Remember, remember, the fifth of November
The gunpowder treason and plot
I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
'Twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parliament
Poor old England to overthrow
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!
A penny loaf to feed ol' Pope,
A farthing cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down,
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head,
Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!
Well I couldn't very well leave the day when we celebrate the defining influence to my (second) favourite movie ever go by unnoticed, could I? And, in an unprecedented event, both the Pope and God were mentioned in this ateistic blog
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark counts the days. 52 remain. And a very merry Guy Fawkes day to you all. Except Acer Care. They sent me a motherboard with a dead CMOS chip battery. Will they ever learn?
Google Goodness
First of all, this is not an ad for Google or even a praise. Well, a tiny bit of a praise, in a way, I suppose... but that's it!
So I, like just about everyone else, have a Gmail account. Most of the time, the default spam filter does a pretty good job (and sometimes, it doesn't), sending nearly all of my spam to an aptly named spam folder. Mails in said folder are even automatically deleted after some time, just so I don't have to bother with that chore. Ripper! I still like to go there and delete them manually, at any rate. One of them, however, I've been saving up for this entry.
I didn't dare to open it, but the snippet (and thus I disclose what makes Gmail so good) is plentiful enough for material for this entry. It reads, and I quote, "hey darling arabianshark bad news buddy, you got a small dickie!(...)". The sender identifies herself as Chasity Subbert. Now I'd like to take a close look at the snippet, step by step. Join me, if you will.
"hey darling..."
Don't call me darling.
"... arabianshark..."
That's "Lord ArabianShark" to you.
"... bad news buddy,... "
a) What on earth is a "bad news buddy"?
b) I'm not your buddy.
"... you got a small dickie!"
a) No, I don't.
b) How would you know?
c) You, on the other hand...
So, on the whole, learn to punctuate, mind your manners, capitalise, think your words through and bugger off, "Chastiy Subbert". And get yourself some of your own remedy.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes you all a very merry All Hallows' Eve. And please don't come round my door in your most wierd costumes stammering for a "trick or treat". It's the wrong side of the Atlantic for that.
So I, like just about everyone else, have a Gmail account. Most of the time, the default spam filter does a pretty good job (and sometimes, it doesn't), sending nearly all of my spam to an aptly named spam folder. Mails in said folder are even automatically deleted after some time, just so I don't have to bother with that chore. Ripper! I still like to go there and delete them manually, at any rate. One of them, however, I've been saving up for this entry.
I didn't dare to open it, but the snippet (and thus I disclose what makes Gmail so good) is plentiful enough for material for this entry. It reads, and I quote, "hey darling arabianshark bad news buddy, you got a small dickie!(...)". The sender identifies herself as Chasity Subbert. Now I'd like to take a close look at the snippet, step by step. Join me, if you will.
"hey darling..."
Don't call me darling.
"... arabianshark..."
That's "Lord ArabianShark" to you.
"... bad news buddy,... "
a) What on earth is a "bad news buddy"?
b) I'm not your buddy.
"... you got a small dickie!"
a) No, I don't.
b) How would you know?
c) You, on the other hand...
So, on the whole, learn to punctuate, mind your manners, capitalise, think your words through and bugger off, "Chastiy Subbert". And get yourself some of your own remedy.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes you all a very merry All Hallows' Eve. And please don't come round my door in your most wierd costumes stammering for a "trick or treat". It's the wrong side of the Atlantic for that.
How sad...
I've been meaning to post this for some time now. Now's a good a time as any other.
A week or so ago I was having dinner at the usual place, by myself, as usual (turns out not many people like the place where I usually go for dinner). A young woman caught my sight.
Nothing much was so remarkable about her. Plain clothes. Plain bluish sweater. Jeans. Red high heels, which she dangled from one foot as she kept her legs crossed at the knees. A shopping bag from some well known designer label. So what's to say?
She hardly touched her salad. So I hear the most caloric salad at this place has as many calories as a hamburger (mind you, there's no way it has as much fat, though, so it's probably far better calories, if such thing exists, and the portions are well beyond a single hamburger), but dieting didn't seem a factor. Ever so often she'd reach for her mobile, check for messages or calls, then rest it on her chin and stare off into the distance, as though expecting a message or a call that wouldn't come.
She left before I did. All the time she just looked so sad... she just had "Lonely Heart" plastered all over her. How sad is it, that I, the lonliest heart I know (likely ex aequo with several others, but still), take pitty on someone for this same reason?
