Marketing didn't figure this out yet. Here's my pitch.
Sure, it's not a broad spectrum product, you don't expect nice old ladies to dish these out on Halloween, and you don't expect little kids to appreciate them either (nor should you want them to...). It's meant for the geek masses.
Without further ado...
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! *
Think about it. Straight sugary rods, green with bright red stripes spiraling down the length of the shaft with Joe Kucan's likeness sculpted at the top and the age-old scorpion tail NOD icon embossed at regular intervals. And since nobody has tasted actual Tiberium (and lived to tell... for long), they can just make up any palatable flavour and say that's what the Green crystal tastes like.
But wait! There's more! For those who want only the very best, Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! Just make them blue instead of green, add some mint flavour and nasal decongestant to the mix and jack up the price about 25%. Deluxe edition candy!
Add some gimmick like one free replica of the NOD ring Joe Kucan did not steal put in every fifth pack of the regular Kandy Kanes or every fourth pack of the Deluxe Kandy Kanes and you've got a sugary hit.
And that's not all. Have a sugar free version of each type handy for the geeks who reject the stereotype of the ever snacking couch potato types and you've just broadened your market share. Bimbos who might want to look smart will resort to these as well. Geeks who actually might want to lose weight will swiftly substitute their snack of choice with these in a heartbeat. Supermodels will want to look FAB, licking these high-tech candy sticks in every fashion mag... OK, perhaps the supermodels won't be so attracted to these... but who needs them, anyway? Geeks are Legion! Legion, I tell you! Legion!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how come the folks in engineering figured this out before the marketing types. Or is it that we don't really need cool candy? I'd still buy it.
Catch up
It feels like a long time since our lsat update. Quite a bit of catching up to do. Where, oh where to begin...
Movies: My most recent theater trips include Sunshine, Spider-Man 3 and Mr. Bean's Holiday. Neither is particularly brilliant. In fact, Sunshine and Spider-Man 3 are downright pretty bad. Spider-Man 3, like its prequels, displays poor portraits of age-old and suitably well known characters, besides Tobey Maguire's voice being all wrong for Spidey and who writes this day and age's Spidey wit? The character of Venom, included for all the right reasons, is, again, poorly portrayed, both script wise and graphical wise. Same applies to Eddie Brock. Mr. Bean's Holiday wasn't all bad, but after the previous Bean movie and ages of the TV Show, the concept (unlike Mr. Atkinson's talent) begins to wear thin. It's still a good movie for hardcore fans of Bean, though. Sunshine... Well, just scratch that off your list.
Marketing: The definition of Marketing has changed. It no longer is "The Art of Telling Consumers Why They Need What They Can't Afford" or "The Art of Explaining Why You Need Everything in Triplicate but in Different Colours". It is now "The Art of Discovering Consumers' Needs Which They Themselves Didn't Know Of". Don't ask why, it just is. I'm serious.
Savings: I wonder if I can save up € 1600.00 by the end of July. € 500.00 down, € 1100.00 to go. I might luck out, if I add my birthday into the math.
Tech Support: This Acer "check on your repair status" isn't so great after all. All it says is whether they have recieved the package (which they'll text when they do), whether they're waiting for it (which I'd assume they are until they text me upon arrival) or whether they've sent it back (whaich, again, they'll text). Hey, how about saying how long you estimate reapirs will take? Is that too much to ask?
Overheard: I'm fairly sure I've mentioned Overheard in New York here before. Well, now there's a couple of new sites to join that particular family, Overheard at the Beach, Overheard Everywhere and Celebrity Wit. Some of these feature overhearings in Canadia. Not a typo, Canadia. This has, indeed, generated some uproar within the readers, who have submited their opinions (which range from irate "Fix that, you fools" to coy "Umm, I think you made a mistake" to amused and confused "Why?") in e-mail form, which have been compiled for entertainment, along with a very adept speller, who quite irately warned them that the correct spelling of the country in question was "Canada" (notice, no 'i'). The same reader proceded to clarify the misspelling of "Australia", versus the correct spelling, "Australa". Now I'm no whiz with a map, but I can't find "Australa" anywhere. I suppose that's where "Vegemte" (however you pronounce that) comes from. Still, do check out the sister sites (and, why not, the original site, it gets updated all the time). They're a larf or two.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark spins the globe away, combing both hemispheres for this promised land of "Australa". Hey, it sounds like a fair vacaton spot. Not a typo, just a lame pun.
Movies: My most recent theater trips include Sunshine, Spider-Man 3 and Mr. Bean's Holiday. Neither is particularly brilliant. In fact, Sunshine and Spider-Man 3 are downright pretty bad. Spider-Man 3, like its prequels, displays poor portraits of age-old and suitably well known characters, besides Tobey Maguire's voice being all wrong for Spidey and who writes this day and age's Spidey wit? The character of Venom, included for all the right reasons, is, again, poorly portrayed, both script wise and graphical wise. Same applies to Eddie Brock. Mr. Bean's Holiday wasn't all bad, but after the previous Bean movie and ages of the TV Show, the concept (unlike Mr. Atkinson's talent) begins to wear thin. It's still a good movie for hardcore fans of Bean, though. Sunshine... Well, just scratch that off your list.
Marketing: The definition of Marketing has changed. It no longer is "The Art of Telling Consumers Why They Need What They Can't Afford" or "The Art of Explaining Why You Need Everything in Triplicate but in Different Colours". It is now "The Art of Discovering Consumers' Needs Which They Themselves Didn't Know Of". Don't ask why, it just is. I'm serious.
Savings: I wonder if I can save up € 1600.00 by the end of July. € 500.00 down, € 1100.00 to go. I might luck out, if I add my birthday into the math.
Tech Support: This Acer "check on your repair status" isn't so great after all. All it says is whether they have recieved the package (which they'll text when they do), whether they're waiting for it (which I'd assume they are until they text me upon arrival) or whether they've sent it back (whaich, again, they'll text). Hey, how about saying how long you estimate reapirs will take? Is that too much to ask?
Overheard: I'm fairly sure I've mentioned Overheard in New York here before. Well, now there's a couple of new sites to join that particular family, Overheard at the Beach, Overheard Everywhere and Celebrity Wit. Some of these feature overhearings in Canadia. Not a typo, Canadia. This has, indeed, generated some uproar within the readers, who have submited their opinions (which range from irate "Fix that, you fools" to coy "Umm, I think you made a mistake" to amused and confused "Why?") in e-mail form, which have been compiled for entertainment, along with a very adept speller, who quite irately warned them that the correct spelling of the country in question was "Canada" (notice, no 'i'). The same reader proceded to clarify the misspelling of "Australia", versus the correct spelling, "Australa". Now I'm no whiz with a map, but I can't find "Australa" anywhere. I suppose that's where "Vegemte" (however you pronounce that) comes from. Still, do check out the sister sites (and, why not, the original site, it gets updated all the time). They're a larf or two.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark spins the globe away, combing both hemispheres for this promised land of "Australa". Hey, it sounds like a fair vacaton spot. Not a typo, just a lame pun.
Tales from Tech Support
I should really start this post by re-stating that I am not a xenophobe. Granted, my pet peeve doesn't do much in the way of confirming it, nor will this entry, but I am not a xenophobe. Onwards.
A few weeks ago my laptop took a small bump whick caused the power jack to burrow dep into the laptop body. So deep in fact that the charger jack no longer makes contact, making battery charging and battery-less operation impossible. It is my understanding that the jack is directly welded into the motherboard, so replacing it should probably be left to the professionals. As it happend, however, said professionals happen to be extremely rare, and I don't mean undercooked. My only way out was to resort to the brand tech support.
Where matters of warranty and sending back products are concerned, I'm always a bit weary. This is swampy grounds for me. Usually this just means my stuff will be "at the shop" for months only to return partially repaired or deemed unsuitable for warranty repair. Still, never would I imagine this.
My first call to tech support was awkward enough. Even though it was a business day and not 17:00 yet, I got no more response than a recording commanding (not politely asking, brutally commanding) that I called Monday to Friday, from 9:00 to 17:00, with a very thick accent (Italian, I guess), and hung up. How wierd is it when a machine hangs up on you? Still I tried again the next day. Making myself clear before the operator (whose accent wasn't quite as thick as the on on the record) took most of the call. After some wasted half hour struggling to make myself understood, she tells me the system is down and she cannot process my request.
So let me get this straight, fellows. You make computers, but your computer isn't working? Oh, yeah, that's guaranteed to impress even the most skeptic consumer.
I called later that day with the same results. I called the other day, and the operator had the nerve to hang up on me. I called again, and finally my request was granted. I was assigned an RMA and told to ship my computer over to their tech support labs... in Spain. At least DHL would do it free of charge for me. Still, packing and padding were my responsability, which I'm thinking it shouldn't be. Nonetheless.
At least the good people at DHL gave me no grief of any sort. The operator, bless her heart, was more than helpful with packaging guidelines, arrangements for pickup, etc. She was even polite. How often does that come around these days?
So sure enough they pick up my laptop at the arranged date, and a few days ago I got a text (in Spanish) telling me my laptop was ready and being shipped back (or at least that's what I figured). Indeed, just yesterday the good people at DHL delivered it straight to my door. However, the contents of their delivery couldn't be more ghastly.
The repair report was written in some melange of languages I could barely make out. My name was mispelled and not even capitalised. Even the problem wasn't propperly stated. It was "battery can't charge." While this is true, it's but a result of the problem, not the cause. And sure enough, the geniuses at the repair labs shipped it back with a new battery (which I have no intention of giving back. For my greivancve). They didn't even bother turning the damned thing on, even though they claim to have updated my BIOS from v.0.3.1.22 to v0.3.1.22, a major change.
So come Monday I'll be going through the motions to send it back again. Only this time I'm sticking some post-it notes around the little power hole, with pointing arrows stating "look here" and "reapir this".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders why the hell there isn't a better solution. What happened to those Knights of the Soldering Iron who'd clearly state that your warranty will be void, but the job will get done? Because these wops aren't pulling through, you know...
A few weeks ago my laptop took a small bump whick caused the power jack to burrow dep into the laptop body. So deep in fact that the charger jack no longer makes contact, making battery charging and battery-less operation impossible. It is my understanding that the jack is directly welded into the motherboard, so replacing it should probably be left to the professionals. As it happend, however, said professionals happen to be extremely rare, and I don't mean undercooked. My only way out was to resort to the brand tech support.
Where matters of warranty and sending back products are concerned, I'm always a bit weary. This is swampy grounds for me. Usually this just means my stuff will be "at the shop" for months only to return partially repaired or deemed unsuitable for warranty repair. Still, never would I imagine this.
My first call to tech support was awkward enough. Even though it was a business day and not 17:00 yet, I got no more response than a recording commanding (not politely asking, brutally commanding) that I called Monday to Friday, from 9:00 to 17:00, with a very thick accent (Italian, I guess), and hung up. How wierd is it when a machine hangs up on you? Still I tried again the next day. Making myself clear before the operator (whose accent wasn't quite as thick as the on on the record) took most of the call. After some wasted half hour struggling to make myself understood, she tells me the system is down and she cannot process my request.
So let me get this straight, fellows. You make computers, but your computer isn't working? Oh, yeah, that's guaranteed to impress even the most skeptic consumer.
I called later that day with the same results. I called the other day, and the operator had the nerve to hang up on me. I called again, and finally my request was granted. I was assigned an RMA and told to ship my computer over to their tech support labs... in Spain. At least DHL would do it free of charge for me. Still, packing and padding were my responsability, which I'm thinking it shouldn't be. Nonetheless.
At least the good people at DHL gave me no grief of any sort. The operator, bless her heart, was more than helpful with packaging guidelines, arrangements for pickup, etc. She was even polite. How often does that come around these days?
So sure enough they pick up my laptop at the arranged date, and a few days ago I got a text (in Spanish) telling me my laptop was ready and being shipped back (or at least that's what I figured). Indeed, just yesterday the good people at DHL delivered it straight to my door. However, the contents of their delivery couldn't be more ghastly.
The repair report was written in some melange of languages I could barely make out. My name was mispelled and not even capitalised. Even the problem wasn't propperly stated. It was "battery can't charge." While this is true, it's but a result of the problem, not the cause. And sure enough, the geniuses at the repair labs shipped it back with a new battery (which I have no intention of giving back. For my greivancve). They didn't even bother turning the damned thing on, even though they claim to have updated my BIOS from v.0.3.1.22 to v0.3.1.22, a major change.
So come Monday I'll be going through the motions to send it back again. Only this time I'm sticking some post-it notes around the little power hole, with pointing arrows stating "look here" and "reapir this".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders why the hell there isn't a better solution. What happened to those Knights of the Soldering Iron who'd clearly state that your warranty will be void, but the job will get done? Because these wops aren't pulling through, you know...
Now paging Dr. Phill
Actually, I think the good doctor might be acquainted with the case at hand. He did host it on his show, so hold the page. Onwards.
So this couple comes up on Dr. Phill, during a segment called Conception Deception (and no, I won't make a segment out of that here. I should think I have enough segments as is). The wife complains that the husband has tricked her into pregnancy. Four times.
The first time she got pregnant as a result of a misconducted coitus interruptus, which her husband had no idea of conducting properly in the first place. Well, can't really say that I sympathise with her on this point, she ought to know better. I mean, I must have been 9 when I was told not to rely on "the pull out method". I hardly knew enough not to ask "pull what out of what". That they didn't use adequate contraceptives at that peculiar time is as much her fault as it is his, IMO. Sure, he might have complained about condoms (so many men do... too many men do. Get real fellows), and, as it turns out, he would have complained about birth control pills or a diaphram and foam, but at least then she'd know what to expect.
As it turns out, this fellow is so insecure about his relationship that he needs the children to trap his wife in their marriage. I'm wagering she wouldn't have married him (or at least she might not have had his child) in the first place if she knew, and thus I sympathise with her. But wait, it gets worse.
At least one of her pregnancies (if I recall, they had some four children, although I'm not sure that's with or without the one on the way) was a result of him having unprotectes sex with her while she was asleep. I mean, how is that possible? Without the help of Rohypnol, gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, ketamine or any other such treats of the pharmaceutical industry, that is. Actually, now I wonder if he did use any such "daddy little helpers", in which case the word would plainly and blatanty be "rape". In fact, I see no reason why the word shouldn't plainly and blatantly be "rape" even if he didn't drug her up, other than she stated she didn't feel raped. I suppose that would have been because, either way, she didn't feel it at all.
Shocked yet? Here's the kicker: The couple is introduced by Dr. Phill McGraw and his story is summarised in a brief clip, after which the host asks the couple the ever-the-first question along the lines "How does this make you feel", to which this creep of a husband replies "It came out rather harsh". He actually tried to make himself look like the victim. Sure, tell me that I'm taking sides too soon and that I haven't heard his side of the story (actually, I have, and, for the most part, it was awkward silence, whining and distasteful puns to try to steer the conversation off course), but I dare you to come up with a likely scenario that actually makes a man who will impregnate his wife in her sleep against her will look like a good husband. I'm not questioning his motives; he stated that he loves his wife, and seeing as he'd go that far just to make sure she'd stay with him and not just take off, I just might believe him, but still...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is slightly disturbed that, keeping with the theme of today's entry, he managed to guess Oprah Winfrey's bra size seconds before she'd state it on her own talk show. Does anyone else think it's wierd?
So this couple comes up on Dr. Phill, during a segment called Conception Deception (and no, I won't make a segment out of that here. I should think I have enough segments as is). The wife complains that the husband has tricked her into pregnancy. Four times.
The first time she got pregnant as a result of a misconducted coitus interruptus, which her husband had no idea of conducting properly in the first place. Well, can't really say that I sympathise with her on this point, she ought to know better. I mean, I must have been 9 when I was told not to rely on "the pull out method". I hardly knew enough not to ask "pull what out of what". That they didn't use adequate contraceptives at that peculiar time is as much her fault as it is his, IMO. Sure, he might have complained about condoms (so many men do... too many men do. Get real fellows), and, as it turns out, he would have complained about birth control pills or a diaphram and foam, but at least then she'd know what to expect.
As it turns out, this fellow is so insecure about his relationship that he needs the children to trap his wife in their marriage. I'm wagering she wouldn't have married him (or at least she might not have had his child) in the first place if she knew, and thus I sympathise with her. But wait, it gets worse.
At least one of her pregnancies (if I recall, they had some four children, although I'm not sure that's with or without the one on the way) was a result of him having unprotectes sex with her while she was asleep. I mean, how is that possible? Without the help of Rohypnol, gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, ketamine or any other such treats of the pharmaceutical industry, that is. Actually, now I wonder if he did use any such "daddy little helpers", in which case the word would plainly and blatanty be "rape". In fact, I see no reason why the word shouldn't plainly and blatantly be "rape" even if he didn't drug her up, other than she stated she didn't feel raped. I suppose that would have been because, either way, she didn't feel it at all.
Shocked yet? Here's the kicker: The couple is introduced by Dr. Phill McGraw and his story is summarised in a brief clip, after which the host asks the couple the ever-the-first question along the lines "How does this make you feel", to which this creep of a husband replies "It came out rather harsh". He actually tried to make himself look like the victim. Sure, tell me that I'm taking sides too soon and that I haven't heard his side of the story (actually, I have, and, for the most part, it was awkward silence, whining and distasteful puns to try to steer the conversation off course), but I dare you to come up with a likely scenario that actually makes a man who will impregnate his wife in her sleep against her will look like a good husband. I'm not questioning his motives; he stated that he loves his wife, and seeing as he'd go that far just to make sure she'd stay with him and not just take off, I just might believe him, but still...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is slightly disturbed that, keeping with the theme of today's entry, he managed to guess Oprah Winfrey's bra size seconds before she'd state it on her own talk show. Does anyone else think it's wierd?
