about this game. I, however, haven't got the foggiest idea what said opinion would be, seeing as I have never really liked a resident evil game myself. Now there's something to be said in the interest of fairness: what I mean to say is that I didn't like the original Resident Evil and the following two were more of the same, or so I was told, even though I didn't play them myself. Resident Evil 4 I have never played or seen in action, nor have I had the desire to, but the moment I caught a glimpse of "5" I wanted to try it out myself. It might have been the online co-operative campaign mode I've been wishing for for so long and which was only nearly done properly in Red Alert 3 (nearly!). Or it might have been the superb graphics. What definitely wasn't it was the quick time events. So far, I have only seen QTEs done right once, and it was in The Force: Unleashed. One of ther reasons why they were done right was that they were entirely optional, rewarded the player for doing them, punished the player for failing them, but not for not even attempting them, which is dramatically different than "Repeateddly tap the "F" key during a cutscene or it'll start over again and we will lower your score", or, as Yahtzee so eloquentely put it, "Press X not to die". There's one thing they could have done without.
Back to the praise track, then. There is something a little odd about the gunplay in this game, and that is the ready weapon stance. Simply put, a player cannot use any weapon unless they "ready" the weapon first. This sounds standard enough, as one might confuse "ready" with "equip", but the fact of the matter is players cannot move (although they can turn around and aim) whilst "readying" a weapon, meaning no fancy running while shooting, let alone jumping while shooting. This feels odd at first, as I said, but it works like a bit of an equaliser, as it negates the obvious advantages of gun totting experts over clumsy newbies picking up their first Kalashnikov. Unfortunately, it makes the game a bit overly easy, even for clumsy newbies picking up their first Kalashnikov such as myself. The it tries to correct itself by making itself difficult in other aspects, and the illusion of balance versus the reality of the absence thereof eventually ruins their day. One of the difficulty adding aspects is the very small inventory: you're only allowed nine (9) spaces. Some kinds of items stack, whereas others don't, which breaks down the immersion a bit, especially regarding what items stack and how. For example, grenades stack, and you can carry up to five of any one type in a single space. Herbs, however, don't stack, and you can carry oly one per space. Eggs also stack (of course there are eggs in the game! What kind of shooter hasn't got eggs in it?), also five per space, which brings the question that an egg either has the same volume or the same mass or the same bounding box than a grenade, which is borderline believable, especially if you've never held or seen a grenade (or an egg, I suppose), but then the same could be said of proximity land mines, and that concept is utterly bonkers. You have none little (or no so little) pockets in your vest, each large enough to fit five landmines (or one RPG-7 rocket launcher. Which is just as large, just as heavy and has the same general shape as five mines. Or a handgun. It all makes sense), but not two herbs. Also, each of those pockets can hold 150 rounds for you AK-74, but only 12 for your magnum revovler. OK, sure, the magnum is a very high calibre, but no way each round is over ten times as large as that of an AK-74.
Now I'd like to take the time to bring to your attention how the Molle system works. The Molle system, adopted by just about all major ballistic armour vests manufacturers, consists of a series of paralell strips of nylon cloth apart from each other by their own width. The purpose of this pattern is that if the same pattern is present on the surface of, say, a pouch, then, with as little as a perpendicular strip of either cloth or some other stifer, sturdier material, said pouch can be attatched to your body armour, meaning that you can carry more stuff when you're wearing your bulletproof vest than otherwise. Unless you're playing Resindet Evil 5, where there are two kinds of body armour, which you can use simultaneously, but each one takes up a whole space in your inventory.
Then there's the rpoblem of ammunition. Some weapons (I should say some weapon classes) are more efficient, ammunition-wide, than others. This means thatfive well placed rounds from your shotgun can fo a whole lot more damage than twice as many from your machine gun, which is why you can carry so much more machine gun ammo than shotgun shells, but it doesn't really matter, as the game is, in the beginning, surprisingly frugal with ammunition, hanging you out to dry shooting blanks in hopes of scaring off the enemy more times than you'd like. One contributing factor is that the game gives you ammunition types in complete disregard (I should say, in utter contempt) for what weapons you are carrying at the time, meaning that if you decide to carry only one or two guns, most of the ammo you pick up can't be used. Of course you could stock up on it until you get a chance to change weapons, but until then, not only are you wasting your precious inventory slots but also you still don't have ammo for the guns you do have with you. Later in the game that becomes less of a problem, but, by then, one is usually used to carry two or three different guns, which meas at least four to six inventory slots taken by the very simple funtion of shooting the baddies and very little space for utility items, such as healing items, grenades or eggs. For the second and following playthroughs, the game allows you to bless any weapon with unlimited ammo (which you don't have to carry), which does solve the frugality problem, at the cost of not only rather simplifying the game but also making most items found lying around or dropped by slain enemies utterly useless.
It has been said that a great many shooter games made nowadays have RPG elements built into them on e way or another, and RE5 is no exception, only it does so discreetely, allowing you to upgrade your weapons. Care should be taken to mention that said upgrades are made to a gun's exemplar, not a class of guns or even a model of guns, meaning that any upgrades you make to yuor AK-74 stay with that AK-74, but won't reflect on any other AK-74 or any other machine gun, for that matter. These upgrades are paramount to allowing said weapon to discard it's eed for ammo, and they do raise a rather curious issue: the very first handgun you're given, at the begiining of the game, has a magazine capacity of 10 rounds. After you fully upgrade it, it doesn't really matter what capacity it has, as you can then have it old infinity plus one rounds and never have to reload again, but if you don't, it holds 100 rounds. Bear in mind that outside of your gun, each space in your inventory can only hold 50 handgun rounds. Do the figures seem off to you?