I had never seen her before, haven't since, and if I do, chances are I won't recognise her, but, for her especially (and all of you as well)
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would have thought Snow White would have caught at least one voter's fancy. Time for a new poll, I see...
A week or so ago I was having dinner at the usual place, by myself, as usual (turns out not many people like the place where I usually go for dinner). A young woman caught my sight.
Nothing much was so remarkable about her. Plain clothes. Plain bluish sweater. Jeans. Red high heels, which she dangled from one foot as she kept her legs crossed at the knees. A shopping bag from some well known designer label. So what's to say?
She hardly touched her salad. So I hear the most caloric salad at this place has as many calories as a hamburger (mind you, there's no way it has as much fat, though, so it's probably far better calories, if such thing exists, and the portions are well beyond a single hamburger), but dieting didn't seem a factor. Ever so often she'd reach for her mobile, check for messages or calls, then rest it on her chin and stare off into the distance, as though expecting a message or a call that wouldn't come.
She left before I did. All the time she just looked so sad... she just had "Lonely Heart" plastered all over her. How sad is it, that I, the lonliest heart I know (likely ex aequo with several others, but still), take pitty on someone for this same reason?
I had never seen her before, haven't since, and if I do, chances are I won't recognise her, but, for her especially (and all of you as well)
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would have thought Snow White would have caught at least one voter's fancy. Time for a new poll, I see...
Now Paging Dr. Freud
Today we're going to take a trip into the deepest corners of my psique. OK, some deep corners of my psique. Deep-ish. We're going there. Pack light.
So last night I had the strangest dream. Right off the bat, has it ever happend to you to see something or someone in a dream and even though it looks little or nothing like someone or something that actually exists in real life, you just know it's a depiction of that? Hold on to that thought, it'll become significant soon.
So I'm at this house, which looks familiar, terribly familiar, like I know every corner of it, yet I don't recall ever living or even being to any house like the one in the dream. I'm at this large hall with dark orange tile flooring (you think it's relevant?), and I know some friends I'm working with are in a nearby room. Suddently, red tinted watery drops (not blood, not by a long shot) dribble onto the floor. The drops turn to lines, and I can see quite the intricate pattern. It's quite pretty, really, until there's just so much of the stuff it's covering the entire floor. That's about when I realise it's red gelatin, before it solidifies. It just keeps coming and coming until I'm standing in a good inch or two of red goo. That's when I realise another mate of mine lives there, and I knock on his door to tell him what's going on. So he says, "Do you think I have a leaky pipe?". OK, who on Earth has gelatin pipelines running through their walls? Certainly not that friend of mine.
Later, I find myself in a somewhat post-coital moment with... how to put it? Do you know when there's someone you really lust after in an unrealistic way, because there's really no way your lustful fantasies, whatever they may be, would come to fruition? I'm talking about fantasising about some really hot actress or model or maybe your extremely attractive next door neighbour who's happily married - at any rate, the (potential and) unattainable object of your lust. So there's she is, pressing her lovely nude body against mine under the sheets, only she doesn't really look like her, yet I know who she's supposed to be.
And why did my very unused first name sound so right when she said it?
Which brings me to a though I had a while ago. Often that which we desire the most is, ultimately, unattainable. Not only would the fruitless pursuit of such goals result in nothing but frustration but also devotion to such purpose would invariably bring about distraction from all which we might not really desire, for we had never lacked, yet does indeed bring us great joy. But what about dreams and ambition? I say this as someone whose ambition does seem rather daunting, yet I've seen others succed at what I desire the most. It seems doable, even if it might not be easy, but in this light, I wonder if I'm not setting myself up for disgrace here. Where does one draw the line?
Also, today, and I definitely did NOT dream this up, but when I was walking to class, at a road cross, this car comes up slowly and stops at the (yellow) traffic light. Then the light goes red, then my light goes green, I step onto the tarmac and the driver takes aim and drives off - and at me. Is there a hit on my head I should know of?