Harlot
–noun
a prostitute; whore.
The word harlot nowadays refers to a particular kind of woman, but interestingly it used to refer to a particular kind of man. The word is first recorded in English in a work written around the beginning of the 13th century, meaning "a man of no fixed occupation, vagabond, beggar," and soon afterwards meant "male lecher." Already in the 14th century it appears as a deprecatory word for a woman, though exactly how this meaning developed from the male sense is not clear. For a time the word could also refer to a juggler or jester of either sex, but by the close of the 17th century its usage referring to males had disappeared.
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless, of course, the above applies, in which case Pax would be wasted vobiscum and you're quite incapable of vale.
ArabianShark just needed to get that off his chest. Thanks for listening. Cheers, mates.
a prostitute; whore.
The word harlot nowadays refers to a particular kind of woman, but interestingly it used to refer to a particular kind of man. The word is first recorded in English in a work written around the beginning of the 13th century, meaning "a man of no fixed occupation, vagabond, beggar," and soon afterwards meant "male lecher." Already in the 14th century it appears as a deprecatory word for a woman, though exactly how this meaning developed from the male sense is not clear. For a time the word could also refer to a juggler or jester of either sex, but by the close of the 17th century its usage referring to males had disappeared.
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless, of course, the above applies, in which case Pax would be wasted vobiscum and you're quite incapable of vale.
ArabianShark just needed to get that off his chest. Thanks for listening. Cheers, mates.
Just noticed...
On my wall, above my flatscreen, hangs a calendar, a Star Wars calendar (go figure, a geek like me), the third of its lineage, this one celebrating 30 of Star Wars (a very heart felt Congratulations and Thank You for Mr. Lucas, in the immensely odd chance he might be reading this). For April, the main picture is a frame from Episode II: Attack of the Clones, from the scene in the Naboo Lake district when Padmé and Anakin kiss. This particular frame pertains to just before the kiss, when the charactres' lips are barely an inch apart. What could be more romantic?
How about if Hayden Christensen hadn't that look of (what is that? Revolt? I'll go with) repulse about him. Really, watch the movie again (of course you have watched it once), get it on DVD (now watch me do the mind trick: You will get it on DVD), just get a load of the frickin' frame and tell me if there's not something wrong there. What, does the Jedi Council warp Padawans' minds so that they'll find attractive women repulsive? Or is against Christensen's religion to kiss Natalie Portman without looking like you're only doing this for the cash? Take a leaf from Hugo Weaving's book, you didn't see him grimacing when Ms. Portman kissed the lips of his Guy Fawkes mask in V for Vendetta. Well, actually, for all I know, he could have been choking in disgust behind the mask, provided that he didn't move... but, come on, Weaving? Not likely! Not at all! No! Silly 'Shark, even suggesting such a thing.
Come to think of it, there could have been nobody behind the mask at that particular time. Even more reason to think Mr. Weaving would not be grimacing at that time.
OK, then, on to a better example: Goya's Ghosts. Alas, I am yet to see that one. Oh well.
So what's left? How about senseless movie connctions? I'll attempt to prove, by means of connecting actors and actreses to each other, possibly in ridiculous ways, that Weaving hasn't or wouldn't have grimaced. So:
Hugo Weaving is know to be greatly attatched both to England and Australia, where he currently resides, or so I'm told; actor Hugh Jackman is widely known to be Australian as well; Mr. Jackman had kissing scenes with actress Scarlett Johansson in the movie Scoop, without ever grimacing; Scarlett Johansson has absolutely nothing whatsoever to connect her to Natalie Portman, except for the fact that Johansson stared in Lost in Translation, directed by Sofia Coppola, who also stared with Portman in The Phantom Menace. This should be irrefutable evidence that Hugo Weaving has not/would not/will not grimace in a kissing scene with Natalie Portman unless so specified by the script.
OK, that was plenty strange. I'll just wrap up here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would just remind you all that the once (though I think no more) centre of the Hollywood universe is Christopher Lee, know for roles as Sorcerer, Frankanstein, Sith Lord, Bond Villain and time and again Dracula. Surely you can see the cleverly hidden mystery in this. I know I can.
How about if Hayden Christensen hadn't that look of (what is that? Revolt? I'll go with) repulse about him. Really, watch the movie again (of course you have watched it once), get it on DVD (now watch me do the mind trick: You will get it on DVD), just get a load of the frickin' frame and tell me if there's not something wrong there. What, does the Jedi Council warp Padawans' minds so that they'll find attractive women repulsive? Or is against Christensen's religion to kiss Natalie Portman without looking like you're only doing this for the cash? Take a leaf from Hugo Weaving's book, you didn't see him grimacing when Ms. Portman kissed the lips of his Guy Fawkes mask in V for Vendetta. Well, actually, for all I know, he could have been choking in disgust behind the mask, provided that he didn't move... but, come on, Weaving? Not likely! Not at all! No! Silly 'Shark, even suggesting such a thing.
Come to think of it, there could have been nobody behind the mask at that particular time. Even more reason to think Mr. Weaving would not be grimacing at that time.
OK, then, on to a better example: Goya's Ghosts. Alas, I am yet to see that one. Oh well.
So what's left? How about senseless movie connctions? I'll attempt to prove, by means of connecting actors and actreses to each other, possibly in ridiculous ways, that Weaving hasn't or wouldn't have grimaced. So:
Hugo Weaving is know to be greatly attatched both to England and Australia, where he currently resides, or so I'm told; actor Hugh Jackman is widely known to be Australian as well; Mr. Jackman had kissing scenes with actress Scarlett Johansson in the movie Scoop, without ever grimacing; Scarlett Johansson has absolutely nothing whatsoever to connect her to Natalie Portman, except for the fact that Johansson stared in Lost in Translation, directed by Sofia Coppola, who also stared with Portman in The Phantom Menace. This should be irrefutable evidence that Hugo Weaving has not/would not/will not grimace in a kissing scene with Natalie Portman unless so specified by the script.
OK, that was plenty strange. I'll just wrap up here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would just remind you all that the once (though I think no more) centre of the Hollywood universe is Christopher Lee, know for roles as Sorcerer, Frankanstein, Sith Lord, Bond Villain and time and again Dracula. Surely you can see the cleverly hidden mystery in this. I know I can.
Finally...
At long last, the last piece is set. All is in it's place, and about time, too.
Nearly a month after moving in, today I got my long desired Queen sized bed. That's right - livin' large, sleepin' large and maybe even watchin' DVDs large, because, you know, in a bedsit, there's only so many places you can fit a bed and a screen, and neither would go well in the loo or the kitchen. So there, a busy Friday, with all the delivering, the assembling, the removing of both old small beds and the thorough cleaning of the house (that was overdue, really, but I knew the delivery and assembly would be messy, so I just kept waiting), but it was worth it. I just wished I could have left less of the tasks above for others (all I really did was clean up after them), but it's going to be six more weeks until I'm allowed to make efforts, courtesy of my not missed at all hernia - good riddance to that!
And now to enjoy my just-the-way-I-want-it flat - I even gave myself a purple and pink lava lamp, it goes nicely with my plasma lamp.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark now qualifies as a bachelor, seeing as he now has his very own bachelor pad. That's right, ladies, he's single and available. Come get him! One at a time, please.
Nearly a month after moving in, today I got my long desired Queen sized bed. That's right - livin' large, sleepin' large and maybe even watchin' DVDs large, because, you know, in a bedsit, there's only so many places you can fit a bed and a screen, and neither would go well in the loo or the kitchen. So there, a busy Friday, with all the delivering, the assembling, the removing of both old small beds and the thorough cleaning of the house (that was overdue, really, but I knew the delivery and assembly would be messy, so I just kept waiting), but it was worth it. I just wished I could have left less of the tasks above for others (all I really did was clean up after them), but it's going to be six more weeks until I'm allowed to make efforts, courtesy of my not missed at all hernia - good riddance to that!
And now to enjoy my just-the-way-I-want-it flat - I even gave myself a purple and pink lava lamp, it goes nicely with my plasma lamp.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark now qualifies as a bachelor, seeing as he now has his very own bachelor pad. That's right, ladies, he's single and available. Come get him! One at a time, please.
And the award goes to...
It's a bit early to say. In fact, I don't even know who the nomenees are. And, most importantly, I wonder if we're all clear on what the award is for anyway. So let's address those questions, shall we?
Seeing as this is MY blog, you don't have much of a choice.
This is the "Try a Little Softer" award for 2007. I suppose you all know the history behind this award. If you don't, here's the skinny. The Great (see, not great, but Great) radio host Nuno Markl, in one of his books inspired by his radio segment "The Man Who Bit The Dog", established this award for feats of great (and greatly misused) strenght. The first winner ever for this award was a man from Sydney, whose tale I will summarise in a brand new segment here at Shark Nibbles called:
Tales from Down Under:
This devious man from Sydney was a theif, but no common theif. He thought big. His heist would be to rob an ATM machine from a suburban building. And how would he choose to do that? By battering said building with a mobile crane. To no avail, that was, other than wrecking the building itself. Had it not been night, the building wouldn't have been empty, and casualties would have ensued, but, as luck would have it... The ATM, however, even after the building's collapse, stood adamant (remind me to get me some Aussie ATMs. I see potential), and forced the wrongdoer into a hasty retreat. Now, a hasty retreat whilst comandeering a mobile crane is somewhat less than a trivial matter. In his haste, he knocked down a power post, plunging the whole suburb into darkness. Police officers would soon find him weeping at the wheel of his parked vehicle, bangign his head against said wheel.
Crikey, mate, try a little softer.
And so, it's time for an early nomination for the 2007 award. The nomenee is none than my fridge. that's right, my fridge. Get this: I like to keep sody pop around the house. A little fizz every now and then is good for you. Unfortunately, I can't always get my favourde brand in handy two liter bottles, or bottles at all, and I'm forced to resort to tin cans. Now, I don't much care for tin cans, because I like a swig every now and then, and tin can's aren't that flexible. So I open up this can, have my swig and put it back in the fridge (not the freezer, the fridge). Next time I go for a swig, there are icicles floating around the soda. Lime flavoured, not plain moisture icicles. The fridge (again, fridge, not freezer) froze my soda. Wow.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how exposing the very resilient ATM from Sydney to his freezer would have worked out. I know: cool Austrailian Dollars.
Seeing as this is MY blog, you don't have much of a choice.
This is the "Try a Little Softer" award for 2007. I suppose you all know the history behind this award. If you don't, here's the skinny. The Great (see, not great, but Great) radio host Nuno Markl, in one of his books inspired by his radio segment "The Man Who Bit The Dog", established this award for feats of great (and greatly misused) strenght. The first winner ever for this award was a man from Sydney, whose tale I will summarise in a brand new segment here at Shark Nibbles called:
Tales from Down Under:
This devious man from Sydney was a theif, but no common theif. He thought big. His heist would be to rob an ATM machine from a suburban building. And how would he choose to do that? By battering said building with a mobile crane. To no avail, that was, other than wrecking the building itself. Had it not been night, the building wouldn't have been empty, and casualties would have ensued, but, as luck would have it... The ATM, however, even after the building's collapse, stood adamant (remind me to get me some Aussie ATMs. I see potential), and forced the wrongdoer into a hasty retreat. Now, a hasty retreat whilst comandeering a mobile crane is somewhat less than a trivial matter. In his haste, he knocked down a power post, plunging the whole suburb into darkness. Police officers would soon find him weeping at the wheel of his parked vehicle, bangign his head against said wheel.
Crikey, mate, try a little softer.
And so, it's time for an early nomination for the 2007 award. The nomenee is none than my fridge. that's right, my fridge. Get this: I like to keep sody pop around the house. A little fizz every now and then is good for you. Unfortunately, I can't always get my favourde brand in handy two liter bottles, or bottles at all, and I'm forced to resort to tin cans. Now, I don't much care for tin cans, because I like a swig every now and then, and tin can's aren't that flexible. So I open up this can, have my swig and put it back in the fridge (not the freezer, the fridge). Next time I go for a swig, there are icicles floating around the soda. Lime flavoured, not plain moisture icicles. The fridge (again, fridge, not freezer) froze my soda. Wow.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how exposing the very resilient ATM from Sydney to his freezer would have worked out. I know: cool Austrailian Dollars.
Video time
Embedded, too. So, first things first - copyright issues. Before we start posting (and thus freely distributing) copyrighted material obtained from acquaintances who assure you they hold copyright of whatever they're allowing you to use freely for as long as you credit them, setting you ripe for theyir rightful owner to righteously sue, this is already freely distributed by the prefered means of Times magazine person of the year (2006), i.e., YouTube. And, in case you're wondering about the above little tail of copyright and other legal travails, yes, I'm one of the people to whom that never happened. Onwards, then.
Right off the bat:
How about that? Readily avilable to anyone who can afford it (or acquire it any other way). And since it's classified as a sports weapon, you need only a run of the mill permit for it. (I'm not positive on this point. Could someone elaborate?) Even Homer Simpson could own up to three of them. But wait, let's watch some more:
Wicked awesome, eh?
Sure, you would need some crazy marksmanship skills to shoot eight randomly thrown clay birds in as many shots holding the gun upside down above your head with minimal if any bracing at all, but I invite you to imagine what some disgruntled common mortal could do with one of those things in a crowded place. It doesn't take years of practice to wreak some serious havoc with a gun that can shoot 12 shells in less than 2 seconds. Even I reckon I could poke someone's eye out with one of those things - and I systematically make a fool - nay, a noob - out of myself everytime I dabble in Counter Strike or Unreal Tournment. I mean, you can easily conceal one of those things under a trench coat (suppose you strap it to your back, off to one side. It might not be very comfortable, but it could work) and smuggle it to a myriad of places. Heck, in most banks I've ever been to, you could smuggle it in, no problem.
I'm sure that any argument along the lines of "We make the gun for sporting ends only and it's not our fault someone ends up using it the wrong way" lets the good folks at Beretta sleep comfortaby at night, knowing that they've spent quite the considerable ammount developing a likely implement of death and suffering whereas there is still no cure for cancer, and likely recieved their investment back tenfold - and cancer research might still be underfunded. Good job, lads.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really has nothing against Beretta or professional sports marksmen or marksmen of any sort per se, but isn't it a fair point that where weapons are concerned we've done quite enough and perhaps it would be best to focus our energies in towards less destructive ends?
This post goes out with a
Right off the bat:
How about that? Readily avilable to anyone who can afford it (or acquire it any other way). And since it's classified as a sports weapon, you need only a run of the mill permit for it. (I'm not positive on this point. Could someone elaborate?) Even Homer Simpson could own up to three of them. But wait, let's watch some more:
Wicked awesome, eh?
Sure, you would need some crazy marksmanship skills to shoot eight randomly thrown clay birds in as many shots holding the gun upside down above your head with minimal if any bracing at all, but I invite you to imagine what some disgruntled common mortal could do with one of those things in a crowded place. It doesn't take years of practice to wreak some serious havoc with a gun that can shoot 12 shells in less than 2 seconds. Even I reckon I could poke someone's eye out with one of those things - and I systematically make a fool - nay, a noob - out of myself everytime I dabble in Counter Strike or Unreal Tournment. I mean, you can easily conceal one of those things under a trench coat (suppose you strap it to your back, off to one side. It might not be very comfortable, but it could work) and smuggle it to a myriad of places. Heck, in most banks I've ever been to, you could smuggle it in, no problem.
I'm sure that any argument along the lines of "We make the gun for sporting ends only and it's not our fault someone ends up using it the wrong way" lets the good folks at Beretta sleep comfortaby at night, knowing that they've spent quite the considerable ammount developing a likely implement of death and suffering whereas there is still no cure for cancer, and likely recieved their investment back tenfold - and cancer research might still be underfunded. Good job, lads.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really has nothing against Beretta or professional sports marksmen or marksmen of any sort per se, but isn't it a fair point that where weapons are concerned we've done quite enough and perhaps it would be best to focus our energies in towards less destructive ends?
This post goes out with a
The Exile alone knows...
Let's begin with a show of hands, shall we? Who here is familiar with the Star Wars universe? And how many of those know of the D&D based RPG Knights of the Old Republic? How about the sequel, Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords? That few... Well, then, for all the others, here's the skinny:
The game puts the player in the role of The Exile an ordinary (cannonically) woman, though you can play as a male character (for a different game experience), with no recollection of her past - or her name, for that matter. AS the game begins, she comes to her senses in a kolto (go look it up) tank, and soon after discovers she has the innate ability to use the Force.
As the game progresses, she discovers she is a former Jedi whose connection to the Force has been severed following a trial for her deeds in times of war, and, depending on your choices, will take revenge from a scattered Jedi Council or redeem herself and unite the fleeing Jedi Masters into a new Council.
Menwhile, by way of the many in-game conversations with party members and NPCs, having one's connection to the force severed is described as alike to losing all of one's senses at once. I think I know how that would feel...
You should know of my travails with moving to a house with no utilities. Those were short-lived (thankfully). I moved in on a Sunday, got my accounts on the following Monday and, by Tuesday, all utilities had been connected. All but one... Well, two, if you consider natural gas (I'm still using a Butane canister), but still, all but an all-important one: Cable!