One major hoof of this game, as something that has scarcely ever been done in games, cinema or even television, is pairing the muscle bound war veteran action hero (which is, as usual, Chris Redfield) with an attractive, yet stron willed and able bodied female sidekick, who is just as capable as the hero (admit it, you smelled the sacrasm coming); enter Sheva Alomar. Some praise is in order: The character is, indeed, very attractive, just as capable as the "hero man" in every way and gifted with just as many (or should I say as few) inventory slots (but didn't Jill Valentine use to have two extra inventory spaces in the first Resident Evil? Something to do with bulky pouches she wore on her chest...). Sheva is able to wield the same weapons as effectively as Chris, except fo the character exclusive weapons, to which she has a counterpart. Sheva is an integral part of the gameplay, not only because she is there to be taken over by another player in friendly co-op play, but also becase you'll be using her as a pack mule for all the items you only might need when you're playing offline. On the side of fairness, SHeva becomes available to be played as once you play through the game once, allowing you to use Chris as a pack mule. Some dissimilarities exist, namely some sections require Chris to give Sheva a leg up to accomplish otherwise unthikable leaps, effectively baring the "hero man" from some areas of the game, but other than that, equalitarism had it's way with both characters to such great extent that they feel interchangable, if not for the fact that they appeal to different audiences on different levels (for the most part) and that the camera angle is abive Chris's right shoulder, as opposed to Sheva's left shoulder. In the end, it becomes a matter of where you like your camera, as neither character has any advantage of any sort over the other in any way. PC, but boring.
Another element common to RPGs and Shooters alike is the concept of enemy drops. For as long as there have been Shooters there has been the notion of scavenging weapons and ammunitions from your defeated foes and emply them as your own. Except, for the most part, these foes are african peasents armed with either spears, machettes or nothing at all, which doesn't sit very well on the barrel of your guns, meaning the odd ammunition drop from the tribal warrior feels a bit strange, but the random bits of gold they drop every now and again fit the theme well enough. Although that doesn't explain why some enemies drop large heart-shaped gems when they are vanquished.
The story probably makes a lot more sense to the die-hard fans of the series, and I will neither spoil it nor force it on you by trying to recount it or summarise it, but it's there and it's enjoyable enough, especially the way it is told by documents you might pick up and read throughout the many levels (or not, if that's not your cup of tea, there's nothing to be lost by skipping them).
There's a bit of a collectionistic/completionistic aspect of this game, as there is treasure to be found in the form of gems and artefacts, which can be sold to upgrade your weapons or buy new ones.
On the whole, I like this game, I like it enough to play through it more than once in the same day (it is a bit short, i suppose. It can comfortably be finished in under seven hours, and there is a reward for players who finish it in less than five), especially as it is interesting how even with overpowered, inexhautible weapons, some enemies don't seem to lose their challenge, but the ones that do provide a bit of mindless fun, being helplessly shot at without even as much of a hint of a prayer. A negative note should be issued for a rather out of place puzzle sequence, which I felt didn't really go with the overall feel of the game, and, paradoxically, a positive note should be issued for the way many boss fights combine mindless shooter-style action with a bit of puzzle play. In the end. I award it eight out of a possible ten thumbs up (I'm all thumbs, me).
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is available for online co-op play of this Capcom title. Drop me a line if you're interested.
Resident Evil seems to be one such title. Apparentely, in Japan, where it was originally made, it was known as Biohazzard, which, from what little I gather of the story of the original game, seems to be a more adequate title. After all, what is a "resident evil"? Or, for that matter, how can can (an) evil (not) reside? Or does that mean that this particular evil is confined to its place of residence, and is therefore of no consequence to the rest of the world? Really, why didn't they just call it Biohazzard?
Enough with that. Resident Evil 5 is an action game for multiple platforms that's been out for quite a while, and so it's about time I reviewed it. Now, Yahtzee has already reviewed it, so you may think my review is just about pointless, but he did it so long ago now that you might like a little refresher course.
Fans of the Resident Evil storyline have an opinion about this game. I, however, haven't got the foggiest idea what said opinion would be, seeing as I have never really liked a resident evil game myself. Now there's something to be said in the interest of fairness: what I mean to say is that I didn't like the original Resident Evil and the following two were more of the same, or so I was told, even though I didn't play them myself. Resident Evil 4 I have never played or seen in action, nor have I had the desire to, but the moment I caught a glimpse of "5" I wanted to try it out myself. It might have been the online co-operative campaign mode I've been wishing for for so long and which was only nearly done properly in Red Alert 3 (nearly!). Or it might have been the superb graphics. What definitely wasn't it was the quick time events. So far, I have only seen QTEs done right once, and it was in The Force: Unleashed. One of ther reasons why they were done right was that they were entirely optional, rewarded the player for doing them, punished the player for failing them, but not for not even attempting them, which is dramatically different than "Repeateddly tap the "F" key during a cutscene or it'll start over again and we will lower your score", or, as Yahtzee so eloquentely put it, "Press X not to die". There's one thing they could have done without.