Tonight I was asked why I write about vampires. I had really never thought much about it, but now that I do, I realise that the myth of the human being turned into a vampire is a magnificent, although easy and unlikely, as esoterism usually presents itself at first glance, means to stave off pretty much everything that I fear: ageing, death, weakness, mediocrity, failure... never you mind that it comes at the (said to be terrible) price of never again be let into sunlight or that of needing a constant supply of human blood; I really don't regard that as much of a punishment.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to draw your attention to the fact that this is the 101st entry of my little blog that could. Thank you all for sticking with me through 101 rants of joy, rage and other silly stuff. You've been a wonderful crowd. Let's make it to 1001 together.
So last night I had the strangest dream. Right off the bat, has it ever happend to you to see something or someone in a dream and even though it looks little or nothing like someone or something that actually exists in real life, you just know it's a depiction of that? Hold on to that thought, it'll become significant soon.
So I'm at this house, which looks familiar, terribly familiar, like I know every corner of it, yet I don't recall ever living or even being to any house like the one in the dream. I'm at this large hall with dark orange tile flooring (you think it's relevant?), and I know some friends I'm working with are in a nearby room. Suddently, red tinted watery drops (not blood, not by a long shot) dribble onto the floor. The drops turn to lines, and I can see quite the intricate pattern. It's quite pretty, really, until there's just so much of the stuff it's covering the entire floor. That's about when I realise it's red gelatin, before it solidifies. It just keeps coming and coming until I'm standing in a good inch or two of red goo. That's when I realise another mate of mine lives there, and I knock on his door to tell him what's going on. So he says, "Do you think I have a leaky pipe?". OK, who on Earth has gelatin pipelines running through their walls? Certainly not that friend of mine.
Later, I find myself in a somewhat post-coital moment with... how to put it? Do you know when there's someone you really lust after in an unrealistic way, because there's really no way your lustful fantasies, whatever they may be, would come to fruition? I'm talking about fantasising about some really hot actress or model or maybe your extremely attractive next door neighbour who's happily married - at any rate, the (potential and) unattainable object of your lust. So there's she is, pressing her lovely nude body against mine under the sheets, only she doesn't really look like her, yet I know who she's supposed to be.
And why did my very unused first name sound so right when she said it?
Which brings me to a though I had a while ago. Often that which we desire the most is, ultimately, unattainable. Not only would the fruitless pursuit of such goals result in nothing but frustration but also devotion to such purpose would invariably bring about distraction from all which we might not really desire, for we had never lacked, yet does indeed bring us great joy. But what about dreams and ambition? I say this as someone whose ambition does seem rather daunting, yet I've seen others succed at what I desire the most. It seems doable, even if it might not be easy, but in this light, I wonder if I'm not setting myself up for disgrace here. Where does one draw the line?
Also, today, and I definitely did NOT dream this up, but when I was walking to class, at a road cross, this car comes up slowly and stops at the (yellow) traffic light. Then the light goes red, then my light goes green, I step onto the tarmac and the driver takes aim and drives off - and at me. Is there a hit on my head I should know of?
Tonight I was asked why I write about vampires. I had really never thought much about it, but now that I do, I realise that the myth of the human being turned into a vampire is a magnificent, although easy and unlikely, as esoterism usually presents itself at first glance, means to stave off pretty much everything that I fear: ageing, death, weakness, mediocrity, failure... never you mind that it comes at the (said to be terrible) price of never again be let into sunlight or that of needing a constant supply of human blood; I really don't regard that as much of a punishment.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to draw your attention to the fact that this is the 101st entry of my little blog that could. Thank you all for sticking with me through 101 rants of joy, rage and other silly stuff. You've been a wonderful crowd. Let's make it to 1001 together.
DHL Argh
Last time I posted I was a bit angry. Come to think of it, just as I am now.
So you might remember my tale of a laptop of mine which has had quite the colourful tale of trips to the warranty repair shop. A couple of weeks ago I thought of sending it for yet another run.
DHL picked it up as schedulled, no worried there. Repairs took as long as I expected, and since my complints were exacly as the previous time, I expect repairs were adequate and successful. Delivery by DHL, however, hasn't gone quite as smoothly.
Last Monday they tried to deliver it, but, alas, I wasn't home. So they left a notification slip in my mailbox, telling me to call their customer support line so that a delivery could be schedulled. I didn't read it until after 7:00 p.m., when I arrived from class, and, sure enough, it was far too late to schedulle a delivery for that day. The young lady on the other end of the line (whose name, even though she told me, I can't, for the life of me, recall. Let's call her Tania, which I'm fairly sure wasn't her name, but is a pretty name nonetheless) offered to schedulle a delivery for the next day, which I declined, for I wouldn't be able to take it either, so I asked her to schedulle it for Thursday morning, as I had some free time.