I can live without Cable TV, sure. Without Cable Internet, not so sure. I requested a service migration on Monday, to be effective no sooner than Thursday (I didn't make that rule...), and then, by Thursday, at about 8 p.m., after a delayed instalation and only 4 hours of service, my connection to the Force, I mean, the Internet became severed. Only yesterday did it come up again. So, if you take out the weekend (going home, to an inferior, but active Internet connection), it was still 6 days without Web access and that felt like losing a lot of senses at once... phew!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark recalls some ominous chance that, should the exile ever regain his connection to the Force, echoes in the force would be created so that every single Force sensitive creature in the universe would perish. Lock up your children.
The game puts the player in the role of The Exile an ordinary (cannonically) woman, though you can play as a male character (for a different game experience), with no recollection of her past - or her name, for that matter. AS the game begins, she comes to her senses in a kolto (go look it up) tank, and soon after discovers she has the innate ability to use the Force.
As the game progresses, she discovers she is a former Jedi whose connection to the Force has been severed following a trial for her deeds in times of war, and, depending on your choices, will take revenge from a scattered Jedi Council or redeem herself and unite the fleeing Jedi Masters into a new Council.
Menwhile, by way of the many in-game conversations with party members and NPCs, having one's connection to the force severed is described as alike to losing all of one's senses at once. I think I know how that would feel...
You should know of my travails with moving to a house with no utilities. Those were short-lived (thankfully). I moved in on a Sunday, got my accounts on the following Monday and, by Tuesday, all utilities had been connected. All but one... Well, two, if you consider natural gas (I'm still using a Butane canister), but still, all but an all-important one: Cable!
I can live without Cable TV, sure. Without Cable Internet, not so sure. I requested a service migration on Monday, to be effective no sooner than Thursday (I didn't make that rule...), and then, by Thursday, at about 8 p.m., after a delayed instalation and only 4 hours of service, my connection to the Force, I mean, the Internet became severed. Only yesterday did it come up again. So, if you take out the weekend (going home, to an inferior, but active Internet connection), it was still 6 days without Web access and that felt like losing a lot of senses at once... phew!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark recalls some ominous chance that, should the exile ever regain his connection to the Force, echoes in the force would be created so that every single Force sensitive creature in the universe would perish. Lock up your children.
Boots and Bureaucracy
Does this title remind you the slightest of such Jane Austen novels as "Pride and Prejudice" or "Sense and Sensibility" in the way "Duel and Duality" or "Amy and Amiability" are supposed to? No? Tough!
First and foremost, I should clarify that boots and bureaucracy should be kept well apart and taken care of separately. So:
Boots: I'm finaly able to wear boots again. For quite some time (some six weeks, I think) I couldn't put on my boots because I couldn't stand the pain of bending over long enough to do the long laces and had to wear some lighter footwear. Boots really are my thing, when it comes down to footwear, so those had not been a happy six weaks, though that might have been because of the pain, mobility impediment and overall tiredness and discomfort as well.
Bureaucracy: I'm in the process of moving. For five years (since I moved out) I have been living in rented rooms in houses where just about anyone can rent a room. Now, that's never really been a problem: The first house I moved out into (eh...?) had been rented out to students just like myself, and frshmen as well, for the most part, and even though most of them already knew each other well before moving in together, we hit it off well and became friends. Sure, many people choose to get together in groups and rent a whole flat(and split the rent) instead of renting only one room in a house where it's owner doesn't live (like I did), but fate hadn't that in mind for me. I later moved out and into a room closer to campus with a lower rent (gotta mind that rent...) and with a colleague I already knew quite well. In time, a spare room has been rented out to someone neither of us knew and later to someoene we both knew. And now, I've left to live on my own. How does this relate to bureaucracy? Well, so far, I had had nothing but verbal agreements with my landlords, wherein periodically (moe or less so, for my former landlord) he'd come by the house to collect rent money and payment for whatever services not included in the agreement but under his responsability. This time, I have a full lease, complete with a deed and all. Now, the house has all the utilities (water, power, etc.) ready to use, but the company(ies) should refuse to let them be used without whatever ton of triple stamped paperwork and whatnot, signed by both the landlord and myself. Now, I can always find a litle time to swing by the imobiliary to sign something or another, and such seems to be the case with the landlord, but all the officialising and the stamping and the technicalities have bogged down the process to the stage where I'll be moving into a house with NO utilities. Really, WTF!? Couldn't we just call the company and say "OK, we're going to spend some of your water and power and whatnot, just bill me" and be done with it?
Perhaps the boots would be best suited to deal with the bureaucracy after all...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to challenge the pencil pushers into his own territorial waters: let's see you stamp your precious forms underwater...
First and foremost, I should clarify that boots and bureaucracy should be kept well apart and taken care of separately. So:
Boots: I'm finaly able to wear boots again. For quite some time (some six weeks, I think) I couldn't put on my boots because I couldn't stand the pain of bending over long enough to do the long laces and had to wear some lighter footwear. Boots really are my thing, when it comes down to footwear, so those had not been a happy six weaks, though that might have been because of the pain, mobility impediment and overall tiredness and discomfort as well.
Bureaucracy: I'm in the process of moving. For five years (since I moved out) I have been living in rented rooms in houses where just about anyone can rent a room. Now, that's never really been a problem: The first house I moved out into (eh...?) had been rented out to students just like myself, and frshmen as well, for the most part, and even though most of them already knew each other well before moving in together, we hit it off well and became friends. Sure, many people choose to get together in groups and rent a whole flat(and split the rent) instead of renting only one room in a house where it's owner doesn't live (like I did), but fate hadn't that in mind for me. I later moved out and into a room closer to campus with a lower rent (gotta mind that rent...) and with a colleague I already knew quite well. In time, a spare room has been rented out to someone neither of us knew and later to someoene we both knew. And now, I've left to live on my own. How does this relate to bureaucracy? Well, so far, I had had nothing but verbal agreements with my landlords, wherein periodically (moe or less so, for my former landlord) he'd come by the house to collect rent money and payment for whatever services not included in the agreement but under his responsability. This time, I have a full lease, complete with a deed and all. Now, the house has all the utilities (water, power, etc.) ready to use, but the company(ies) should refuse to let them be used without whatever ton of triple stamped paperwork and whatnot, signed by both the landlord and myself. Now, I can always find a litle time to swing by the imobiliary to sign something or another, and such seems to be the case with the landlord, but all the officialising and the stamping and the technicalities have bogged down the process to the stage where I'll be moving into a house with NO utilities. Really, WTF!? Couldn't we just call the company and say "OK, we're going to spend some of your water and power and whatnot, just bill me" and be done with it?
Perhaps the boots would be best suited to deal with the bureaucracy after all...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to challenge the pencil pushers into his own territorial waters: let's see you stamp your precious forms underwater...
Cut open and sewn shut
Stapled shut, actually. Meaning, obviously, that my surgery has taken place as schedulled and is done with.
The blinding pain in now a very mild pain and a generous handful of soreness in the muscles that were peeled from the bone for my hernia to be excised. I was delighted to know that, unlike what I had previously been led to believe, my vertebra were never separated during surgery, nor have they been fused together by means of staples nor has the disc between them been removed. That said, nothing has been done to impart my stability, so I should recover swiftly and fully. Fingers crossed!
For all of you expecting to undergo surgery (and dreading it), let me put (some) of your fears to rest: It barely hurts. Really, it doesn't. and don't you dread that awful moment when you're in the surgery room, waiting for the anaesthetic to kick in; you're given a pre-anaesthetic shot even before you're taken form your room, and by the time you get there you'll be half assleep anyway. And by the time the anaesthesia does kick in, you'll be much too out of it to know it. Next thing you'll know you'll be lying in the recovery room just glad it's all behind you and saying something utterly silly (I know I did). So just relax, really.
Of course all is not peaches and cream. the anaesthetic messes up your muscles, so you may lose some abilities, for a short period after the surgery (say, some 12 to 24 hours), that is. Quite common among such lost abilities is the ability to urinate. And even though you woun't be allowed to eat or drink anything for the whole day, you'll have been put on saline for so long it's not unusual for someone to have some three oints of urine in their bladder (I know I did). And, unable to pee, I had to be given a urethral catheter. Let me tel you this much about it: I'll never understand this as a fetish. Really, I don't think I ever will. It hurt like hell. That was most defenitely the worse part about this whole ordeal. The soreness and the pain around the incision are expected to subside soon enough and they're not so bad, really.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has two smaller hernias that haven't given him any grief, and may never do. Fingers crossed! Please!
The blinding pain in now a very mild pain and a generous handful of soreness in the muscles that were peeled from the bone for my hernia to be excised. I was delighted to know that, unlike what I had previously been led to believe, my vertebra were never separated during surgery, nor have they been fused together by means of staples nor has the disc between them been removed. That said, nothing has been done to impart my stability, so I should recover swiftly and fully. Fingers crossed!
For all of you expecting to undergo surgery (and dreading it), let me put (some) of your fears to rest: It barely hurts. Really, it doesn't. and don't you dread that awful moment when you're in the surgery room, waiting for the anaesthetic to kick in; you're given a pre-anaesthetic shot even before you're taken form your room, and by the time you get there you'll be half assleep anyway. And by the time the anaesthesia does kick in, you'll be much too out of it to know it. Next thing you'll know you'll be lying in the recovery room just glad it's all behind you and saying something utterly silly (I know I did). So just relax, really.
Of course all is not peaches and cream. the anaesthetic messes up your muscles, so you may lose some abilities, for a short period after the surgery (say, some 12 to 24 hours), that is. Quite common among such lost abilities is the ability to urinate. And even though you woun't be allowed to eat or drink anything for the whole day, you'll have been put on saline for so long it's not unusual for someone to have some three oints of urine in their bladder (I know I did). And, unable to pee, I had to be given a urethral catheter. Let me tel you this much about it: I'll never understand this as a fetish. Really, I don't think I ever will. It hurt like hell. That was most defenitely the worse part about this whole ordeal. The soreness and the pain around the incision are expected to subside soon enough and they're not so bad, really.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has two smaller hernias that haven't given him any grief, and may never do. Fingers crossed! Please!
As if I needed a title...
Today, I'd like to open a new chapter in (my) blog history with a segment entitled "Douchebags Get All The Breaks".
Today's douchebag, and the very first douchebag to get a spot on this outrageously magnificent (at least you're reading it) blog is none other than my maid.
Why is she a douchebag? There's a number of reasons. She does a half arsed job at just about everything (i.e., ironing, cleaning...), she has no concept of tidying up, she jumbles stuff around as much as she can in the most ridiculous and presposterous manner (really, why should I find my mother's tank tops in my socks drawer?), manages to break things she doesn't even clean propperly and, according to my grandmother, who also employs her, she is no stranger to raiding the cookie jar or the chocolate drawer. Last, but not least, and just as a mere example of her mischeif, while making my bed she managed to put the quilt - a lovely beige faux fur quilt my mother gave me for Christmas - inside out. I mean, it's not even a stupidity thing - being stupid won't make you do such a thing - you have to be plain old mean. And don't tell me she got confused, it's a fur quilt - one side has lovely faux fur, the other is plain light maroon suede. It's a no-brainer. Sure, take advantage of the situation - the bed won't be checked until I come home for the weekend, she'll have some four days to laugh at imagining our faces when we find out.
Why would I say she gets all the breaks? Think about it: She has no education, no manners, no know how even of her self-chosen profession, and yet she has a job, and a well paid job, it seems, for she does manage to sustain herself, her husband and two children. But, most important of all, she manages to do such a poor job and not get fired. That, my friends, is one hell of a break.
Even the secret message has a bold tag.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark considers becoming a douchebag for a few breaks. But, then again, perhaps rightly earned breaks from hard work are more satisfying. And besides, being a douchebag seems like a lot of work... now watch me say it with a straight face.
Today's douchebag, and the very first douchebag to get a spot on this outrageously magnificent (at least you're reading it) blog is none other than my maid.
Why is she a douchebag? There's a number of reasons. She does a half arsed job at just about everything (i.e., ironing, cleaning...), she has no concept of tidying up, she jumbles stuff around as much as she can in the most ridiculous and presposterous manner (really, why should I find my mother's tank tops in my socks drawer?), manages to break things she doesn't even clean propperly and, according to my grandmother, who also employs her, she is no stranger to raiding the cookie jar or the chocolate drawer. Last, but not least, and just as a mere example of her mischeif, while making my bed she managed to put the quilt - a lovely beige faux fur quilt my mother gave me for Christmas - inside out. I mean, it's not even a stupidity thing - being stupid won't make you do such a thing - you have to be plain old mean. And don't tell me she got confused, it's a fur quilt - one side has lovely faux fur, the other is plain light maroon suede. It's a no-brainer. Sure, take advantage of the situation - the bed won't be checked until I come home for the weekend, she'll have some four days to laugh at imagining our faces when we find out.
Why would I say she gets all the breaks? Think about it: She has no education, no manners, no know how even of her self-chosen profession, and yet she has a job, and a well paid job, it seems, for she does manage to sustain herself, her husband and two children. But, most important of all, she manages to do such a poor job and not get fired. That, my friends, is one hell of a break.
Even the secret message has a bold tag.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark considers becoming a douchebag for a few breaks. But, then again, perhaps rightly earned breaks from hard work are more satisfying. And besides, being a douchebag seems like a lot of work... now watch me say it with a straight face.
Back in Black
It's a brand new semester out there, so go out and get yourselves a handful of it. It's a clean slate and nothing should stop you from realising every lst dream and abition.
Not yet, anyway.
As for me, well, at least now I know what's been giving me hell inthe form of back pain and sciatica. That's right, readers dearest (ooh, almost a play on words with popular publication's title Reader's Digest! How funny!), it's official now: I've got a hernia. And yes, sitting down is still torture and torment, standing is still tiresome, but at least my medication is quite adjusted. If only all of my reverend teachers agree to let me stand during their classes (oh, please, dear sirs, it's nothing much really, is it? I ask for nothing more) I'm sure everything will be just peachy until such time as I get my surgery, should I need it, or whatever treatment my neurosurgeon deems necessary. Alas, this is hardly why I started blogging in the first place. Onwards to nicer thoughts.
TV in this unnofficially third world country I'm forced to call home (for the time being... just you wait...) only recentely (yet not quite as recentely as it my sound here. Should we say a couple of months?) discovered "Tru Calling", featuring Eliza Dushku, Shawn Reaves and Zach Galifianakis, among others. On the review side, and I promise to make it brief, the young renegade Goth slayer gone evil from "Buffy" (what the hell was that, anyway? Vampires being beaten left and right by a cheerleader-ish bombshell? Lame! and the spin-off "Angel" -- the weakest, meekest vampire in creation, it would seem. Oh, Lestat and the likes of you, where art thou?) turnes out not to be just some tough chick made to wear three layers of make up and an attitude - she's an actress alright, if you give her a decent part. The premise of the whole show is pretty good, featuring a young medical school applicant, Tru Davies (Dushku) who works the night shift at the local morgue. As per her special gift, every once in a while a corpse will turn to her and cry out for help, after which she wakes up as though from a dream back at the start of the same day, and it's her job to prevent the death of whoever called to her post mortem. And, for my whole point, and although I do understand that haste would be of the essence in such a situation, must there be so many shots of Eliza Dushku running? Of course I understand the immense aesthetical boon of displaying her finely sculpted figure, and I too appreciate the beauty of the imagery and I really tire of finding a better euphemism for "ok, sure, it's hot", but must the show capitalise on it so much? I wonder how good the makers think it really is, if they have to embelish it that much. Nonetheless, I recommend it. if nothing else... well... you know.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark regrets that his spinal cord, unlike other sharks', isn't cartilaginous. The disc between L4 and L5 is really giving him hell, but hell get over it.
Not yet, anyway.
As for me, well, at least now I know what's been giving me hell inthe form of back pain and sciatica. That's right, readers dearest (ooh, almost a play on words with popular publication's title Reader's Digest! How funny!), it's official now: I've got a hernia. And yes, sitting down is still torture and torment, standing is still tiresome, but at least my medication is quite adjusted. If only all of my reverend teachers agree to let me stand during their classes (oh, please, dear sirs, it's nothing much really, is it? I ask for nothing more) I'm sure everything will be just peachy until such time as I get my surgery, should I need it, or whatever treatment my neurosurgeon deems necessary. Alas, this is hardly why I started blogging in the first place. Onwards to nicer thoughts.
TV in this unnofficially third world country I'm forced to call home (for the time being... just you wait...) only recentely (yet not quite as recentely as it my sound here. Should we say a couple of months?) discovered "Tru Calling", featuring Eliza Dushku, Shawn Reaves and Zach Galifianakis, among others. On the review side, and I promise to make it brief, the young renegade Goth slayer gone evil from "Buffy" (what the hell was that, anyway? Vampires being beaten left and right by a cheerleader-ish bombshell? Lame! and the spin-off "Angel" -- the weakest, meekest vampire in creation, it would seem. Oh, Lestat and the likes of you, where art thou?) turnes out not to be just some tough chick made to wear three layers of make up and an attitude - she's an actress alright, if you give her a decent part. The premise of the whole show is pretty good, featuring a young medical school applicant, Tru Davies (Dushku) who works the night shift at the local morgue. As per her special gift, every once in a while a corpse will turn to her and cry out for help, after which she wakes up as though from a dream back at the start of the same day, and it's her job to prevent the death of whoever called to her post mortem. And, for my whole point, and although I do understand that haste would be of the essence in such a situation, must there be so many shots of Eliza Dushku running? Of course I understand the immense aesthetical boon of displaying her finely sculpted figure, and I too appreciate the beauty of the imagery and I really tire of finding a better euphemism for "ok, sure, it's hot", but must the show capitalise on it so much? I wonder how good the makers think it really is, if they have to embelish it that much. Nonetheless, I recommend it. if nothing else... well... you know.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark regrets that his spinal cord, unlike other sharks', isn't cartilaginous. The disc between L4 and L5 is really giving him hell, but hell get over it.