Back to the praise track, then. There is something a little odd about the gunplay in this game, and that is the ready weapon stance. Simply put, a player cannot use any weapon unless they "ready" the weapon first. This sounds standard enough, as one might confuse "ready" with "equip", but the fact of the matter is players cannot move (although they can turn around and aim) whilst "readying" a weapon, meaning no fancy running while shooting, let alone jumping while shooting. This feels odd at first, as I said, but it works like a bit of an equaliser, as it negates the obvious advantages of gun totting experts over clumsy newbies picking up their first Kalashnikov. Unfortunately, it makes the game a bit overly easy, even for clumsy newbies picking up their first Kalashnikov such as myself. The it tries to correct itself by making itself difficult in other aspects, and the illusion of balance versus the reality of the absence thereof eventually ruins their day. One of the difficulty adding aspects is the very small inventory: you're only allowed nine (9) spaces. Some kinds of items stack, whereas others don't, which breaks down the immersion a bit, especially regarding what items stack and how. For example, grenades stack, and you can carry up to five of any one type in a single space. Herbs, however, don't stack, and you can carry oly one per space. Eggs also stack (of course there are eggs in the game! What kind of shooter hasn't got eggs in it?), also five per space, which brings the question that an egg either has the same volume or the same mass or the same bounding box than a grenade, which is borderline believable, especially if you've never held or seen a grenade (or an egg, I suppose), but then the same could be said of proximity land mines, and that concept is utterly bonkers. You have none little (or no so little) pockets in your vest, each large enough to fit five landmines (or one RPG-7 rocket launcher. Which is just as large, just as heavy and has the same general shape as five mines. Or a handgun. It all makes sense), but not two herbs. Also, each of those pockets can hold 150 rounds for you AK-74, but only 12 for your magnum revovler. OK, sure, the magnum is a very high calibre, but no way each round is over ten times as large as that of an AK-74.
Now I'd like to take the time to bring to your attention how the Molle system works. The Molle system, adopted by just about all major ballistic armour vests manufacturers, consists of a series of paralell strips of nylon cloth apart from each other by their own width. The purpose of this pattern is that if the same pattern is present on the surface of, say, a pouch, then, with as little as a perpendicular strip of either cloth or some other stifer, sturdier material, said pouch can be attatched to your body armour, meaning that you can carry more stuff when you're wearing your bulletproof vest than otherwise. Unless you're playing Resindet Evil 5, where there are two kinds of body armour, which you can use simultaneously, but each one takes up a whole space in your inventory.
Then there's the rpoblem of ammunition. Some weapons (I should say some weapon classes) are more efficient, ammunition-wide, than others. This means thatfive well placed rounds from your shotgun can fo a whole lot more damage than twice as many from your machine gun, which is why you can carry so much more machine gun ammo than shotgun shells, but it doesn't really matter, as the game is, in the beginning, surprisingly frugal with ammunition, hanging you out to dry shooting blanks in hopes of scaring off the enemy more times than you'd like. One contributing factor is that the game gives you ammunition types in complete disregard (I should say, in utter contempt) for what weapons you are carrying at the time, meaning that if you decide to carry only one or two guns, most of the ammo you pick up can't be used. Of course you could stock up on it until you get a chance to change weapons, but until then, not only are you wasting your precious inventory slots but also you still don't have ammo for the guns you do have with you. Later in the game that becomes less of a problem, but, by then, one is usually used to carry two or three different guns, which meas at least four to six inventory slots taken by the very simple funtion of shooting the baddies and very little space for utility items, such as healing items, grenades or eggs. For the second and following playthroughs, the game allows you to bless any weapon with unlimited ammo (which you don't have to carry), which does solve the frugality problem, at the cost of not only rather simplifying the game but also making most items found lying around or dropped by slain enemies utterly useless.
It has been said that a great many shooter games made nowadays have RPG elements built into them on e way or another, and RE5 is no exception, only it does so discreetely, allowing you to upgrade your weapons. Care should be taken to mention that said upgrades are made to a gun's exemplar, not a class of guns or even a model of guns, meaning that any upgrades you make to yuor AK-74 stay with that AK-74, but won't reflect on any other AK-74 or any other machine gun, for that matter. These upgrades are paramount to allowing said weapon to discard it's eed for ammo, and they do raise a rather curious issue: the very first handgun you're given, at the begiining of the game, has a magazine capacity of 10 rounds. After you fully upgrade it, it doesn't really matter what capacity it has, as you can then have it old infinity plus one rounds and never have to reload again, but if you don't, it holds 100 rounds. Bear in mind that outside of your gun, each space in your inventory can only hold 50 handgun rounds. Do the figures seem off to you?