Come Thrursday morning, I was quite eager to get the delivery business over with swiftly, for the previous Wednesday had been far busier than I had antecipated, and some items of my "to do" list had found their way to that very same Thursday morning. But come 1:00 p.m. DHL people were nowhere to be seen. As I returned home that evening, late at 8:00 p.m., I checked my mailbox for more notification slips, from Tuesday and Wednesday. So they tried to deliver Monday, when I couldn't be there, Tuesday and Wednesday, when I told them I wouldn't be able to be there, but come Thursday, when I had schedulled it, they skip it? Sure enough, I called them.
The gentleman who ansewred (whose name, again, I didn't memorise. Let him become, for now, known as Paul) apologised profusely (not really... briefly is more like it) and stated that the package hadn't been delivered "by mistake", and promptly schedulled delivery for the folowing day, i. e., yesterday morning. Now, Friday is usually when I make a very dreary trip back to my hometown for the weekend, and much as I detest the trip itself, I just want to make it early so it can be over with as quickly as I can, yet I had to wait again until the early afternoon for it. When at 12:30 p.m. I had heard nary a peep from DHL I called them (for the third time that morning), and after two empty promises that they'd call me as soon as they had more information (or, in reality, any information at all), they tell me the package hasn't been dispatched. I demanded to speak to someone who might be able to dispatch it, or at least tell me why, for the second time in as many days, they're missing their schedulle. So this young lady (whose name I do recall, for a change) explains to me that Tania did schedulle a delivery for the 11th... of November! And Paul made no attempt to rectify this mistake. The result: two days wasted for me, plus a whole weekend of not working on that laptop and a promise (really, how much weight do DHL promises carry right now?) that my laptop will be delivered Monday morning.
Really, November 11th? I get it, 10 and 11 are similar numbers. After all, we can't all be so fortunate to have such a huge difference in the numbers of our fingers and our brain cells. And what, do you suppose, will become of Tania and Paul? A slap on the wrist? Not literally, I trust. Their salaries docked? Unlikely. A permanent pay cut? Even more unlikely. To be strapped naked by the wrists and ankles to a St. Andrew's cross and flogged with a coarse leather flogger while jumper cables are attached to their nipples and fiery hot coals smoulder just inches from their bottoms? Tremendously more so.
And don't let me catch Tania and Paul uttering a peep of complaint about how stressful it is to deal with irate customers on the phone; they wouldn't know irate if it stabbed them in the genitals with a red hot poker.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark just got his hands on a recording of Mozart's Requiem in D minor by the Munich Choir with organ, his very latest fetish...
So you might remember my tale of a laptop of mine which has had quite the colourful tale of trips to the warranty repair shop. A couple of weeks ago I thought of sending it for yet another run.
DHL picked it up as schedulled, no worried there. Repairs took as long as I expected, and since my complints were exacly as the previous time, I expect repairs were adequate and successful. Delivery by DHL, however, hasn't gone quite as smoothly.
Last Monday they tried to deliver it, but, alas, I wasn't home. So they left a notification slip in my mailbox, telling me to call their customer support line so that a delivery could be schedulled. I didn't read it until after 7:00 p.m., when I arrived from class, and, sure enough, it was far too late to schedulle a delivery for that day. The young lady on the other end of the line (whose name, even though she told me, I can't, for the life of me, recall. Let's call her Tania, which I'm fairly sure wasn't her name, but is a pretty name nonetheless) offered to schedulle a delivery for the next day, which I declined, for I wouldn't be able to take it either, so I asked her to schedulle it for Thursday morning, as I had some free time.
Come Thrursday morning, I was quite eager to get the delivery business over with swiftly, for the previous Wednesday had been far busier than I had antecipated, and some items of my "to do" list had found their way to that very same Thursday morning. But come 1:00 p.m. DHL people were nowhere to be seen. As I returned home that evening, late at 8:00 p.m., I checked my mailbox for more notification slips, from Tuesday and Wednesday. So they tried to deliver Monday, when I couldn't be there, Tuesday and Wednesday, when I told them I wouldn't be able to be there, but come Thursday, when I had schedulled it, they skip it? Sure enough, I called them.