Keyboard Trauma
Hello, my loyal readers. Today, I'll be caring about your health and your well being, to make up for my late self centered raving. Today I'm going to give a tip to all the keyboard potatoes (I just coined that combining the familiar object, keyboard, with the term, couch potato, to indicate someone who spends much of their time at their keyboard. Isn't it clever?). As you probably know (at least you should), one of the major health hazards of your typing intensive lifestyle is upper limbs distrophy, along with carpal tunnel syndrome and reduced sex life. I'm afraid I can do very little about the two latter, but for the former, I have a little piece of advice for you.
Mind you, I make no claims about how good it is.
First off, let's know a little something extra about the foe at hand. Upper limbs distrophya, in plain English, means the muscles on your arms become weak, so much so in fact that one may become unable to raise his arms above his head. It makes sense, because, unless you keep your keyboard above your head, which, I assume, isn't very comfortable, one usually rests his arms at about waist level as he types.
And now for the prevention. Yes, prevention, not cure. Sorry. Some, quite a few, in fact, will advise you to raise your arms above your head every now and then or wave them around periodically, but imagine how silly that looks. Furthermore, it draws attention from nearby co-workers, no to mention you have to remember to do it, and since it's not much fun, you'll most likely end up thinking of it as a chore. Nevertheless, I suppose you could stick to that. Meanwhile, I have my own ways.
First and foremost, you need silly putty. Clay or plasticine won't do, not as well, at least, but it's counterpart, Thinking Putty, will do superbly, and it might look more sensible. Now that you have your Weapon of Mass Distraction, shape it into a rod about as long as from the base of your piky to the tip of your thumb. Then held one end with your pinky and your ring fingers against your palm and the other with your index and thumb of the other hand. Now stretch it to about three times it's length, but don't tug too hard or it'll tear. SHould that happen, don't panic!!! Calm down, pinch the ends together, take a deep breath (or yawn, that might relax you further) and continue. Once it's three times as long as the initial rod, fold it in three, give it a little twist so the strands stick together and stetch again. After a few dozen stretches, switch hands. Because silly putty is only a litle tough, iy will give your upper arms a mild workout, and becuse it's silly, it's fun! (Thinking can be fun too, if you give it a try)
Why so much methodology? Everything has some reason behind it. The initial length of the putty rod isn't too important, it just feels more comfortable this way, to me, that is. Feel free to go another way. The reason you should hold it by the ends is to ensure no length of the rod goes unstretched, which could make the stretched part too thin, so thin it could break, and nobody wants that! Also I find that it stretches more evenly when you hold it by the ends. Finally, you should stretch to three times as long and fold in three is so that you don't get a thich end and a thin end, which usually happens if you fold it in two, since it tends to grow thin at the middle every time you stretch.
While this silly putty thing might not be much more sensible than holding up your arms like your computer has a gun at you or flapping your arms about as though swatting a swarm of flies, it's not quite as flashy.
So remember, if you stretch your putty while the kernell compiles and whatnot installs, your arms won't let you down too soon. And there may be hope for your sex life after all.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark got two tins of this wonderful Thinking Putty. Unfortunately, whatever thoughts this very entertaining putty has, it keeps them for itself... but it sure is fun to stretch.
Mind you, I make no claims about how good it is.
First off, let's know a little something extra about the foe at hand. Upper limbs distrophya, in plain English, means the muscles on your arms become weak, so much so in fact that one may become unable to raise his arms above his head. It makes sense, because, unless you keep your keyboard above your head, which, I assume, isn't very comfortable, one usually rests his arms at about waist level as he types.
And now for the prevention. Yes, prevention, not cure. Sorry. Some, quite a few, in fact, will advise you to raise your arms above your head every now and then or wave them around periodically, but imagine how silly that looks. Furthermore, it draws attention from nearby co-workers, no to mention you have to remember to do it, and since it's not much fun, you'll most likely end up thinking of it as a chore. Nevertheless, I suppose you could stick to that. Meanwhile, I have my own ways.
First and foremost, you need silly putty. Clay or plasticine won't do, not as well, at least, but it's counterpart, Thinking Putty, will do superbly, and it might look more sensible. Now that you have your Weapon of Mass Distraction, shape it into a rod about as long as from the base of your piky to the tip of your thumb. Then held one end with your pinky and your ring fingers against your palm and the other with your index and thumb of the other hand. Now stretch it to about three times it's length, but don't tug too hard or it'll tear. SHould that happen, don't panic!!! Calm down, pinch the ends together, take a deep breath (or yawn, that might relax you further) and continue. Once it's three times as long as the initial rod, fold it in three, give it a little twist so the strands stick together and stetch again. After a few dozen stretches, switch hands. Because silly putty is only a litle tough, iy will give your upper arms a mild workout, and becuse it's silly, it's fun! (Thinking can be fun too, if you give it a try)
Why so much methodology? Everything has some reason behind it. The initial length of the putty rod isn't too important, it just feels more comfortable this way, to me, that is. Feel free to go another way. The reason you should hold it by the ends is to ensure no length of the rod goes unstretched, which could make the stretched part too thin, so thin it could break, and nobody wants that! Also I find that it stretches more evenly when you hold it by the ends. Finally, you should stretch to three times as long and fold in three is so that you don't get a thich end and a thin end, which usually happens if you fold it in two, since it tends to grow thin at the middle every time you stretch.
While this silly putty thing might not be much more sensible than holding up your arms like your computer has a gun at you or flapping your arms about as though swatting a swarm of flies, it's not quite as flashy.
So remember, if you stretch your putty while the kernell compiles and whatnot installs, your arms won't let you down too soon. And there may be hope for your sex life after all.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark got two tins of this wonderful Thinking Putty. Unfortunately, whatever thoughts this very entertaining putty has, it keeps them for itself... but it sure is fun to stretch.
The pain...
It sears all the way down my leg nearly all the time. It really drives me to tears. I hate being dependant on pain killers and still not getting anything done. You see, I can't sit for very long, half an hour at the most, and I tire from standing a lot (and I mean a LOT. As in a "helluva" LOT) faster than I would without my back pain. The back support belt helps a (very) little, and if I wear it for too long I get all sorts of pain from the constriction on my gut, and the darn thing isn't even that tight - quite the contrary, really, sometimes I wish it would tighten a little.
Which brings me to my next point - for nearly a year I dieted - to great effect, really - and now I feeal as all has been for naught. The heavy workload last December left me with little time, let alone little will, to diet and I put on a little weight. Then come Christmas and New Year, and I don't suppose one's expected to diet at those times. Now, when I'd really get my act, not to mention my regime together, I can't walk the 2 Km for a diet meal every night. I can't even walk off the extra weight - it kills me to walk - limp, really - for longer than precious few minutes at a time, sometimes even less.
And guess what else - this year, for the first time since I got into college, i had felt that things really were going well, I was putting out good work, i was getting the grades I wanted and I had always known i could get, even if I hadn't really been getting them, and now, when all was going under way with only the small matter of exams to endy a great semester in glory, i find myself drowsy all the time from muscle relaxants and in pain from sitting at a desk, be it to study or to write the damned exam. Long story short, the whole semester, it feels, has been for naught as well. Even if I make the grades, it will be nothing like the grades I could make, the grades I've been working for for the last three months. And this year I can't even get the grades from the work done throughout the semester carry over to next year, when I would do a lot better, because with this, Bologne Process deal - as good a deal though it may be - next year the courses I've been working my bottom off for won't even exist any more.
It sucks
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is really going belly up with the pain. He even almost forgot to slip in a secret message.
Which brings me to my next point - for nearly a year I dieted - to great effect, really - and now I feeal as all has been for naught. The heavy workload last December left me with little time, let alone little will, to diet and I put on a little weight. Then come Christmas and New Year, and I don't suppose one's expected to diet at those times. Now, when I'd really get my act, not to mention my regime together, I can't walk the 2 Km for a diet meal every night. I can't even walk off the extra weight - it kills me to walk - limp, really - for longer than precious few minutes at a time, sometimes even less.
And guess what else - this year, for the first time since I got into college, i had felt that things really were going well, I was putting out good work, i was getting the grades I wanted and I had always known i could get, even if I hadn't really been getting them, and now, when all was going under way with only the small matter of exams to endy a great semester in glory, i find myself drowsy all the time from muscle relaxants and in pain from sitting at a desk, be it to study or to write the damned exam. Long story short, the whole semester, it feels, has been for naught as well. Even if I make the grades, it will be nothing like the grades I could make, the grades I've been working for for the last three months. And this year I can't even get the grades from the work done throughout the semester carry over to next year, when I would do a lot better, because with this, Bologne Process deal - as good a deal though it may be - next year the courses I've been working my bottom off for won't even exist any more.
It sucks
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is really going belly up with the pain. He even almost forgot to slip in a secret message.
Spam
Whew, seems like over a month since I last posted... Oh, wait!
Yep, over a month... December, my favourite month of the year (and not just because of Christmas), really had me all tied up - leet me rephrase that - really had me swamped. Between System Analysis and Artificial Intleigence, as well as some nonsence generally refered to as Corporate Management, I had my work cut out for me, and blogging was sadly left on hold for a while. Then comes Christmas, and you know it's plain rude to blog during Christmas Dinner and then the week I spend 51 weeks a year waiting for - London - and it's all worth it. So, here's the skinny: As if I cinically believe you would ever expect something skinny here...
The good:
London... What else is there to say? It's good! It's the place where I'd expect to find God vacationing if I weren't an atheist. It's the place - mark my words - where I can see myself living and thriving in five years or less.
Christmas... Well, it's usually fairly good, isn't it? Oh, sure, the religious meaning of the whole thing is way past lost, and I don't find myself waking every morning from December 1st to December 24th just itching to know what's under the wraps, but 'tis still the season to be merry and so on and so forth... live with it!
The bad:
That would be Michael Jackson, or so he claims.
Would you Adam and Eve it, I got a sciatic pain problem at my age? This is going to be a real bitch, since I can't stand for very long, I can't sit for more than half an hour without excruciating pain, I can only lie down in certain positions, I limp when I walk and I can't carry heavy weights. This is going to do wonders for the exam season, as my Network Architectures exam can state - it went like utter smeg. Mind you, the teacher - a great big kudos to him - was kind enough to let me retake it in about two weeks, provided that I get a medical certificate for my condition, but alas, I have a conflicting exam... thank you anyway!
The ugly:
Someone has been spreading around a rumor that I have 30 GB worth of pornography in my computer. Now, having been the "kid kids love to hate" in junior high, being the subject of nasty rumors is nothing new to me. Being the subject of nasty and plausible rumors is nothing new either. Having said rumors carried to my parents and having to dismiss them is still not new. Having them carried by someone I used to hold in great esteem is just plain hurtful. Not being told where said rumors come from, while still not new, is a clear message now, isn't it? So, to the Spreader of Such Rumors, hereafter refered to as "scum", may death not find you for another thousand millenia, but may grievance without end befall every single one of your living hours. Oh, and "fuck you", if you'll excuse my french.
The Spam:
Lots of it! Now, before you do something rash, I don't mean unsolicitd and potentially harmful e-mal - that would have been spam, not Spam. Nor do I mean processed and spiced canned pork. I mean, quite simply, Spamalot, a musical lovingly ripped from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail". I had the chance to watch it during my stay in London and I must say it is certainly amon all the other "best things since sliced bread", which, by the way, you can use to make a Spam sandwich - ripper! A must-see for all Monty Python lovers and non-Monty Python lovers (well, now, it's not they're fault they're that way...) alike.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark missed blogging. But break out the two-notes theme, 'Shark's back with a vengeance. Actually, make that a Vendetta.
Go figure...
Yep, over a month... December, my favourite month of the year (and not just because of Christmas), really had me all tied up - leet me rephrase that - really had me swamped. Between System Analysis and Artificial Intleigence, as well as some nonsence generally refered to as Corporate Management, I had my work cut out for me, and blogging was sadly left on hold for a while. Then comes Christmas, and you know it's plain rude to blog during Christmas Dinner and then the week I spend 51 weeks a year waiting for - London - and it's all worth it. So, here's the skinny: As if I cinically believe you would ever expect something skinny here...
The good:
London... What else is there to say? It's good! It's the place where I'd expect to find God vacationing if I weren't an atheist. It's the place - mark my words - where I can see myself living and thriving in five years or less.
Christmas... Well, it's usually fairly good, isn't it? Oh, sure, the religious meaning of the whole thing is way past lost, and I don't find myself waking every morning from December 1st to December 24th just itching to know what's under the wraps, but 'tis still the season to be merry and so on and so forth... live with it!
The bad:
That would be Michael Jackson, or so he claims.
Would you Adam and Eve it, I got a sciatic pain problem at my age? This is going to be a real bitch, since I can't stand for very long, I can't sit for more than half an hour without excruciating pain, I can only lie down in certain positions, I limp when I walk and I can't carry heavy weights. This is going to do wonders for the exam season, as my Network Architectures exam can state - it went like utter smeg. Mind you, the teacher - a great big kudos to him - was kind enough to let me retake it in about two weeks, provided that I get a medical certificate for my condition, but alas, I have a conflicting exam... thank you anyway!
The ugly:
Someone has been spreading around a rumor that I have 30 GB worth of pornography in my computer. Now, having been the "kid kids love to hate" in junior high, being the subject of nasty rumors is nothing new to me. Being the subject of nasty and plausible rumors is nothing new either. Having said rumors carried to my parents and having to dismiss them is still not new. Having them carried by someone I used to hold in great esteem is just plain hurtful. Not being told where said rumors come from, while still not new, is a clear message now, isn't it? So, to the Spreader of Such Rumors, hereafter refered to as "scum", may death not find you for another thousand millenia, but may grievance without end befall every single one of your living hours. Oh, and "fuck you", if you'll excuse my french.
The Spam:
Lots of it! Now, before you do something rash, I don't mean unsolicitd and potentially harmful e-mal - that would have been spam, not Spam. Nor do I mean processed and spiced canned pork. I mean, quite simply, Spamalot, a musical lovingly ripped from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail". I had the chance to watch it during my stay in London and I must say it is certainly amon all the other "best things since sliced bread", which, by the way, you can use to make a Spam sandwich - ripper! A must-see for all Monty Python lovers and non-Monty Python lovers (well, now, it's not they're fault they're that way...) alike.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark missed blogging. But break out the two-notes theme, 'Shark's back with a vengeance. Actually, make that a Vendetta.
Go figure...
Final Gamble
Some of you might not know this, some of you might. I am a Bond Fan.
Not a Bond Boy! Ugh, wierd!!!!!
Much to my dismay, however, the James Bond franchise, in spite of actor Pierce Brosnan's superb performance as Bond, has been disappointing me for some time now. Goldeneye infused the then though-to-be-declining franchise (especially because, if you recall, it was preceeded by a hiatus of mourning) with new life, but Tomorrw Never Dies failed to match it. Some would say The World Is Not Enough followed the same path, and much as I liked it myself, I have to say Die Another Day is a very dark stain on the world's favourite spy's permanent record, though by no means Bond's fault (at least not Mr. Brosnan's fault, that is). That said, upon hearing of a new bond movie in the making, many felt, as I did, that this was the franchise's last chance to redeem itself. Now, everyone out in the collective of countries other than but my own (hereafter refered to as "The Civilised World") must have either seen it by now or aren't planning on seeing it at all. for the few that remain, here's my review.
A typical Bond movie begins with the trademark gun barrel sequence, wich dissolves into the very first scene with the very first action sequence and a bond pun. This, my friends, is not a typical bond movie. The first action sequence preceedes the gun barrel, and change doesn't stop there. The opening credits sequence follows a very much unexplored graphical philosophy in bond movies, and quite the refreshing change that is. As for Bond Himself, Daniel Craig lives up to the bequeathal of his predecessors and then some.
Right off the bat, those who reveled in George Lazenby's experience as a martial arts instructor for the Australian army's experience put to great effect in realistic fight scenes - no wimpy punches, Roger Moore style - will be thrilled to experience this new Bond's great fight sequences, where realistic hand to hand combat in closed spaces seems to have been emphasised. That, alongside with many complex and no doubt extenuating stunts make for quite the phisically demanding film, but expect no silly, however visually gratifying stunts, Mission: Impossible style.
Charisma abounds, surpassing Moore, Lazenby and Dalton - though I'll hold off saying the same in relation to Brosnan or Connery - as do charm and wit. Quite noteworthy is Judi Dench's interpretation of M, who seems to have taken yet another (dis)liking to Bond, in more tense, yet humorous lines, masterfully delivered not only by Dench, but also by many other secondary characters, not the least of wich Felix Leiter, played by Jeffrey Wright. The villain for this movie seems to take on a deprecated stereotype, carefully re-implemmented to great effect.
Many tense scenes will keep you on the edge of your seat - a gambling scene in particular had me mumbling "five and seven of spades" into my fedora over and over again. Other staples of Bond movies are here as well - Aston Martin, gambling and vodka martini, among others - and in no small amount. Gadgets, however present, despite Q's absence, have been de-emphasised and "sobered down".