One major hoof of this game, as something that has scarcely ever been done in games, cinema or even television, is pairing the muscle bound war veteran action hero (which is, as usual, Chris Redfield) with an attractive, yet stron willed and able bodied female sidekick, who is just as capable as the hero (admit it, you smelled the sacrasm coming); enter Sheva Alomar. Some praise is in order: The character is, indeed, very attractive, just as capable as the "hero man" in every way and gifted with just as many (or should I say as few) inventory slots (but didn't Jill Valentine use to have two extra inventory spaces in the first Resident Evil? Something to do with bulky pouches she wore on her chest...). Sheva is able to wield the same weapons as effectively as Chris, except fo the character exclusive weapons, to which she has a counterpart. Sheva is an integral part of the gameplay, not only because she is there to be taken over by another player in friendly co-op play, but also becase you'll be using her as a pack mule for all the items you only might need when you're playing offline. On the side of fairness, SHeva becomes available to be played as once you play through the game once, allowing you to use Chris as a pack mule. Some dissimilarities exist, namely some sections require Chris to give Sheva a leg up to accomplish otherwise unthikable leaps, effectively baring the "hero man" from some areas of the game, but other than that, equalitarism had it's way with both characters to such great extent that they feel interchangable, if not for the fact that they appeal to different audiences on different levels (for the most part) and that the camera angle is abive Chris's right shoulder, as opposed to Sheva's left shoulder. In the end, it becomes a matter of where you like your camera, as neither character has any advantage of any sort over the other in any way. PC, but boring.
Another element common to RPGs and Shooters alike is the concept of enemy drops. For as long as there have been Shooters there has been the notion of scavenging weapons and ammunitions from your defeated foes and emply them as your own. Except, for the most part, these foes are african peasents armed with either spears, machettes or nothing at all, which doesn't sit very well on the barrel of your guns, meaning the odd ammunition drop from the tribal warrior feels a bit strange, but the random bits of gold they drop every now and again fit the theme well enough. Although that doesn't explain why some enemies drop large heart-shaped gems when they are vanquished.
The story probably makes a lot more sense to the die-hard fans of the series, and I will neither spoil it nor force it on you by trying to recount it or summarise it, but it's there and it's enjoyable enough, especially the way it is told by documents you might pick up and read throughout the many levels (or not, if that's not your cup of tea, there's nothing to be lost by skipping them).
There's a bit of a collectionistic/completionistic aspect of this game, as there is treasure to be found in the form of gems and artefacts, which can be sold to upgrade your weapons or buy new ones.
On the whole, I like this game, I like it enough to play through it more than once in the same day (it is a bit short, i suppose. It can comfortably be finished in under seven hours, and there is a reward for players who finish it in less than five), especially as it is interesting how even with overpowered, inexhautible weapons, some enemies don't seem to lose their challenge, but the ones that do provide a bit of mindless fun, being helplessly shot at without even as much of a hint of a prayer. A negative note should be issued for a rather out of place puzzle sequence, which I felt didn't really go with the overall feel of the game, and, paradoxically, a positive note should be issued for the way many boss fights combine mindless shooter-style action with a bit of puzzle play. In the end. I award it eight out of a possible ten thumbs up (I'm all thumbs, me).
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is available for online co-op play of this Capcom title. Drop me a line if you're interested.
Spare some butter?
A funny thing happened today. I had gotten a 7 oz. bar of sugar free cooking chocolate, which my mother occasionally eats (even though I find it a bit bitter, but still...), and it came with a recepie for chocolate mousse on the wrapper. Now, ever since (well, not ever, but thereabouts) I started doing my Atkins, I have been improvising chocolate mousse recepies, with only whipped cream, nolten 99% cocoa chocolate (painfully bitter stuff, let me tell you) and sugar free sweetener. This time, I set myself up to do an actual mousse. You know, with eggs and all.
Now I could bore you with how I dropped the ball with the egg whites and ended up beating them almost one at a time and piling them on a soup plate (which only worked so well... but still, pretty well) or how I deftly managed to separate the whites from the yolks (bachelor stereotypes... yes, we can cook), but the funny thing is even though I had gone to the market with the specific intent to get the ingredients, I still managed to forget the butter. I couldn't be bothered to go back, so I remebered I could just mooch off my new next door neighbour. And so I did.
I rang on her bell even as I heard her clean up after her late supper and heard the little metal cover on the peep hole slide as she peeked out. I wonder how good those are, as they are placed even below my chin. Eventually, she asks "Who's there?", and I answer, as kindly as I can make myself sound, "I'm your next door neighbour". Picture my amazement when she says "Look, I don't know you, so I'm not going to open the door". Well, alright, it's her perrogative, and she was just being cautious, I won't hold it against her. She even asked, just after a short beat, while I pondered exactly what to say next, "What would you like?". As I apologised for bothering her at such a late hour (nearly half past ten) and asked if I could have just a spoonful of butter as politely as I could word it, she excused herself, saying she didn't have any. Fair enough. After all, I didn't have any myself.
The surreality come asbit further ahead. Having been turned down, I thought I'd ask the neighbours from across the hallway for the needed butter. I don't really know them any better, but I hadspoken to them before, and knew them to be kind people. Again, she looked out the peephole (another funny tidbit. The first time I knocked on their door, it was in the daytime and she didn't look out the peephole. Just as she saw me, she nearly jumped back with fright. I have that effect on the ladies. I wished I could turn it off...), recognised me and opened the door... slightly. Again, I apologised and asked for the butter just as politely as before, and she was kind enough to oblige. While she went to the kitchen to fetch the stick of butter, the other neighbour, having probably stood by the door to listen out for me laving or lingering by, opened the door to see if I was true to my words or if I had managed to snag an unsuspecting victim after all (of course, I'm speculating a bit here). Looking at me from behind, with a cup in my hand and waiting for the other neighbour to return from her kitchen, she realised she had nothing to fear from me (yet...) and proceeded to apologise for her overzealousness and explained that, through the peephole, I appeared fuzzy and looked like an elderly man. At any rate, she really was out of butter, she said. She further explained that, having never seen an elderly man on this floor, she was afraid to open the door.