This new Bond won't be found suffering for the sake of a hero suffering, yet his stoicism and even spite in the face of agony can be found aplenty, and not without yet another handful of Bond-esque puns. Being a far less nether-regions-driven character, Craig's Bond, while not being a cold hearted Bond, is a far more cold eyed Bond in the face of danger, adversity and overwhelming odds. Alongside being a much more vengeful Bond than we've seen so far, Daniel Craig portrays a less knight and more hero/anti-hero balanced James Bond, as it would befit a James bond for an age when the elitistic separation between good and evil appears far less crisp and clear as before.
The franchise, I dare say, is saved. Good job, Sony Pictures, and Godspeed. For "Bond 22", which, I believe, is in the making already, that is.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
Shark, ArabianShark, too knows what M stands for. But you won't find it here.
Not a Bond Boy! Ugh, wierd!!!!!
Much to my dismay, however, the James Bond franchise, in spite of actor Pierce Brosnan's superb performance as Bond, has been disappointing me for some time now. Goldeneye infused the then though-to-be-declining franchise (especially because, if you recall, it was preceeded by a hiatus of mourning) with new life, but Tomorrw Never Dies failed to match it. Some would say The World Is Not Enough followed the same path, and much as I liked it myself, I have to say Die Another Day is a very dark stain on the world's favourite spy's permanent record, though by no means Bond's fault (at least not Mr. Brosnan's fault, that is). That said, upon hearing of a new bond movie in the making, many felt, as I did, that this was the franchise's last chance to redeem itself. Now, everyone out in the collective of countries other than but my own (hereafter refered to as "The Civilised World") must have either seen it by now or aren't planning on seeing it at all. for the few that remain, here's my review.
A typical Bond movie begins with the trademark gun barrel sequence, wich dissolves into the very first scene with the very first action sequence and a bond pun. This, my friends, is not a typical bond movie. The first action sequence preceedes the gun barrel, and change doesn't stop there. The opening credits sequence follows a very much unexplored graphical philosophy in bond movies, and quite the refreshing change that is. As for Bond Himself, Daniel Craig lives up to the bequeathal of his predecessors and then some.
Right off the bat, those who reveled in George Lazenby's experience as a martial arts instructor for the Australian army's experience put to great effect in realistic fight scenes - no wimpy punches, Roger Moore style - will be thrilled to experience this new Bond's great fight sequences, where realistic hand to hand combat in closed spaces seems to have been emphasised. That, alongside with many complex and no doubt extenuating stunts make for quite the phisically demanding film, but expect no silly, however visually gratifying stunts, Mission: Impossible style.
Charisma abounds, surpassing Moore, Lazenby and Dalton - though I'll hold off saying the same in relation to Brosnan or Connery - as do charm and wit. Quite noteworthy is Judi Dench's interpretation of M, who seems to have taken yet another (dis)liking to Bond, in more tense, yet humorous lines, masterfully delivered not only by Dench, but also by many other secondary characters, not the least of wich Felix Leiter, played by Jeffrey Wright. The villain for this movie seems to take on a deprecated stereotype, carefully re-implemmented to great effect.
Many tense scenes will keep you on the edge of your seat - a gambling scene in particular had me mumbling "five and seven of spades" into my fedora over and over again. Other staples of Bond movies are here as well - Aston Martin, gambling and vodka martini, among others - and in no small amount. Gadgets, however present, despite Q's absence, have been de-emphasised and "sobered down".
This new Bond won't be found suffering for the sake of a hero suffering, yet his stoicism and even spite in the face of agony can be found aplenty, and not without yet another handful of Bond-esque puns. Being a far less nether-regions-driven character, Craig's Bond, while not being a cold hearted Bond, is a far more cold eyed Bond in the face of danger, adversity and overwhelming odds. Alongside being a much more vengeful Bond than we've seen so far, Daniel Craig portrays a less knight and more hero/anti-hero balanced James Bond, as it would befit a James bond for an age when the elitistic separation between good and evil appears far less crisp and clear as before.
The franchise, I dare say, is saved. Good job, Sony Pictures, and Godspeed. For "Bond 22", which, I believe, is in the making already, that is.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
Shark, ArabianShark, too knows what M stands for. But you won't find it here.
At last!!!
So, figure this out...
I was just having dinner tonight (not my usual salad, but some different salad) when out of the blue (um... green?) I get this nagging feeling in my head. Turns out it was... words! Wonderful words! (OK, fair words. I mean, I like them. Get off me, won't you!) I can write again! My vampires (whom, if you recall, I keep in my socks drawer) will be unleashed for at least another prowl. I believe I found my muse. Think "How's your belly where the bat bit ya?".
In other news, my job satisfaction level is higher than ever. I mean, I had never realised what a handfull Systems Analysis could be, but it's a handfull I'm glad to handle. Heck, I hand't had so much fun with my work since... ever!
And for an extra bit of lore, "an apple a day keeps the doctor away". Well, I wouldn't know about that, but it did wonders for my heartburn. And, come to think of it, I haven't seen a single doctor all day long. Maybe it does work.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is quite tired, but even more so happy to let his vampires out again. Off you go, just be home before dawn.
I was just having dinner tonight (not my usual salad, but some different salad) when out of the blue (um... green?) I get this nagging feeling in my head. Turns out it was... words! Wonderful words! (OK, fair words. I mean, I like them. Get off me, won't you!) I can write again! My vampires (whom, if you recall, I keep in my socks drawer) will be unleashed for at least another prowl. I believe I found my muse. Think "How's your belly where the bat bit ya?".
In other news, my job satisfaction level is higher than ever. I mean, I had never realised what a handfull Systems Analysis could be, but it's a handfull I'm glad to handle. Heck, I hand't had so much fun with my work since... ever!
And for an extra bit of lore, "an apple a day keeps the doctor away". Well, I wouldn't know about that, but it did wonders for my heartburn. And, come to think of it, I haven't seen a single doctor all day long. Maybe it does work.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is quite tired, but even more so happy to let his vampires out again. Off you go, just be home before dawn.
Daylight saving time, part II
I'm sure you remember an entry of days gone by, known only as Daylight Saving Time. Onwards.
Error 1336: Error 1337 Imminent.
My Internal Clock (which, the geekiest among my readers might like to know, is a binary blue led one, not unlike those avaliable at Think Geek) feels much better now. And nothing quite like a 49 hours weekend to celebrate. Now, I really can't help but wonder: Where is all the saved daylight stored? Can everyone help themselves to some? Is it for sale? I suppose it would dramatically reduce my electricity bill if I could just crack open a bottle of 2006 saved daylight instead of flicking on the light switch every night. And whenever some small object rolls under a bed or a couch, who wouldn't like to be able to just unscrew a little hip flask of saved daylight rather than feeling with your fingertips around the dirty floor or finding that the batteries in your torch are dead as can be and you've been trying to get yourself to buy some since forever?
On the not-so-bright side, I have a question for my esteemed readers (both of them): At 1:40 A.M. this sunday, would you have said it was twenty to two or twenty to one? On one hand, forty minutes past one makes it twenty to two, but in twenty minutes it would be one again. See the issue?
Trick or treat? Both, I say, both! Trick me, what a treat wouldn't that be! A little fright for jollies, come, come! Halloween is nigh, and I'll be busy... not trick or treating, but reaping the early benefiths of the impending holliday, so I might as well make my point now. All Hallows Eve, or so it was believed by Saxon druids, was the day when witches and their likes walked the earth, and so one would be wise to look like one of them, so they'd find one akin to them and spare them any harm (or so I've been told). Saxon druids no longer abound, not even in good old UK, but the tradition lives on, as even today in one of their former colonies which shall not be named, little children come out on the streets dressed as ghouls and other fantasy archetypes more or less related to the old superstition to knock on doors and extort candy with the threat of tricks. I judge them no, lest they judge me, and, really, any chance for the little angels (or fiends, if it suits the occasion better) to get their hands on a little treat should ge promtly grasped... by the dentist, at the very least. A few thousand kilometers across the Ocean (and I mean over here, should you need that I spell it out), it hasn't been long since that tradition became popular as well. Sure, kids aren't carying carved pumpkins around and they don't even do it propperly, they just knock on your door all dressed up in whatever most wierd rags they can find and plastered with ridiculous amounts of ghastly make up and drably say "It's like, you know, it's Halloween and so..." and they can be dissuaded with as little as "... so?". What saddens me (very slightly only, mind you) is that we used to have our own similar tradition, although entirely unrelated to any such belief as the wenches of Satan roaming amongst common folk, and the theme phrase which takes the place of "Trick or treat" roughly translates to "bread by God", but that tradittion was forgotten a long time ago. It saddens me (agin, very, very slightly) that kids would rather inherit (poorly) a tradition from beyond the sea than perpetuate a nearly equal tradition deeply rooted in their own history and ancestry. Oh, well, what are you going to do about it... Kids there days...
Speaking of which... having several relatives who are teachers, I'm often confounded with some acts of not-so-brightness (to use a kinder expression) from their students. Now, you should know these are Junior Hgih and High School students only that we're talking about, but seeing how daft these kids can be sometimes, it scares me that someday I might find myself turning to them for medical attention or any other life-or-death sort of service. Immigration... now that's a word with a nice ring to it. Off to...
Do I have an error 1337 yet? No?
New Zealand, which formearly had motto quite similar to my own, is as far as you can get from here without the help of Oxygen-Hydrogen powered engines and a wicked strong heat-proof and air tight hull. For those kind folks Daylight Saving has just begun. Stay strong, it's only six months.
How about now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders if he should start saving Nightlight Time. Ah, good ol' days when I had a nightlight... '94, you'll hardly be forgotten... in spite of all the ugly business therein.
Error 1336: Error 1337 Imminent.
My Internal Clock (which, the geekiest among my readers might like to know, is a binary blue led one, not unlike those avaliable at Think Geek) feels much better now. And nothing quite like a 49 hours weekend to celebrate. Now, I really can't help but wonder: Where is all the saved daylight stored? Can everyone help themselves to some? Is it for sale? I suppose it would dramatically reduce my electricity bill if I could just crack open a bottle of 2006 saved daylight instead of flicking on the light switch every night. And whenever some small object rolls under a bed or a couch, who wouldn't like to be able to just unscrew a little hip flask of saved daylight rather than feeling with your fingertips around the dirty floor or finding that the batteries in your torch are dead as can be and you've been trying to get yourself to buy some since forever?
On the not-so-bright side, I have a question for my esteemed readers (both of them): At 1:40 A.M. this sunday, would you have said it was twenty to two or twenty to one? On one hand, forty minutes past one makes it twenty to two, but in twenty minutes it would be one again. See the issue?
Trick or treat? Both, I say, both! Trick me, what a treat wouldn't that be! A little fright for jollies, come, come! Halloween is nigh, and I'll be busy... not trick or treating, but reaping the early benefiths of the impending holliday, so I might as well make my point now. All Hallows Eve, or so it was believed by Saxon druids, was the day when witches and their likes walked the earth, and so one would be wise to look like one of them, so they'd find one akin to them and spare them any harm (or so I've been told). Saxon druids no longer abound, not even in good old UK, but the tradition lives on, as even today in one of their former colonies which shall not be named, little children come out on the streets dressed as ghouls and other fantasy archetypes more or less related to the old superstition to knock on doors and extort candy with the threat of tricks. I judge them no, lest they judge me, and, really, any chance for the little angels (or fiends, if it suits the occasion better) to get their hands on a little treat should ge promtly grasped... by the dentist, at the very least. A few thousand kilometers across the Ocean (and I mean over here, should you need that I spell it out), it hasn't been long since that tradition became popular as well. Sure, kids aren't carying carved pumpkins around and they don't even do it propperly, they just knock on your door all dressed up in whatever most wierd rags they can find and plastered with ridiculous amounts of ghastly make up and drably say "It's like, you know, it's Halloween and so..." and they can be dissuaded with as little as "... so?". What saddens me (very slightly only, mind you) is that we used to have our own similar tradition, although entirely unrelated to any such belief as the wenches of Satan roaming amongst common folk, and the theme phrase which takes the place of "Trick or treat" roughly translates to "bread by God", but that tradittion was forgotten a long time ago. It saddens me (agin, very, very slightly) that kids would rather inherit (poorly) a tradition from beyond the sea than perpetuate a nearly equal tradition deeply rooted in their own history and ancestry. Oh, well, what are you going to do about it... Kids there days...
Speaking of which... having several relatives who are teachers, I'm often confounded with some acts of not-so-brightness (to use a kinder expression) from their students. Now, you should know these are Junior Hgih and High School students only that we're talking about, but seeing how daft these kids can be sometimes, it scares me that someday I might find myself turning to them for medical attention or any other life-or-death sort of service. Immigration... now that's a word with a nice ring to it. Off to...
Do I have an error 1337 yet? No?
New Zealand, which formearly had motto quite similar to my own, is as far as you can get from here without the help of Oxygen-Hydrogen powered engines and a wicked strong heat-proof and air tight hull. For those kind folks Daylight Saving has just begun. Stay strong, it's only six months.
How about now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders if he should start saving Nightlight Time. Ah, good ol' days when I had a nightlight... '94, you'll hardly be forgotten... in spite of all the ugly business therein.
Windows Experience
Hello there!
Thinking about a Windows XP related entry, are we? Well, then, we're plain wrong! Today's entry will be about something far deeper. Far more unfathomable. Far more... senseless. Senseless is good, right? Onwards.
Let's try not to fall into error 1337 agian, shall we?
Staring through a window, the whole world looks and feels so unlike it does through empty air, doesn't it? Much like a movie pales in comparison with reality, so does a window often show a bland and drab world. And yet, what ineffable sensation is it one gets from a window? What magic property does the plain sheet of glass endow? It it transparence? Or is it... invisibility!
Ninja!!! ... OK, let's not do that again.
This magically wondeful effect hardly ever works on a ground floor window. But part of the magic of it is that... it does work, on occasion.
Staring through a window, a small window, likely a dirty one, smudged with dirt and dust, high atop on a third floor, looking down at people on the street, going about their lives... it all can seem so surreal at times. Partially because you can't (usually) listen to them, partially because you can see a larger picture than when you're among them... it feels quite different. But most importantly, you know, or at least feel like they can't see you, that they're unnaware that you're there... looking at them... watching them... And so, while it should hardly strike you as surprising that a window, when looked through from the outside should become quite the voyeuristic object, isn't it strange that it should become just as voyeuristic an object when looked out of? But most strikingly, isn't it funny how invisible one can feel when just looking out a window?
Have no clue what the hell I'm talking about? Just look out any old window and wave at someone. And then at someone else. And then wave at some more people. Then count how many waves back you got.
Can you feel it now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to take this opportunity to discourage most other sharks to do any such thing. If, by any chance, there's a window a shark can look out of, most likely the people on the other side are indeed able and most willing to see it.
Thinking about a Windows XP related entry, are we? Well, then, we're plain wrong! Today's entry will be about something far deeper. Far more unfathomable. Far more... senseless. Senseless is good, right? Onwards.
Let's try not to fall into error 1337 agian, shall we?
Staring through a window, the whole world looks and feels so unlike it does through empty air, doesn't it? Much like a movie pales in comparison with reality, so does a window often show a bland and drab world. And yet, what ineffable sensation is it one gets from a window? What magic property does the plain sheet of glass endow? It it transparence? Or is it... invisibility!
Ninja!!! ... OK, let's not do that again.
This magically wondeful effect hardly ever works on a ground floor window. But part of the magic of it is that... it does work, on occasion.
Staring through a window, a small window, likely a dirty one, smudged with dirt and dust, high atop on a third floor, looking down at people on the street, going about their lives... it all can seem so surreal at times. Partially because you can't (usually) listen to them, partially because you can see a larger picture than when you're among them... it feels quite different. But most importantly, you know, or at least feel like they can't see you, that they're unnaware that you're there... looking at them... watching them... And so, while it should hardly strike you as surprising that a window, when looked through from the outside should become quite the voyeuristic object, isn't it strange that it should become just as voyeuristic an object when looked out of? But most strikingly, isn't it funny how invisible one can feel when just looking out a window?
Have no clue what the hell I'm talking about? Just look out any old window and wave at someone. And then at someone else. And then wave at some more people. Then count how many waves back you got.
Can you feel it now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to take this opportunity to discourage most other sharks to do any such thing. If, by any chance, there's a window a shark can look out of, most likely the people on the other side are indeed able and most willing to see it.
Never blog in anger...
Today's post wasn't going to be even remotely simillar to what it'll turn out to be. Nor will it be even slightly similar to the wide majority of all entries. Live with it!
Sir Austin Danger Powers, KBE's father, Nigel Powers (thank you very much, Mr. Caine), hated (or is it "hates"?) only two sorts of people: people intolerant of other cultures and the Dutch. I myself am yet to meet any Dutch person, nor have I ever been to the Netherlands, thus, I cannot possibly tell what might Mr. Powers hold against the Dutch. Now the French, however, are a pet peeve of mine.
Is it pollitically incorrect to say such a thing? I'm sure it is, but, really, I can't bring myself to lie on this. I've seen the French tourists in my country be nothing but obnoxious, refusing to even attempt to speak the native tongue (or any other tongue besides their own, not even any one the natives might be fluent in or at least familiar with. "English, motherfucker, do you speak it!?" Thank you, Mr. Jackson), I've seen the French being obnoxious abroad (Dominican Republic, Summer of 1999 and the UK, last week of 2005. Appearentely, it was my fault that I had a breathing condition and I was struggling and gasping for breath and thus I should take lip from some French snot because I was "ruining" her otherwise perfect evening at the opera.) and, needless to say, I've seen the French be obnoxious in France, where I should never return unless heavily (and, ironically, I mean heavilly) coherced. The French can have all of France to themselves, for all I care, and, by all means, never, ever leave. And really, I ask of you, what good things have come from France? Champagne? I'd very much settle for (prefer, actually) fine Itallian sparkling wine. Cognac? What's wrong with brandy? French movies? The endless futility of French fashion and cosmetics? Prolog? Oh please...