OK, let's just check out facts for a minute. First of all, I'm not even anywhere near my thirties, yet I looked to her like an elderly man!? Am I aging that fast? Sure, my hair is thinning on top and my spine isn't what it used to be (what with the hernias and all), but come on! She can't have even noticed that (literally. She's not tall enough to have seen the top of my head and unless she's related to Kal-El, she couldn't have seen my spine). Another thing is, there's not that many people living on this floor. There's me, her, the couple across the hallway and a vacant apartment. She had never seen me before, but I expect she would have seen the neighbour across the hallway (the man, I mean). Would this mean that any seemingly young adult, in spite of his evetual murderous or otherwise nefarious intent could have sold her my (truthful, in my case) tale, but me, because I don't seem to look my age, arise hers suspicion... Oh, well, I had been having a pretty boring day.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has lost as much weight as he had set himself to at first, but I now realise that I had been compromising and that I might actually make it to my ideal weight. I'm at a bit of a crossroad in my lief right now...
Now I could bore you with how I dropped the ball with the egg whites and ended up beating them almost one at a time and piling them on a soup plate (which only worked so well... but still, pretty well) or how I deftly managed to separate the whites from the yolks (bachelor stereotypes... yes, we can cook), but the funny thing is even though I had gone to the market with the specific intent to get the ingredients, I still managed to forget the butter. I couldn't be bothered to go back, so I remebered I could just mooch off my new next door neighbour. And so I did.
I rang on her bell even as I heard her clean up after her late supper and heard the little metal cover on the peep hole slide as she peeked out. I wonder how good those are, as they are placed even below my chin. Eventually, she asks "Who's there?", and I answer, as kindly as I can make myself sound, "I'm your next door neighbour". Picture my amazement when she says "Look, I don't know you, so I'm not going to open the door". Well, alright, it's her perrogative, and she was just being cautious, I won't hold it against her. She even asked, just after a short beat, while I pondered exactly what to say next, "What would you like?". As I apologised for bothering her at such a late hour (nearly half past ten) and asked if I could have just a spoonful of butter as politely as I could word it, she excused herself, saying she didn't have any. Fair enough. After all, I didn't have any myself.
The surreality come asbit further ahead. Having been turned down, I thought I'd ask the neighbours from across the hallway for the needed butter. I don't really know them any better, but I hadspoken to them before, and knew them to be kind people. Again, she looked out the peephole (another funny tidbit. The first time I knocked on their door, it was in the daytime and she didn't look out the peephole. Just as she saw me, she nearly jumped back with fright. I have that effect on the ladies. I wished I could turn it off...), recognised me and opened the door... slightly. Again, I apologised and asked for the butter just as politely as before, and she was kind enough to oblige. While she went to the kitchen to fetch the stick of butter, the other neighbour, having probably stood by the door to listen out for me laving or lingering by, opened the door to see if I was true to my words or if I had managed to snag an unsuspecting victim after all (of course, I'm speculating a bit here). Looking at me from behind, with a cup in my hand and waiting for the other neighbour to return from her kitchen, she realised she had nothing to fear from me (yet...) and proceeded to apologise for her overzealousness and explained that, through the peephole, I appeared fuzzy and looked like an elderly man. At any rate, she really was out of butter, she said. She further explained that, having never seen an elderly man on this floor, she was afraid to open the door.
OK, let's just check out facts for a minute. First of all, I'm not even anywhere near my thirties, yet I looked to her like an elderly man!? Am I aging that fast? Sure, my hair is thinning on top and my spine isn't what it used to be (what with the hernias and all), but come on! She can't have even noticed that (literally. She's not tall enough to have seen the top of my head and unless she's related to Kal-El, she couldn't have seen my spine). Another thing is, there's not that many people living on this floor. There's me, her, the couple across the hallway and a vacant apartment. She had never seen me before, but I expect she would have seen the neighbour across the hallway (the man, I mean). Would this mean that any seemingly young adult, in spite of his evetual murderous or otherwise nefarious intent could have sold her my (truthful, in my case) tale, but me, because I don't seem to look my age, arise hers suspicion... Oh, well, I had been having a pretty boring day.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has lost as much weight as he had set himself to at first, but I now realise that I had been compromising and that I might actually make it to my ideal weight. I'm at a bit of a crossroad in my lief right now...
Eighteen Years Ago
Eighteen years ago today, in the early morning, I wrote, with very very trembly hands, in inordinately large letters, in cursive script (perhaps for the first time), on the large top line of an A5 sheet of paper, the date: September 17th 1991. And thus began my very first day in school.
Today, my education is a minor no more. It may now legally enjoy alcohol, cigarettes and sex. It may also stand trial as an adult (and I'd like it judged for a few shorcomings, too).
Eighteen years is a quite a while. I really should consider a career change.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark remembers a mixture of joy and anxiety from his first day of school. Also the buckle on my backpack was very hard to unclasp for my infant fingers. It has been a long time indeed.
Today, my education is a minor no more. It may now legally enjoy alcohol, cigarettes and sex. It may also stand trial as an adult (and I'd like it judged for a few shorcomings, too).
Eighteen years is a quite a while. I really should consider a career change.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark remembers a mixture of joy and anxiety from his first day of school. Also the buckle on my backpack was very hard to unclasp for my infant fingers. It has been a long time indeed.
Assumption
I don't want to talk about Fate anymore. Let her rot in some corner - far away from me. But no so far that it'll disturb the Aussies or the Kiwis, I've no beef with them. Send her to, oh say, France? Onwards...
Assumption, unlike Fate, who goes as a harsh mistress, is more of a deceitful little minx, one I just can't stay mad at. More often she's naughtier than she's nice, the little rascal, but she's an alright gal.
Today she might have done me quite a favour. Thank you, Assumption, dearest. Kick your colleague fate in the chin when you see her for me, if you will, and don't be a stranger.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is well aware that Fate isn't done taunting him, but, at this stage, it's manageable enough.
Assumption, unlike Fate, who goes as a harsh mistress, is more of a deceitful little minx, one I just can't stay mad at. More often she's naughtier than she's nice, the little rascal, but she's an alright gal.
Today she might have done me quite a favour. Thank you, Assumption, dearest. Kick your colleague fate in the chin when you see her for me, if you will, and don't be a stranger.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is well aware that Fate isn't done taunting him, but, at this stage, it's manageable enough.
Well, now...
Just when I thought I was finally getting on with my old whole self, our good friend fiend Fate throws yet another spanner in my gears.
Come on, can't I just have one year for myself without you stepping onto my already rather frail balance and mucking it all up? One measly year? Is it too much to ask, Fate?
And don't expect to be excused by that flimsy attempt at would-be Greek tragedy style you're flaunting right about now. You suck at it.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is rather outraged at how Fate would corrupt and pervert a very much selfless act of his to wound him yet again. So this is what I get for being nice!? Naughty time draws ever closer, then.
Come on, can't I just have one year for myself without you stepping onto my already rather frail balance and mucking it all up? One measly year? Is it too much to ask, Fate?
And don't expect to be excused by that flimsy attempt at would-be Greek tragedy style you're flaunting right about now. You suck at it.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is rather outraged at how Fate would corrupt and pervert a very much selfless act of his to wound him yet again. So this is what I get for being nice!? Naughty time draws ever closer, then.
Game on
We've come a long way since pannum et circences, you might say, but I beg to differ. Sure, pannum is no more bread or even brioche than ready made, mass produced, streamline packed, subliminally advertised junk of all sorts and circences is a far cry from slaves or convicts slain in an arena for fun, mostly because the arena is digital now, as are the gladiators and their likes. Nonetheless, it would seem that the pursuit for enlightment, knowledge and cold hard scientific fact has become rather unfashionable in the face of the most basic needs of simple nourishment and enterntainment.
Nothing wrong with that, really. Or perhaps we need a modern day Nero to burn this global Rome to the ground. I know I shouldn't be so lucky to turn to a pillar of salt.
So, gaming, then. Gaming, it appears, has become a major vertent of entertainment, today. Long gone are the days when an Atari 2600 was a kids toy and video games were merely novelties for the very young. It has becomme acceptable for adults to enjoy video games, and why not, when you think about the way games and their themes have grown to encompass just about all other aspects of entertainment.
I started gaming in the very early 90's, as a consequence of the dissemination of home gaming systems (I had a Sega Mega Drive for my birthday! Oh joy!), as opposed to the iconic arcades of the late 80's. Therefore, I have only a mild recollection of passing by arcades and wishing madly to go in and try out that dazzlingly wonderful world of flashing lights and beeping sounds that seemed so much fun from the outside, but, alas, no persons under 16 were ever admitted, and by the time I was 16 (and I had three home consoles under my belt), arcades were no more. Also, personal computers had grown to the point where they were afordable enough that just about every household had one sufficientely powerful to run games most arcade machines dared only dream of. And now, the market is veritably flooded with games and gaming systems, and I thought we'd take a look at the wide picture.
First of all, I'd like to make a remark on the evolution of games. My long gone Mega Drive (known as Genesis, across the pond) came with two standard gaming controllers. each had one (1) 8-way directional button and a grand total of three (3) buttons, plaus the start button, which was usually assigned to pausing the game, and, if it wasn't, odds were there was no option to pause the game (Hello, Mortal Kombat, who had the start button used to block, as punch, mid kick and high kick took up all of the other buttons, how do you do these days? How's the arthritis treating you?). Now, my X-Box 360 came with one standard controller with one 8-way directional button, two analogue thumbsticks, four action buttons, two shoulder (or bumper) buttons, two triggers, start feature button, back feature button and the iconic X-Box Dashboard button. You'd think that with this greatly enchanced range of controls (even more so when you think of combinations), games could offer a much wider range of complexity, but I just don't see that happening.In fact, it seems to me that game mechanics have become simpler than ever, but not "streamlines" simpler, rather "dumbed down" simpler. See, one game I used to love to bits was Jane's Fighters Anthology. Long before computer games came in ultra thin DVD cases (as some of you might remember, if Alzheimer's allows you to), they used to come in these shoeboxes you could fit nearly anything into. That was enough for a jewel case for the game disc, plenty of promotional material and a propper instruction manual, and Fighter's Anthology had a big one. Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw once complained that "The Witcher" came with an instruction manual "you could bludgeon goats to death with". Well, that's his opinion, I din't think it was all that large, but maybe that was because I had read all of Fighter Anthology instruction manual, and that wasn't stapled together, it was properly bound, like a book. It had a good half-inch thick spine, and it wasn't merely "press Ctrl to fire" (obviously), it was a comprehensive manual of flight physics, tactical maneouvers, dogfight strategies, flight patterns, weapons selection and stuff I can't even begin to remember (that was almost fifteen years ago, you know). Some of you, Yahtzee among them, I suppose, might shudder at the thought of a game needing a manual the size of a small Thesaurus, but bear two things in mind: first, you didn't need to memorize the whole thing, not by a long shot, to be able to play the game; and second, all the added content contributed immensely to the enjoiment of the game. All I'm trying to say is I miss chunky manuals. Refering players t online tutorials all the time seems to be today's trend, but I still like the thought of being put in command of my character or whatever my role is and to be expected to know the controls, rather than being condescendingly taught to press X not to die.