This, however, takes the cake. How is it that non-French scientists have never thought of this? Well, I suppose one could say they're all fatter than the French scientologists... ahem, scientists. I'd never think I'd say this, but now I very much support the Americans' decision of deprecating the phrase "french fries" in favour of "freedom fries". As for me, I'll never eat another francesinha until they change its name.
Well, then, my BMI, once of 34.259, is now 27.778 and I dare this bold statement: my overwheight tummy is smarter than all of your skinny French arses combined. Come prove me wrong!
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless you're French, that is, in which case "vale" won't really apply, would it? And "Pax"...
ArabianShark would like to take this chance to advertise to all man-eating sharks out there that Frenchman meat is, it would appear, extremely lean and quite the smart food. Get them while they last.
Sir Austin Danger Powers, KBE's father, Nigel Powers (thank you very much, Mr. Caine), hated (or is it "hates"?) only two sorts of people: people intolerant of other cultures and the Dutch. I myself am yet to meet any Dutch person, nor have I ever been to the Netherlands, thus, I cannot possibly tell what might Mr. Powers hold against the Dutch. Now the French, however, are a pet peeve of mine.
Is it pollitically incorrect to say such a thing? I'm sure it is, but, really, I can't bring myself to lie on this. I've seen the French tourists in my country be nothing but obnoxious, refusing to even attempt to speak the native tongue (or any other tongue besides their own, not even any one the natives might be fluent in or at least familiar with. "English, motherfucker, do you speak it!?" Thank you, Mr. Jackson), I've seen the French being obnoxious abroad (Dominican Republic, Summer of 1999 and the UK, last week of 2005. Appearentely, it was my fault that I had a breathing condition and I was struggling and gasping for breath and thus I should take lip from some French snot because I was "ruining" her otherwise perfect evening at the opera.) and, needless to say, I've seen the French be obnoxious in France, where I should never return unless heavily (and, ironically, I mean heavilly) coherced. The French can have all of France to themselves, for all I care, and, by all means, never, ever leave. And really, I ask of you, what good things have come from France? Champagne? I'd very much settle for (prefer, actually) fine Itallian sparkling wine. Cognac? What's wrong with brandy? French movies? The endless futility of French fashion and cosmetics? Prolog? Oh please...
This, however, takes the cake. How is it that non-French scientists have never thought of this? Well, I suppose one could say they're all fatter than the French scientologists... ahem, scientists. I'd never think I'd say this, but now I very much support the Americans' decision of deprecating the phrase "french fries" in favour of "freedom fries". As for me, I'll never eat another francesinha until they change its name.
Well, then, my BMI, once of 34.259, is now 27.778 and I dare this bold statement: my overwheight tummy is smarter than all of your skinny French arses combined. Come prove me wrong!
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless you're French, that is, in which case "vale" won't really apply, would it? And "Pax"...
ArabianShark would like to take this chance to advertise to all man-eating sharks out there that Frenchman meat is, it would appear, extremely lean and quite the smart food. Get them while they last.
Psyched
After a rocky start, it's one of those days. What sort of days, you ask? The sort of days when the fluffy sky blue tinted sunstruck cluds look all the more pretty and one feels ten feet tall and utterly unstoppable with as little encouragement as Beethoven's Fifth randomly popping up on his MP3 player. notice how I used a generic "MP3 player" instead of an all too common "iPod" and the likes.
You could say I'm high. You could then ask what I'm high on. Well, love, two words for you: Job Satisfaction. Nothing quite like it. Instant, long lasting high with no sided effects and perks upon perks.
Cue in guest voice: Mike Myers's Austin Powers.
"Yeah, baby!"
Back on track, then. What got me this high? And why do I ask all these questions? Well, one thing at the time, won't you! Firs things first. Do you know Magic: the Gathering? It's a Trading Card Game set in a mystical environment where two (or more) sorcerers battle amongst themselves with magic spells. If you'd like to know more about the game, here, have a link, they don't pay me to advertise their game for them. I'll merely state it's an aquired taste and not for the very meek, for it takes time, practice and preserveerance to get the hang of it, but once you do it's countless hours of fun. It's not for the very poor either, unless you find a casual circle where you can just scribble the cards' names on any old piece of paper you can shove into a propper card sleeve and call it a playable proxy. Either that or Apprentice. And here's the kicker: I managed to make my Systems Analysis project, which should carry on to Databases Handling next semester, be about that. Job satisfaction, love!
I rule!!!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is barely skimming on his territorial waters today. He's practically flying over them.
You could say I'm high. You could then ask what I'm high on. Well, love, two words for you: Job Satisfaction. Nothing quite like it. Instant, long lasting high with no sided effects and perks upon perks.
Cue in guest voice: Mike Myers's Austin Powers.
"Yeah, baby!"
Back on track, then. What got me this high? And why do I ask all these questions? Well, one thing at the time, won't you! Firs things first. Do you know Magic: the Gathering? It's a Trading Card Game set in a mystical environment where two (or more) sorcerers battle amongst themselves with magic spells. If you'd like to know more about the game, here, have a link, they don't pay me to advertise their game for them. I'll merely state it's an aquired taste and not for the very meek, for it takes time, practice and preserveerance to get the hang of it, but once you do it's countless hours of fun. It's not for the very poor either, unless you find a casual circle where you can just scribble the cards' names on any old piece of paper you can shove into a propper card sleeve and call it a playable proxy. Either that or Apprentice. And here's the kicker: I managed to make my Systems Analysis project, which should carry on to Databases Handling next semester, be about that. Job satisfaction, love!
I rule!!!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is barely skimming on his territorial waters today. He's practically flying over them.
Ephemerality
Have I ever told you about the place where I usually go for dinner? I figure now's as good a time as ever. Ergo...
Months ago (nearing twelve of them now) I went searching for a fast food place that wouldn't make my scale go "One at a time, please" or "No livestock!". I'm not much of a cook (or at least can't be bothered to be much of a cook night in and night out) and à la carte is a luxury my budget can't withstand on a daily basis. The fast food chain whose name starts with M, ends with s, contains the letters "cDonald" and shall remain unnamed was very obviously not a choice. Many other places provide a very narrow choice of two or three dishes and are very affordable (because you get no service to pay for, othar than putting the food on the tray you carry to a free table and busing the tray), but they too weren't all that kind to my scale. Enter the salad joint.
This place too offers little service: you pay (a little bit more than you'd like to) upfront, they make your salad (or sandwich) there and then, before your eyes and bus your tray when you're done and, if you're lucky, you get a good glimpse at a pair of the (second) most beautiful blue eyes... but I digress. Onwards.
Why do I go there every night? First off, it's a bit far from home. Now, I don't drive, so I walk, nearly a mile to get there and another on my way back, but, in my book, that's a perk. I love to walk, at my pace, no rush (or wait... my pace has been called "fast-ish"), and I don't get much of a chance to do it. Then, there's the healthy food factor. Salads and fruit do a body good, remember? And there's always the blue eyes...
A few days ago, I got a good snicker out of some character I spotted there. People there are usually like people everywhere: all the same, equal to myself and each other. Sure, they all have that little (or maybe not so little) something that makes them special and unique in their own ways, but you never notice it, unless you try. Not this character. He's prancing around in a brand new designer black pinstripped suit with a broad collar white shirt, top button undone in casual chic fashion, topped off with designer reading glasses, in a place where there isn't as much as a menu to read. Needless to say, he wasn't carying a book with him. I mean, really, where have you heard of a designer book? The only non-designer object about him was his top-of-the-line Nokia Communicator, which he boasted about with broad gestures, talking with his escort. I (almost) wonder why on Earth he was holding his phone if the person he was talking to was sitting right in front of him. Now I could tell you of the broad gestures (which I believe I did) or the arrongant disdain with which he looked around and down on everyone around him or the smugness of his every atitude, but I think you already get the picture of how much better than everyone else this character though himself to be.
Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against a healthy dose of materialism. I myself have some very prized posessions which I like very much and am very proud of, but they don't define me. I created them (um... bought them... ahem). They are mine, not the other way around, and I know, and don't fear, that some day I might just wake up and find that they are no longer what they used to be or not even there at all. Just as easily, they might be replaced. My point? Posession is good, much as the Jedi forbid it, but it's neither the beginning nor the end of the world as we know it. It's not the stake or the teeth, just the spice. (hey, it's a food entry after all)
You know what I realise about the charecter with the world at his fingertips? Someday he'll wake up and find that the suit doesn't fit him, the glasses are nowhere thick enough, the phone is some old piece of junk and his hair, once carefully cut and styled, has all but fallen off his scalp. All his possessions will then mean nothing to him, and the truth that he's not as better than everyone else as he once thought (or at all, for that matter) will strike him as all the more bitter. But, most importantly, and though he might not realise it, the salad he (thought he) bought was only rented, and if he ever logs on to World of Warcraft, he'll be pweend left and right like everyone else. And that's worth a little snicker to me.
In other news, the cat welded my fish to great effect. Thank you!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will go on treasuring his posessions, for he has not all he likes, but he likes all he has.
Months ago (nearing twelve of them now) I went searching for a fast food place that wouldn't make my scale go "One at a time, please" or "No livestock!". I'm not much of a cook (or at least can't be bothered to be much of a cook night in and night out) and à la carte is a luxury my budget can't withstand on a daily basis. The fast food chain whose name starts with M, ends with s, contains the letters "cDonald" and shall remain unnamed was very obviously not a choice. Many other places provide a very narrow choice of two or three dishes and are very affordable (because you get no service to pay for, othar than putting the food on the tray you carry to a free table and busing the tray), but they too weren't all that kind to my scale. Enter the salad joint.
This place too offers little service: you pay (a little bit more than you'd like to) upfront, they make your salad (or sandwich) there and then, before your eyes and bus your tray when you're done and, if you're lucky, you get a good glimpse at a pair of the (second) most beautiful blue eyes... but I digress. Onwards.
Why do I go there every night? First off, it's a bit far from home. Now, I don't drive, so I walk, nearly a mile to get there and another on my way back, but, in my book, that's a perk. I love to walk, at my pace, no rush (or wait... my pace has been called "fast-ish"), and I don't get much of a chance to do it. Then, there's the healthy food factor. Salads and fruit do a body good, remember? And there's always the blue eyes...
A few days ago, I got a good snicker out of some character I spotted there. People there are usually like people everywhere: all the same, equal to myself and each other. Sure, they all have that little (or maybe not so little) something that makes them special and unique in their own ways, but you never notice it, unless you try. Not this character. He's prancing around in a brand new designer black pinstripped suit with a broad collar white shirt, top button undone in casual chic fashion, topped off with designer reading glasses, in a place where there isn't as much as a menu to read. Needless to say, he wasn't carying a book with him. I mean, really, where have you heard of a designer book? The only non-designer object about him was his top-of-the-line Nokia Communicator, which he boasted about with broad gestures, talking with his escort. I (almost) wonder why on Earth he was holding his phone if the person he was talking to was sitting right in front of him. Now I could tell you of the broad gestures (which I believe I did) or the arrongant disdain with which he looked around and down on everyone around him or the smugness of his every atitude, but I think you already get the picture of how much better than everyone else this character though himself to be.
Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against a healthy dose of materialism. I myself have some very prized posessions which I like very much and am very proud of, but they don't define me. I created them (um... bought them... ahem). They are mine, not the other way around, and I know, and don't fear, that some day I might just wake up and find that they are no longer what they used to be or not even there at all. Just as easily, they might be replaced. My point? Posession is good, much as the Jedi forbid it, but it's neither the beginning nor the end of the world as we know it. It's not the stake or the teeth, just the spice. (hey, it's a food entry after all)
You know what I realise about the charecter with the world at his fingertips? Someday he'll wake up and find that the suit doesn't fit him, the glasses are nowhere thick enough, the phone is some old piece of junk and his hair, once carefully cut and styled, has all but fallen off his scalp. All his possessions will then mean nothing to him, and the truth that he's not as better than everyone else as he once thought (or at all, for that matter) will strike him as all the more bitter. But, most importantly, and though he might not realise it, the salad he (thought he) bought was only rented, and if he ever logs on to World of Warcraft, he'll be pweend left and right like everyone else. And that's worth a little snicker to me.
In other news, the cat welded my fish to great effect. Thank you!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will go on treasuring his posessions, for he has not all he likes, but he likes all he has.
Fairyland
Today's post was going to be a mellow one, about how things are turning out nicely this semester and how I've managed to nearly finish September without losing momentum. Well, that was this morning. Much (not really) has changed since then.
I still haven't lost momentum, that much is true. Onwards. Raving time.
Prolog - It's supposed to stand for Programming with (first order) Logic. Well, it doesn't seem all that logical to me that a variable can be instanciated, but not changed. It's a bloody variable! What part of "variable" don't you understand? It's supposed to change! That's why it's not called a bloody constant. That was half a seemester lost, a little over a year ago. LISP might have been more useful, or at least it's said to be useful when developing Artificial Inteligence, which is the course that stuck me with the hell-spawn (actually, France-spawn... coincidence? Stay tuneed for more on that sometime) interpreted language. I can't help to feel like I'd be better off with good ol' C.
Movies - "World Trade Center" has premiered over here, but when has anyone ever heard of such a thing as a screening of "Loose Change"? In case you don't know, "Loose Change" is a film about 9/11, suggesting (and corroborating it's implications with testimony and evidence) that the attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon was not commited by Middle Eastern Terrorists. It's featured on Google video, just look it up and prepare for a very large download, but an interesting documentary. The warning at the end says the FBI (or some other law enforcing branch of the USA) has orders to arrest anyone carrying that film on DVD, so unless you live somewhere where there is no censorship, neither the blatant nor the hypocrit type, perhaps you shouldn't record it to a CD or a DVD. I'd say it should still be alright to download it and view it, but the laws of the Land of the Free baffle me: you can purchase ammunition for your 9mm handgun at most supermarkets, provided they have a license to sell hunting supplies, and don't ask who'd go hunting geese with a Glock 9mm, but you can't carry around a documentary on DVD. I'm not even sure you can be reading this blog without risking an FBI or CIA or TLA agent showing up at your door to protect your freedom. My advice: ... Oh, come on, you didn't come here looking for advice. At any rate, my point is that even movie studios are willing to show you a documentary on any given topic, but hardly willing (if willing at all) to show youa documentary about the very same topic from another point of view. Farenheit 911? With all due respect to Mr. Michael Moore, it doesn't even come close, even though it does cover several other areas. Come to think of it, I'll just sign my death sentence with the Bush Administration and say it: watch both. My point is (was?), even movies have become a vehicle for propaganda, and no, it hasnn't always been so. We can discuss this later.
Vampires - I can't write... I just can't. For the life of me, I can't. I have all this great imagery in my head, all these vivid details, all this great (I like it, and that suffices) story in my head, but for the life of me I can't put it in words. It's getting me down. Which makes me unable to write, which gets me down and so on and so forth. And don't give me non of that "sazonal depression" crap just because we're past the...
Equinox - At last, it's Autumn. No more "early evening meal", my favourite meal is back: dinner! Now, if we could only dial down the sun and the heat a little... Can we? Please? And can we make up our minds about the "water falling from above" thing? Get some rain down here, already. The foggy morning preceding the bright sunny day thin gets old really fast, now make the grass grow so cows can eat it and grow dreat juicy tender sirloin stakes so we can have... dinner! Did I mention dinner is back?
Management - It's a known fact that students love and hate courses based on who lectures them, so can we make up our minds about how is the Management Course for this season going to be? Will it be Monday-clear-and-concise, kind-management-department-teacher style or Thursday-obscure-football-metaphore-o-rama, aggressive-and-insecure-management-department-teacher style? Either way is fine, though I need not tell which one I'd prefer; I'll give my best anyhow, I just might (or not) enjoy it. Which brings me to...
Thursday-obscure-football-metaphore-o-rama, aggressive-and-insecure-management-department-teacher style - All my life, up until comming to college, I had been ostracised for not liking, not following and not having the slightest interest of some sport where 20 or so men run after a ball for nearly two hours, struggling to get some sort of unfair advantage without letting some manner of triumvirate of judges find out. I even got told off for not recognising the description of some so-called world-renowed football players. That Scottish redhead idiot... Thought I was tryng to be funny? Pulling a prank? How do you think that made me feel? I had enough ostracising without your help, thank you very much. And now, 10 years after that incident, after four blissfully football related ostracising free years, Mr. No-self-confidence-compensated-by-uncalled-aggressivity (I really must dedicate an entry to this topic...) decides it's a good idea to bring back the old recurring nightmare. Have you any idea of the self loathing the likes of you out me through because of my inability to like your silly little game until I realised there was nothing wrong with me, bastard? So put a worn, smelly, sweatty football sock in it already! Go root for your team and get forked! A play on words... how unusual of me.
Now, if you have your calendar handy, you'll notice this is being written on a Wednesday late night. See what I'm looking at in a few hours? So don't give me no "Sazonal depression" crap. I've every right to be upset. Furthermore, Have you ever had the feeling that everyone/thing is out to get you? It has been one of those days. On the other hand, I just know I'll feel better (much better indeed) in 90 days, and Christams will have little to do with it. Or rather, it might have something to do with it, but I just know I'll feel better regardless. 90 days, then... Might as well be 90 years from where I'm looking at it. "Patience, Grasshopper, patience."