Another thing I'd like to talk about is the inordinate quantity of systems available for today's gamer. Step into any games store and you'll find a dozen sections. Often enough, this means developers have to make each game available to each system. Most any game you can buy today has a version for PC, X-Box 360, Wii (a silly name for a silly console, wouldn't you say?), Nintendo DS, Playstation 2 (it's still kicking, the old girl!), Playstation Portable (another odd concept, if you ask me, but I'll let it slide in face of it's performance) and Playstation 3. I suppose you can plainly understand the pressure on game makers not to ostracize any gamers and try to cover all their bases, but how do you think it reflects on the quality of games? This isn't to say that the quality of a game is inversely proportional to the number of platforms it can run on, but wouldn't you say that a game that is developped for a particular platform has the potential to be much better than another game which was made bearing in mind that each aspect has to be compatible with each of the platforms it's goimg to be run on? Frankly, I think that diminuishes a gamer's experience. If I had my way, everybody would realise that with tons of games comming out each year, genres would be sufficientely distributed across the plethora of platforms that if each game was developped for a single system, it really wouldn't be that much of a deal. or maybe we could go the other way around and decide that each console was best suited for a particular genre, and gamers would buy a console based on their preference of genre rather than agonize over specs, politics and predictions of what might come to pass in the gaming panorama. Wouldn't it be great if there was a console best suited for mindless FPS types, another for single minded racing game types and so on? It would certainly simplify things a lot. Or maybe we should all plainly discard the thought of consoles and focus on developping games for the PC.
On the subject of hurting the games industry, hello, there, Electronic Arts. Hopefully, you've realised by now how moronic ypu concept of renting games was when you created that presposterous arrangement for Spore. I can only hope the expansion pack doesn't excpand on that idea, even though I'm only scarcely considering it. But you thoughts on The Sims 3 are worthy of punishment by St. Catherine's wheel, followed by decapitation with a rusty spoon. Ostracising players who try to improve their own gaming experinece as well as others' by adding custom modified objects is not OK. Not even in the planes of Oblivion (now that was a great game. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but the potential was all there). Now I'm told that Command and Conquer 4 will have an online based player progression, and after I read up on it for a few minutes, I don't think that's a bad thing, but I can't help but wonder the way's You'll find to muck it all up.
On a lighter note, olly olly oxen free, Starcraft 2.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is not a hardcore gamer, but, surprisingly, neither are most game developers, I hear.
Nothing wrong with that, really. Or perhaps we need a modern day Nero to burn this global Rome to the ground. I know I shouldn't be so lucky to turn to a pillar of salt.
So, gaming, then. Gaming, it appears, has become a major vertent of entertainment, today. Long gone are the days when an Atari 2600 was a kids toy and video games were merely novelties for the very young. It has becomme acceptable for adults to enjoy video games, and why not, when you think about the way games and their themes have grown to encompass just about all other aspects of entertainment.
I started gaming in the very early 90's, as a consequence of the dissemination of home gaming systems (I had a Sega Mega Drive for my birthday! Oh joy!), as opposed to the iconic arcades of the late 80's. Therefore, I have only a mild recollection of passing by arcades and wishing madly to go in and try out that dazzlingly wonderful world of flashing lights and beeping sounds that seemed so much fun from the outside, but, alas, no persons under 16 were ever admitted, and by the time I was 16 (and I had three home consoles under my belt), arcades were no more. Also, personal computers had grown to the point where they were afordable enough that just about every household had one sufficientely powerful to run games most arcade machines dared only dream of. And now, the market is veritably flooded with games and gaming systems, and I thought we'd take a look at the wide picture.