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
Arabianshark would like to reassure his readers (both of them) that "vale", although discordant in number with "vobiscum", is well employed, as the form "valete" is not used with the same meaning. Now don't tell me that isn't a load off your chest...
I still haven't lost momentum, that much is true. Onwards. Raving time.
Prolog - It's supposed to stand for Programming with (first order) Logic. Well, it doesn't seem all that logical to me that a variable can be instanciated, but not changed. It's a bloody variable! What part of "variable" don't you understand? It's supposed to change! That's why it's not called a bloody constant. That was half a seemester lost, a little over a year ago. LISP might have been more useful, or at least it's said to be useful when developing Artificial Inteligence, which is the course that stuck me with the hell-spawn (actually, France-spawn... coincidence? Stay tuneed for more on that sometime) interpreted language. I can't help to feel like I'd be better off with good ol' C.
Movies - "World Trade Center" has premiered over here, but when has anyone ever heard of such a thing as a screening of "Loose Change"? In case you don't know, "Loose Change" is a film about 9/11, suggesting (and corroborating it's implications with testimony and evidence) that the attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon was not commited by Middle Eastern Terrorists. It's featured on Google video, just look it up and prepare for a very large download, but an interesting documentary. The warning at the end says the FBI (or some other law enforcing branch of the USA) has orders to arrest anyone carrying that film on DVD, so unless you live somewhere where there is no censorship, neither the blatant nor the hypocrit type, perhaps you shouldn't record it to a CD or a DVD. I'd say it should still be alright to download it and view it, but the laws of the Land of the Free baffle me: you can purchase ammunition for your 9mm handgun at most supermarkets, provided they have a license to sell hunting supplies, and don't ask who'd go hunting geese with a Glock 9mm, but you can't carry around a documentary on DVD. I'm not even sure you can be reading this blog without risking an FBI or CIA or TLA agent showing up at your door to protect your freedom. My advice: ... Oh, come on, you didn't come here looking for advice. At any rate, my point is that even movie studios are willing to show you a documentary on any given topic, but hardly willing (if willing at all) to show youa documentary about the very same topic from another point of view. Farenheit 911? With all due respect to Mr. Michael Moore, it doesn't even come close, even though it does cover several other areas. Come to think of it, I'll just sign my death sentence with the Bush Administration and say it: watch both. My point is (was?), even movies have become a vehicle for propaganda, and no, it hasnn't always been so. We can discuss this later.
Vampires - I can't write... I just can't. For the life of me, I can't. I have all this great imagery in my head, all these vivid details, all this great (I like it, and that suffices) story in my head, but for the life of me I can't put it in words. It's getting me down. Which makes me unable to write, which gets me down and so on and so forth. And don't give me non of that "sazonal depression" crap just because we're past the...
Equinox - At last, it's Autumn. No more "early evening meal", my favourite meal is back: dinner! Now, if we could only dial down the sun and the heat a little... Can we? Please? And can we make up our minds about the "water falling from above" thing? Get some rain down here, already. The foggy morning preceding the bright sunny day thin gets old really fast, now make the grass grow so cows can eat it and grow dreat juicy tender sirloin stakes so we can have... dinner! Did I mention dinner is back?
Management - It's a known fact that students love and hate courses based on who lectures them, so can we make up our minds about how is the Management Course for this season going to be? Will it be Monday-clear-and-concise, kind-management-department-teacher style or Thursday-obscure-football-metaphore-o-rama, aggressive-and-insecure-management-department-teacher style? Either way is fine, though I need not tell which one I'd prefer; I'll give my best anyhow, I just might (or not) enjoy it. Which brings me to...
Thursday-obscure-football-metaphore-o-rama, aggressive-and-insecure-management-department-teacher style - All my life, up until comming to college, I had been ostracised for not liking, not following and not having the slightest interest of some sport where 20 or so men run after a ball for nearly two hours, struggling to get some sort of unfair advantage without letting some manner of triumvirate of judges find out. I even got told off for not recognising the description of some so-called world-renowed football players. That Scottish redhead idiot... Thought I was tryng to be funny? Pulling a prank? How do you think that made me feel? I had enough ostracising without your help, thank you very much. And now, 10 years after that incident, after four blissfully football related ostracising free years, Mr. No-self-confidence-compensated-by-uncalled-aggressivity (I really must dedicate an entry to this topic...) decides it's a good idea to bring back the old recurring nightmare. Have you any idea of the self loathing the likes of you out me through because of my inability to like your silly little game until I realised there was nothing wrong with me, bastard? So put a worn, smelly, sweatty football sock in it already! Go root for your team and get forked! A play on words... how unusual of me.
Now, if you have your calendar handy, you'll notice this is being written on a Wednesday late night. See what I'm looking at in a few hours? So don't give me no "Sazonal depression" crap. I've every right to be upset. Furthermore, Have you ever had the feeling that everyone/thing is out to get you? It has been one of those days. On the other hand, I just know I'll feel better (much better indeed) in 90 days, and Christams will have little to do with it. Or rather, it might have something to do with it, but I just know I'll feel better regardless. 90 days, then... Might as well be 90 years from where I'm looking at it. "Patience, Grasshopper, patience."
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
Arabianshark would like to reassure his readers (both of them) that "vale", although discordant in number with "vobiscum", is well employed, as the form "valete" is not used with the same meaning. Now don't tell me that isn't a load off your chest...
You haven't seen the last of me yet...
... but, damn, has it been some time since we last spoke. OK, since I last spoke... to you... to all of you... at once... oh, you get my point. Onwards.
So much could be told I thought of leaking it in several small(ish) posts over the next few days, but I really don't have the patience for it. Many posts on one day? I like my oversized rantings like my online video streams: continuous and seamless. So put your seating pants on and brace yourselves.
First blood has been drawn. The semester begun at last. Or already. I suppose it deppends on how your vacation was. I was pretty much looking forward to it, and so far, I haven't lost momentum. This could be the prelude of a good semester, despite that nasty currcular revision business and new evaluaion rules. Stay tuned.
Is a rounded V a U? I don't think so. An O? Not likely. A D? How about a DD? No, we're not talking about bra cup sizes (yet). By now you should know this sort of nutty rambling precedes some reference to "V for Vendetta", which is now (Oh, shock!) avaliable in DVD. Sure, I'm late to tell, but I got my hands on mine one day before the official release date. Chalk it up to incompetence, overzealousness or plain need for less-than-dinkum edge on the retailer's part. the malicious in me leans towards the first choice.
I'm not a hardcore gamer, but I like some gaming now and then... some polygonal escape from the drab and dull everyday hustle and bustle and a little pixelated parade of pleasures pertaining not to the pale paradigm of... you know what, I really can't alliterate, for the life of me, I can't. However, I still found this interesting and amusing. And I happen to agree with most of it too.
My vampires, who been on hiatus since early June might be comming back for the Triology soon. I know I'm looking forward to it. In other news, I just met someone today whose browser configuration bypassed the template for this page, showing my secret messages. Yes, I mean you. Or do I?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is glad to be back to all of those little things that make life neat. The courses, the blogs, the would-be witty lines...
So much could be told I thought of leaking it in several small(ish) posts over the next few days, but I really don't have the patience for it. Many posts on one day? I like my oversized rantings like my online video streams: continuous and seamless. So put your seating pants on and brace yourselves.
First blood has been drawn. The semester begun at last. Or already. I suppose it deppends on how your vacation was. I was pretty much looking forward to it, and so far, I haven't lost momentum. This could be the prelude of a good semester, despite that nasty currcular revision business and new evaluaion rules. Stay tuned.
Is a rounded V a U? I don't think so. An O? Not likely. A D? How about a DD? No, we're not talking about bra cup sizes (yet). By now you should know this sort of nutty rambling precedes some reference to "V for Vendetta", which is now (Oh, shock!) avaliable in DVD. Sure, I'm late to tell, but I got my hands on mine one day before the official release date. Chalk it up to incompetence, overzealousness or plain need for less-than-dinkum edge on the retailer's part. the malicious in me leans towards the first choice.
I'm not a hardcore gamer, but I like some gaming now and then... some polygonal escape from the drab and dull everyday hustle and bustle and a little pixelated parade of pleasures pertaining not to the pale paradigm of... you know what, I really can't alliterate, for the life of me, I can't. However, I still found this interesting and amusing. And I happen to agree with most of it too.
My vampires, who been on hiatus since early June might be comming back for the Triology soon. I know I'm looking forward to it. In other news, I just met someone today whose browser configuration bypassed the template for this page, showing my secret messages. Yes, I mean you. Or do I?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is glad to be back to all of those little things that make life neat. The courses, the blogs, the would-be witty lines...
When RTFM isn't enough
I'm assuming everyone here knows what RTFM means. If not, well, SNAFU, which, as you most likely know, means Situation Normal (or Nominal, in some cases), All Fouled (or a similar adjective, stemming from another four letter word beginning with f) Up. Likewise, RTFM means Read The Friendly (and, again, F can stand for other adjectives...) Manual. If you already knew this, then SUSFU. Onwards.SUSFU, by the way, means Situation Unchanged, Still Fucked Up.
The word of the day is Hoodwinked. Archaicaly, this meant blindfolded. An obsolete meaning of the word is that of concealed. Currently, it means decieved. Also, it's the title of a movie.
Before you profile it as a "kiddie movie", just because it's approved for all audiences and it's CG animation and it tells the ancient story of Little Red Riding Hood (with many a twist, mind you), I'd just like to say screw you, it's a bundle of laughs and if you can't find it in you to laugh at the many funnies in it, your loss. If, however, you weren't planning on profiling it in any way, then don't screw you. Be merry, read on.
I had had the pleasure of seeing this film before, although through the veil of a dubbing. Sure enough, in some countries, dubbings are of very high quality indeed (I'm told that in Germany, for example, the most renowed actors are dubbed by the same voice actor in every movie, so that his/her voice may be easily recognised in any dubbing), but over here someone even managed to translate a word processor cursor as if it were the word "I" (in Superman Returns. By the way, not impressive). This time I got to see it in it's untranslated glory. But that's not what this entry is about.
The young lady at the ticket counter must have misinterpreted my very odd accent (which, to this day, I didn't know I had) and was probably not sure if I had asked for a seat "in the centre of the room" or "way back and in a corner", so she gave me something in between. A waste of good seats, I say, the room was just about empty, except for myself, a couple or two and a very odd group, the very focus of this entry.
They were four, and four they were. Not three, not five, not six, but four. Four girls, two pre-teen girls, a very young child and (probably) her mother, nearly all with extra bright (hmm, not very catchy... how about Xtra-Brite?) cellphones, very crunchy popcorn and pretty slurpy drinks. Perfect...
At this point, I'd like to toss this little tidbit of meat to the beasts: what is it with popcorn at the movies? Bevrages i can understand, since even with air conditioning it gets pretty stuffy and dry in a theater, but popcorn? They always look and smell better than they taste, with artificial colorant and artificial butter-ish flavour, but in the end, they're just sugary, bland noisemakers, aren't they? Why do people still buy them? Why, o, why...
Onwards, then. Just as they find their seats they take their time to settle. Mathematics (Combinatory Calculus, to be more precise) tells us that four people can occupy four seats in a row in 4! (that's factorial, not "four!" as in "Oh my God, four!") different manners, that is, 4x3x2x1=24 manners. They tried nearly all of them until they found themselves comfortable. Then comes the crunching of popcorn, and the slurping of drinks and the beeping of cellphones and the lighting up half the room with them and we're not even done with the trailers yet. Also, they're talkers. I know... bliss, isn't it?
And then the movie starts. Just as the narrator begins his tale, the white subtitles sprinkle the bottom of the screen (you wouldn't believe the effort I've put into training myself not to get distracted by those things. I really don't need them, but I find myself rushing to read them out of reflex...) and the oldest (sounds a bit mean... let's say "least young" instead) of them says "It's in English?". Well, congratualtions, madam, you sure know your languages. I was hoping they'd be able to slip some five, maybe ten minutes of film before you noticed. What was it that tipped you off? Was it the "VO" (Stands for original version, in case you're wondering) next to the movie title above the room door? Was it the "VO" in the fliers outside? or was it the colossal sticker reading "Original Version" on the poster?
Dope...
Innevitably, pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark Sits idly by, grasping, to the best of his ability, the few remaining days of his vacation, yet ever aware that with each day gone by, he's one day closer to his dreams.
The word of the day is Hoodwinked. Archaicaly, this meant blindfolded. An obsolete meaning of the word is that of concealed. Currently, it means decieved. Also, it's the title of a movie.
Before you profile it as a "kiddie movie", just because it's approved for all audiences and it's CG animation and it tells the ancient story of Little Red Riding Hood (with many a twist, mind you), I'd just like to say screw you, it's a bundle of laughs and if you can't find it in you to laugh at the many funnies in it, your loss. If, however, you weren't planning on profiling it in any way, then don't screw you. Be merry, read on.
I had had the pleasure of seeing this film before, although through the veil of a dubbing. Sure enough, in some countries, dubbings are of very high quality indeed (I'm told that in Germany, for example, the most renowed actors are dubbed by the same voice actor in every movie, so that his/her voice may be easily recognised in any dubbing), but over here someone even managed to translate a word processor cursor as if it were the word "I" (in Superman Returns. By the way, not impressive). This time I got to see it in it's untranslated glory. But that's not what this entry is about.
The young lady at the ticket counter must have misinterpreted my very odd accent (which, to this day, I didn't know I had) and was probably not sure if I had asked for a seat "in the centre of the room" or "way back and in a corner", so she gave me something in between. A waste of good seats, I say, the room was just about empty, except for myself, a couple or two and a very odd group, the very focus of this entry.
They were four, and four they were. Not three, not five, not six, but four. Four girls, two pre-teen girls, a very young child and (probably) her mother, nearly all with extra bright (hmm, not very catchy... how about Xtra-Brite?) cellphones, very crunchy popcorn and pretty slurpy drinks. Perfect...
At this point, I'd like to toss this little tidbit of meat to the beasts: what is it with popcorn at the movies? Bevrages i can understand, since even with air conditioning it gets pretty stuffy and dry in a theater, but popcorn? They always look and smell better than they taste, with artificial colorant and artificial butter-ish flavour, but in the end, they're just sugary, bland noisemakers, aren't they? Why do people still buy them? Why, o, why...
Onwards, then. Just as they find their seats they take their time to settle. Mathematics (Combinatory Calculus, to be more precise) tells us that four people can occupy four seats in a row in 4! (that's factorial, not "four!" as in "Oh my God, four!") different manners, that is, 4x3x2x1=24 manners. They tried nearly all of them until they found themselves comfortable. Then comes the crunching of popcorn, and the slurping of drinks and the beeping of cellphones and the lighting up half the room with them and we're not even done with the trailers yet. Also, they're talkers. I know... bliss, isn't it?
And then the movie starts. Just as the narrator begins his tale, the white subtitles sprinkle the bottom of the screen (you wouldn't believe the effort I've put into training myself not to get distracted by those things. I really don't need them, but I find myself rushing to read them out of reflex...) and the oldest (sounds a bit mean... let's say "least young" instead) of them says "It's in English?". Well, congratualtions, madam, you sure know your languages. I was hoping they'd be able to slip some five, maybe ten minutes of film before you noticed. What was it that tipped you off? Was it the "VO" (Stands for original version, in case you're wondering) next to the movie title above the room door? Was it the "VO" in the fliers outside? or was it the colossal sticker reading "Original Version" on the poster?
Dope...
Innevitably, pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark Sits idly by, grasping, to the best of his ability, the few remaining days of his vacation, yet ever aware that with each day gone by, he's one day closer to his dreams.
Liebe schmeckt wie Kaviar
Some of you might recall this line from one of the (not quite) recommended titles from this post. It means "love tastes like caviar" (or at least I think it does). But then again, "Love is only any good when it hurts" (For 200 points, which misician was that from?), and caviar... I suppose something is very wrong when caviar hurts. And just what is all this talk about caviar all about? Patience! I'm getting to it! Since when do I tolerate you to be so pushy!?
I had never really enjoied caviar before, but then again, I don't think I had ever had propper caviar before. At any rate, it's not my fault. Do you know what kind of stuff gets peddled around as caviar? Ever had some very fine, pitch black roe from a tin labeled "Caviar"? In all probability, that wasn't caviar at all. Actual caviar, I'll have you know, doesn't need to be pitch black or very small eggs. Caviar can be grey, brownish and even reddish in colour and each individual egg can be anywhere from as small as one millimeter in diameter to as large as a pea. And don't you go buying Beluga caviar (unless you're in Russia, in which case I envy you), because you're lucky if that's even caviar at all. And I'm nowhere closer to making a point, but you know what, that's the beauty of being the blogger around here. My blog, my rules.
Me, I've just had some real osetra caviar, brouhgt by a beloved relative from a vacation in Russia, and, my, I can't believe I've waited this long to get my hands (and my taste buds) on the stuff. I've just split a tiny jar of it with... erm... never you mind who I split it with... and I'm almost glad it was such a tiny portion, otherwise I'd be hooked on it by now. Whoosh!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is very seriously considering a trip to the Caspian Sea to look for some Russian sturgeon. Not to eat it, mind you, but the roe...
I had never really enjoied caviar before, but then again, I don't think I had ever had propper caviar before. At any rate, it's not my fault. Do you know what kind of stuff gets peddled around as caviar? Ever had some very fine, pitch black roe from a tin labeled "Caviar"? In all probability, that wasn't caviar at all. Actual caviar, I'll have you know, doesn't need to be pitch black or very small eggs. Caviar can be grey, brownish and even reddish in colour and each individual egg can be anywhere from as small as one millimeter in diameter to as large as a pea. And don't you go buying Beluga caviar (unless you're in Russia, in which case I envy you), because you're lucky if that's even caviar at all. And I'm nowhere closer to making a point, but you know what, that's the beauty of being the blogger around here. My blog, my rules.
Me, I've just had some real osetra caviar, brouhgt by a beloved relative from a vacation in Russia, and, my, I can't believe I've waited this long to get my hands (and my taste buds) on the stuff. I've just split a tiny jar of it with... erm... never you mind who I split it with... and I'm almost glad it was such a tiny portion, otherwise I'd be hooked on it by now. Whoosh!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is very seriously considering a trip to the Caspian Sea to look for some Russian sturgeon. Not to eat it, mind you, but the roe...
Crickey!
Do remind me to get cable TV next time I go on vacation. Public Television (actually, Independent Television... a station that shall remain unnamed) would sooner make a silk purse out of a sow's ear than get their own programming right. My staying up until quite unhealthy hours in hopes of catching House M.D. was rewarded with a very generous delay, a first (they come in pairs. I guess the humble people of this network view themselves as Noah) episode that was defenitely not the one scheduled and a non-existing second episode. Thanks a bunch. But that's a rant for another day. Meanwhile, the pox on you, filthy scum who cannot find your own arse with both hands, and your kind!
Public Television (Government owned and all) sometimes has a brilliant idea. About once every thirty years or so. Last time it was colour picture, this time it was Discovery Moment. Little tidbiths of civilization in the form of Discovery Channel documentaries, ever so often, free of charge. These, believe it or not, are actually quite alright, if you're into the sort. I suppose I like it. Most of it, that is. The documentary explainig (or rather attempting to explain, with various degrees of success) the myth behind werewolves and the truth in the French werewolf trials was pretty good. The Australian zoologist whose aspiration in life was to touch a King Cobra was alright, although fellows who aren't really fond of snakes might have taken a rain check on that. Most docuentaries on Sharks are good as well (surprise surprise). Now, this Aussie the other day really takes the cake. And I'm not sure I mean it in a good way... you be the judge of that.
This fellow would like to give us an in-depth view of insects and the like in our own homes and ackyards in a segment he called "Bugs in the Burbs". I only caught the second half of it, but it was plenty. He told us how quickly aphids reproduce. He taught us that aphid females can even reproduce on their own, effectively cloning themselves. He even showed us that aphid clones are often born pregnant with their own clones (I gues being a copy of a copy of a copy works for them...). Then he reminded us that, although one could just kill them with an insecticide spray, we'd be wiser to introduce the aphid's natural predator to the scene, that is, the lady bug. Now things get strange. Sure, lady bugs love aphind in the way I love porterhouse stake grilled rare, that's hardly wierd, but seing this caring insectologist have a bunch (and a very large bunch at that) of lady bugs crawl over his arms, his face and into his clothes is... unnusual. Then come bigger fish, or should I say, bugs, as he finds his way into an africanised killer bees nest. Sure, he wears his protective gear and his bee net over his face he even locks off his cuffs and his pants with duct tape. you wouldn't think he'd go on and provoke the bees, now, would you? Yet he did, he went on and blew into the bees nest. sure enough, he got stung a couple of dozen times through his socks and, reportedly, couldn't walk for a few days. You'd think he's learn his lesson by now, but no, he goes on to mess with yet another type of bug: cockroaches. He seeks to demistify the myth that cockroaches byte, and so he sticks his bare leg and foot into a conrolled environment acrylic box and pours some roaches on himself. If you're not wierd out yet by now, perhaps you'd like to know that cockroaches do bite. not only that but also they can digest ceratonin, which means they can even ear your hair (appearently, very few animals can).
So... crickey, mate!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is cooking up another update for very very soon... but he'll reveal nothing at this point, leaving you to marinate in the atecipation. What do you mean, there's no sarcasm tag in html!?
Public Television (Government owned and all) sometimes has a brilliant idea. About once every thirty years or so. Last time it was colour picture, this time it was Discovery Moment. Little tidbiths of civilization in the form of Discovery Channel documentaries, ever so often, free of charge. These, believe it or not, are actually quite alright, if you're into the sort. I suppose I like it. Most of it, that is. The documentary explainig (or rather attempting to explain, with various degrees of success) the myth behind werewolves and the truth in the French werewolf trials was pretty good. The Australian zoologist whose aspiration in life was to touch a King Cobra was alright, although fellows who aren't really fond of snakes might have taken a rain check on that. Most docuentaries on Sharks are good as well (surprise surprise). Now, this Aussie the other day really takes the cake. And I'm not sure I mean it in a good way... you be the judge of that.
This fellow would like to give us an in-depth view of insects and the like in our own homes and ackyards in a segment he called "Bugs in the Burbs". I only caught the second half of it, but it was plenty. He told us how quickly aphids reproduce. He taught us that aphid females can even reproduce on their own, effectively cloning themselves. He even showed us that aphid clones are often born pregnant with their own clones (I gues being a copy of a copy of a copy works for them...). Then he reminded us that, although one could just kill them with an insecticide spray, we'd be wiser to introduce the aphid's natural predator to the scene, that is, the lady bug. Now things get strange. Sure, lady bugs love aphind in the way I love porterhouse stake grilled rare, that's hardly wierd, but seing this caring insectologist have a bunch (and a very large bunch at that) of lady bugs crawl over his arms, his face and into his clothes is... unnusual. Then come bigger fish, or should I say, bugs, as he finds his way into an africanised killer bees nest. Sure, he wears his protective gear and his bee net over his face he even locks off his cuffs and his pants with duct tape. you wouldn't think he'd go on and provoke the bees, now, would you? Yet he did, he went on and blew into the bees nest. sure enough, he got stung a couple of dozen times through his socks and, reportedly, couldn't walk for a few days. You'd think he's learn his lesson by now, but no, he goes on to mess with yet another type of bug: cockroaches. He seeks to demistify the myth that cockroaches byte, and so he sticks his bare leg and foot into a conrolled environment acrylic box and pours some roaches on himself. If you're not wierd out yet by now, perhaps you'd like to know that cockroaches do bite. not only that but also they can digest ceratonin, which means they can even ear your hair (appearently, very few animals can).
So... crickey, mate!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is cooking up another update for very very soon... but he'll reveal nothing at this point, leaving you to marinate in the atecipation. What do you mean, there's no sarcasm tag in html!?
Some like it hot...
... and, sure enough, some don't. Me, I like hot weather as much as The "Next" Bloke, who just so happens to be a guest on this blog today. How do you do, Mr. Bloke?
The, please.
Right, then. Tell, us, The, how was it that you came across that nickname, "Next"?
Well, now, it all started back when I was about twelve and I started going to the movies by myself. I remember being in line to the tickets and even though I would be first in line sometimes, nothing felt quite as nice as being "next" in line. You know, I'd just see whoever was in front of me get their turn and think, "Woohoo, I'm next"! When my mates found out how much I liked that special feeling, they began calling me "Next"."
And so you're known as The "Next" Bloke today.
Exactly
Now, then, what we'd all like to know is how much do you like warm weather, The?
Not one bit, Shark, old chap, not one bit.
Thank you, then, The. I hope we'll be seing plenty more of you around here.
My pleasure.
That was The "Next" Bloke on Shark Nibbles, and he doesn't like warm weather. And so, as previously stated, neither do I and, for the issue, neither does my laptop charger, who, just last night, overheated twice and scared the lights out of me when I thought it had sent its soul to its maker. Turns out ten minutes in the freezer (in a plastic bag, mind you) did the trick... for another half hour.
So, my advice on how to deal with the heat, keep to the shade, drink plenty of fluids (cold, preferably) and put an ice pack on that laptop charger. If you don't have any, you can fashion one by soaking a rag, wrapping it in a plastic bag and putting it in the freezer. Works fine, if you don't mind sitching the makeshift ice pck every twenty minutes or so. This little trick did wonders for me last night.
You didn't think I'd wrap up without a secret message, did you?
Sizzling hot farewells.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is dealing with the heat in his own way, i. e., dreaming of cooler places. Syberia sounds just right...
The, please.
Right, then. Tell, us, The, how was it that you came across that nickname, "Next"?
Well, now, it all started back when I was about twelve and I started going to the movies by myself. I remember being in line to the tickets and even though I would be first in line sometimes, nothing felt quite as nice as being "next" in line. You know, I'd just see whoever was in front of me get their turn and think, "Woohoo, I'm next"! When my mates found out how much I liked that special feeling, they began calling me "Next"."
And so you're known as The "Next" Bloke today.
Exactly
Now, then, what we'd all like to know is how much do you like warm weather, The?
Not one bit, Shark, old chap, not one bit.
Thank you, then, The. I hope we'll be seing plenty more of you around here.
My pleasure.
That was The "Next" Bloke on Shark Nibbles, and he doesn't like warm weather. And so, as previously stated, neither do I and, for the issue, neither does my laptop charger, who, just last night, overheated twice and scared the lights out of me when I thought it had sent its soul to its maker. Turns out ten minutes in the freezer (in a plastic bag, mind you) did the trick... for another half hour.
So, my advice on how to deal with the heat, keep to the shade, drink plenty of fluids (cold, preferably) and put an ice pack on that laptop charger. If you don't have any, you can fashion one by soaking a rag, wrapping it in a plastic bag and putting it in the freezer. Works fine, if you don't mind sitching the makeshift ice pck every twenty minutes or so. This little trick did wonders for me last night.
You didn't think I'd wrap up without a secret message, did you?
Sizzling hot farewells.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is dealing with the heat in his own way, i. e., dreaming of cooler places. Syberia sounds just right...
Blood drinkers, unite
Recently I found myself reading a would-be serious vampirism manual, by a Brazillian author, Paulo Coelho. If you have never read any of his work, count your blessings. If you've ever read anything by him then you'll understand how come my stomach churns every time I see six copies of "O Zahir" on display on a bookstore window like it's God's gift to readers.
This Practical Vampirism Manual, however, is different. It's not (supposed) to be fiction. This is (supposed) to lift the shroud of mysticism that surrounds vampires and bare the whole truth about them, that they exist and what's fact or fiction about them. Mind you, it's as poorly written as any other one of his works and has nary a speck of verifyable fact about it. In short, a bundle of laughs, if you think someone expected readers to swallow this codswallop.
One of the aspects it focusses on is how to recognise (and avoid, if you'd like) a vampire, and so I've compiled, from it's pages, a handy list of things to look out for:
Well groomed, kind mannered, well spoken, attractive Europeans looking for one night stands are likely to be vampires;
Bissexual men have "vampire" written all over them;
Bissexual women are all vampires;
Lesbians are vampires too. All of them.
If you can read this you might be a vampire too.
At this point I'd like to remind you that I myself would never label anyone as "vampire" or anything else based on his/her sexual orientation, but it seems Mr. Coelho would disagree. Bear in mind, though, this is just for laughs. It cannot be any other way.
ArabianShark wonders what are the odds of running into a well groomed, kind mannered, well spoken, attractive European bissexual woman looking for a one night stand. Now paging Dr. van Helsing.
This Practical Vampirism Manual, however, is different. It's not (supposed) to be fiction. This is (supposed) to lift the shroud of mysticism that surrounds vampires and bare the whole truth about them, that they exist and what's fact or fiction about them. Mind you, it's as poorly written as any other one of his works and has nary a speck of verifyable fact about it. In short, a bundle of laughs, if you think someone expected readers to swallow this codswallop.
One of the aspects it focusses on is how to recognise (and avoid, if you'd like) a vampire, and so I've compiled, from it's pages, a handy list of things to look out for:
Well groomed, kind mannered, well spoken, attractive Europeans looking for one night stands are likely to be vampires;
Bissexual men have "vampire" written all over them;
Bissexual women are all vampires;
Lesbians are vampires too. All of them.
If you can read this you might be a vampire too.
At this point I'd like to remind you that I myself would never label anyone as "vampire" or anything else based on his/her sexual orientation, but it seems Mr. Coelho would disagree. Bear in mind, though, this is just for laughs. It cannot be any other way.
ArabianShark wonders what are the odds of running into a well groomed, kind mannered, well spoken, attractive European bissexual woman looking for a one night stand. Now paging Dr. van Helsing.
That'll work...
I wonder what posesses someone to send a chain e-mail claiming that for each person the e-mail is sent to, something will happen. The list is endless: that you might win a free cellphone, that some organisation will donate a minute amount of money for each time the messge is forwarded to help some ill and dying person, that some organisation will donate a huge sum if the message is forwarded more than so many times, that one's e-mail/MSN Messenger account will be deleted if the message isn't forwarded, that MSN will cease to be a free service unless so many names are signed and sent to Microsoft, that one's MSN Messenger account will remain free whereas all others will become a paid service if the holder's name is on the list to be sent to Microsoft... I could type all day and not list half the story behind these messages. I wonder what posesses someone to start one of these things. I suppose one could do it as a prank, but I can't possibly understand how on earth does one believe a word of those messages. What on earth posesses people to believe anyone has a means to track where the messsages will end up?
Honorable mention and single exception: the bonsai cat. This is a truly horrific practice, IMO. It consists of locking a kitten in a jar where his bones will take the shape of the container he's stuck in as he grows for decorative purposes. I've recieved mail rallying people to lobby against this practice. Lobbying is one thing, expecting miracles is quite another.
Just today I recieved a PowerPoint presentation attatchement (those are the worse... forward these, people, help viruses spread, please, I beseech you), which I treat with a little special care, i. e., dump into a decaying old would-have-been excuse for a computer which may not be hooked up to any network lest the network becomes haunted by evils unspeakble of and run it. This one claims that some organisation will donate six cents (yes, it's not a typo, six whole cents. A full nickle and a free penny! Lets hear it poor old Uncle Ebeneezer, if you remember him) to a dying baby for each person I forward the potentially dangerous file to. If only I kept the e-mail addresses of people I don't like... Now I can just imagine the company representative talking to the sick baby's parents, going "We might have the money to cure your child and we might even give it to you, but only if some e-mail message featuring our company's name gets sent all over the world. And yes, in case you're wondering, we're all callous, money-driven, insenitive, cruel, petty and evil bastards, looking for a would-be humanitarian publicity campaign. We figure one person knowing how kind we are and that we'll help your child is worth a dime in potential profits, so we'll spare a whopping 60% of that to treat your beloved baby. And don't ask how we'll know just how many people have read the message; it's magic, we've a pact with Satan of which you should not have known. Well, chop chop, mail away." That would have gone nicely.
Let's make the best out of this. I declare a competition. Comment with the most riddiculous pretence you've ever had the displeasure of receiving and we'll have a poll. The winner just might win a free Nokia 5G cellphone, complete with live video call, wireless internet access, bluetooth connectivity, esspresso dispensing function, a 100 free SMS package and a non-retractable blade built into the vibra-call motor that might shred your thigh to minced meat if you have your phone in your pocket when someone calls, but is just so handy to chop onions (mind you, warranty void if removed)... or not.
Spam-free farewells (because there is no processed canned spiced pork meat in them).
ArabianShark wonders if all the hexes he's been cursed with for breaking e-mail chains will eventually cancel each other out. Two wrongs dont make a right, but, given enough wrongs... who knows?
Honorable mention and single exception: the bonsai cat. This is a truly horrific practice, IMO. It consists of locking a kitten in a jar where his bones will take the shape of the container he's stuck in as he grows for decorative purposes. I've recieved mail rallying people to lobby against this practice. Lobbying is one thing, expecting miracles is quite another.
Just today I recieved a PowerPoint presentation attatchement (those are the worse... forward these, people, help viruses spread, please, I beseech you), which I treat with a little special care, i. e., dump into a decaying old would-have-been excuse for a computer which may not be hooked up to any network lest the network becomes haunted by evils unspeakble of and run it. This one claims that some organisation will donate six cents (yes, it's not a typo, six whole cents. A full nickle and a free penny! Lets hear it poor old Uncle Ebeneezer, if you remember him) to a dying baby for each person I forward the potentially dangerous file to. If only I kept the e-mail addresses of people I don't like... Now I can just imagine the company representative talking to the sick baby's parents, going "We might have the money to cure your child and we might even give it to you, but only if some e-mail message featuring our company's name gets sent all over the world. And yes, in case you're wondering, we're all callous, money-driven, insenitive, cruel, petty and evil bastards, looking for a would-be humanitarian publicity campaign. We figure one person knowing how kind we are and that we'll help your child is worth a dime in potential profits, so we'll spare a whopping 60% of that to treat your beloved baby. And don't ask how we'll know just how many people have read the message; it's magic, we've a pact with Satan of which you should not have known. Well, chop chop, mail away." That would have gone nicely.
Let's make the best out of this. I declare a competition. Comment with the most riddiculous pretence you've ever had the displeasure of receiving and we'll have a poll. The winner just might win a free Nokia 5G cellphone, complete with live video call, wireless internet access, bluetooth connectivity, esspresso dispensing function, a 100 free SMS package and a non-retractable blade built into the vibra-call motor that might shred your thigh to minced meat if you have your phone in your pocket when someone calls, but is just so handy to chop onions (mind you, warranty void if removed)... or not.
Spam-free farewells (because there is no processed canned spiced pork meat in them).
ArabianShark wonders if all the hexes he's been cursed with for breaking e-mail chains will eventually cancel each other out. Two wrongs dont make a right, but, given enough wrongs... who knows?
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