First of all, I'd like to make a remark on the evolution of games. My long gone Mega Drive (known as Genesis, across the pond) came with two standard gaming controllers. each had one (1) 8-way directional button and a grand total of three (3) buttons, plaus the start button, which was usually assigned to pausing the game, and, if it wasn't, odds were there was no option to pause the game (Hello, Mortal Kombat, who had the start button used to block, as punch, mid kick and high kick took up all of the other buttons, how do you do these days? How's the arthritis treating you?). Now, my X-Box 360 came with one standard controller with one 8-way directional button, two analogue thumbsticks, four action buttons, two shoulder (or bumper) buttons, two triggers, start feature button, back feature button and the iconic X-Box Dashboard button. You'd think that with this greatly enchanced range of controls (even more so when you think of combinations), games could offer a much wider range of complexity, but I just don't see that happening.In fact, it seems to me that game mechanics have become simpler than ever, but not "streamlines" simpler, rather "dumbed down" simpler. See, one game I used to love to bits was Jane's Fighters Anthology. Long before computer games came in ultra thin DVD cases (as some of you might remember, if Alzheimer's allows you to), they used to come in these shoeboxes you could fit nearly anything into. That was enough for a jewel case for the game disc, plenty of promotional material and a propper instruction manual, and Fighter's Anthology had a big one. Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw once complained that "The Witcher" came with an instruction manual "you could bludgeon goats to death with". Well, that's his opinion, I din't think it was all that large, but maybe that was because I had read all of Fighter Anthology instruction manual, and that wasn't stapled together, it was properly bound, like a book. It had a good half-inch thick spine, and it wasn't merely "press Ctrl to fire" (obviously), it was a comprehensive manual of flight physics, tactical maneouvers, dogfight strategies, flight patterns, weapons selection and stuff I can't even begin to remember (that was almost fifteen years ago, you know). Some of you, Yahtzee among them, I suppose, might shudder at the thought of a game needing a manual the size of a small Thesaurus, but bear two things in mind: first, you didn't need to memorize the whole thing, not by a long shot, to be able to play the game; and second, all the added content contributed immensely to the enjoiment of the game. All I'm trying to say is I miss chunky manuals. Refering players t online tutorials all the time seems to be today's trend, but I still like the thought of being put in command of my character or whatever my role is and to be expected to know the controls, rather than being condescendingly taught to press X not to die.
Another thing I'd like to talk about is the inordinate quantity of systems available for today's gamer. Step into any games store and you'll find a dozen sections. Often enough, this means developers have to make each game available to each system. Most any game you can buy today has a version for PC, X-Box 360, Wii (a silly name for a silly console, wouldn't you say?), Nintendo DS, Playstation 2 (it's still kicking, the old girl!), Playstation Portable (another odd concept, if you ask me, but I'll let it slide in face of it's performance) and Playstation 3. I suppose you can plainly understand the pressure on game makers not to ostracize any gamers and try to cover all their bases, but how do you think it reflects on the quality of games? This isn't to say that the quality of a game is inversely proportional to the number of platforms it can run on, but wouldn't you say that a game that is developped for a particular platform has the potential to be much better than another game which was made bearing in mind that each aspect has to be compatible with each of the platforms it's goimg to be run on? Frankly, I think that diminuishes a gamer's experience. If I had my way, everybody would realise that with tons of games comming out each year, genres would be sufficientely distributed across the plethora of platforms that if each game was developped for a single system, it really wouldn't be that much of a deal. or maybe we could go the other way around and decide that each console was best suited for a particular genre, and gamers would buy a console based on their preference of genre rather than agonize over specs, politics and predictions of what might come to pass in the gaming panorama. Wouldn't it be great if there was a console best suited for mindless FPS types, another for single minded racing game types and so on? It would certainly simplify things a lot. Or maybe we should all plainly discard the thought of consoles and focus on developping games for the PC.
On the subject of hurting the games industry, hello, there, Electronic Arts. Hopefully, you've realised by now how moronic ypu concept of renting games was when you created that presposterous arrangement for Spore. I can only hope the expansion pack doesn't excpand on that idea, even though I'm only scarcely considering it. But you thoughts on The Sims 3 are worthy of punishment by St. Catherine's wheel, followed by decapitation with a rusty spoon. Ostracising players who try to improve their own gaming experinece as well as others' by adding custom modified objects is not OK. Not even in the planes of Oblivion (now that was a great game. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but the potential was all there). Now I'm told that Command and Conquer 4 will have an online based player progression, and after I read up on it for a few minutes, I don't think that's a bad thing, but I can't help but wonder the way's You'll find to muck it all up.
On a lighter note, olly olly oxen free, Starcraft 2.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is not a hardcore gamer, but, surprisingly, neither are most game developers, I hear.
Out for drinks
Most of you might know I'm not a heavy drinker. I'll have the odd beer with the mates at gatherings or even go out for drinks on special occasions, but generally I don't drink, and when I do, I pace myself.
WHich is a good thing, because
It would take 34 bottles of Guinness Guinness Draught to kill me
I don't like Guiness all that much...
Feel free to try this at home. Taking the test, that is, not chugging down 34 bottles of Guiness. If you do (the latter), however, can I have your earthly possessions afterwards?
Pax (et vino) vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has tried to have some Jagermeister for his last few outings for drinks, but with no success. How hard is this drink to come by, really?
WHich is a good thing, because
It would take 34 bottles of Guinness Guinness Draught to kill me
Created by Bar Stools
I don't like Guiness all that much...
Feel free to try this at home. Taking the test, that is, not chugging down 34 bottles of Guiness. If you do (the latter), however, can I have your earthly possessions afterwards?
Pax (et vino) vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has tried to have some Jagermeister for his last few outings for drinks, but with no success. How hard is this drink to come by, really?
Vacationing soon?
I have never made any effort to conceal my fondness for London either as a vacationing spot or a place to live. However, I might be going to Okinawa sometime soon instead, after seeing this...
I just have to see what in blazes they mean by this sign.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark dares to brave the flu scare and will be going to London for one (1) weekend in late August. Single attractive females of age between 18 and 40 are welcome to apply as travel companions.
I just have to see what in blazes they mean by this sign.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark dares to brave the flu scare and will be going to London for one (1) weekend in late August. Single attractive females of age between 18 and 40 are welcome to apply as travel companions.
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