The gentleman who ansewred (whose name, again, I didn't memorise. Let him become, for now, known as Paul) apologised profusely (not really... briefly is more like it) and stated that the package hadn't been delivered "by mistake", and promptly schedulled delivery for the folowing day, i. e., yesterday morning. Now, Friday is usually when I make a very dreary trip back to my hometown for the weekend, and much as I detest the trip itself, I just want to make it early so it can be over with as quickly as I can, yet I had to wait again until the early afternoon for it. When at 12:30 p.m. I had heard nary a peep from DHL I called them (for the third time that morning), and after two empty promises that they'd call me as soon as they had more information (or, in reality, any information at all), they tell me the package hasn't been dispatched. I demanded to speak to someone who might be able to dispatch it, or at least tell me why, for the second time in as many days, they're missing their schedulle. So this young lady (whose name I do recall, for a change) explains to me that Tania did schedulle a delivery for the 11th... of November! And Paul made no attempt to rectify this mistake. The result: two days wasted for me, plus a whole weekend of not working on that laptop and a promise (really, how much weight do DHL promises carry right now?) that my laptop will be delivered Monday morning.
Really, November 11th? I get it, 10 and 11 are similar numbers. After all, we can't all be so fortunate to have such a huge difference in the numbers of our fingers and our brain cells. And what, do you suppose, will become of Tania and Paul? A slap on the wrist? Not literally, I trust. Their salaries docked? Unlikely. A permanent pay cut? Even more unlikely. To be strapped naked by the wrists and ankles to a St. Andrew's cross and flogged with a coarse leather flogger while jumper cables are attached to their nipples and fiery hot coals smoulder just inches from their bottoms? Tremendously more so.
And don't let me catch Tania and Paul uttering a peep of complaint about how stressful it is to deal with irate customers on the phone; they wouldn't know irate if it stabbed them in the genitals with a red hot poker.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark just got his hands on a recording of Mozart's Requiem in D minor by the Munich Choir with organ, his very latest fetish...
Eleanor Rigby
... is a song by 1960's famous Fab 4, The Beatles. Sad, although beautiful, and accompanied by a most fabulous combination of only violins and cellos. Oh, and look, it's time for a blog entry.
I can't help to wonder why is it that the day our Republic was born is marked by a day off to just about everyone. What does this imply? That our Republic is borne of sloth and mediocrity? That the archetypal attitude of our regime is inaction? Or is it something a little more intricate, such as "Republic says: Up yours, citizen!"? How so? read on... I have you hooked now... or have I?
So I need a new pair of trousers. The one I had since before the summer finally became worn off to the point of tearing (and it's always the same spot...), and I think it's safe to assume that we all agree that I should wear trousers. Think of the implications of the contrary... So I figure, there's a store I use to go to get them, I'll use my free time on Friday (go figure, I couldn't possibly assign any classes to Fridays this semester...). It's a bit far away, meaning not even in the same city where I live, but I was going to go up north for the weekend anyway, it's just a small detour from my originally intended route. Before I call it in for the weekend, however, I should go to the launderette to drop off my dirty laundry for the weekend, go to the copy shop to get some papers copied and go to the courthouse to drop off said copies (appearentely I'm something along the lines of an "accidental intervenient" in something I could hardly care any less about; it doesn't concern me at all, yet I must draw from my personal time and resources to help the powers that be. My tax money at work. I pay so that some institution can send crude letters to my home demanding that I work for them for free and at my own expense. Thanks, lads). Only when I found myself before a very closed launderette did I realise it was an institutional holiday. Meaning "Sorry, old chum, so much for the best laid plans of mice and men. And yours, too."
So what are the implications of this? Well, right off the bat, I still need trousers, and I had to make do with some hedious rag I had bought I-forget-how-many-months ago just to make do with (rather figures, doesn't it?), which I can't wait to get out and rid of. But that will have to wait until no sooner than Wednesday (when, go figure, I couldn't manage to squeeze a single class either). Same goes for just about everything else, meaning I'll run out of clean clothes, meaning yet another otherwise unnecessary expense. Make no mistake, I have nothing against unnecessary expense; I buy stuff I don't need, as we all do, and it doesn't bother me for as long as I get some enjoiment out of my purchase, a little tick for my tack, but it absolutely revolts me to be forced or as much as coherced into buying when I really don't want to. Which brings me to...
My shirt. It's fabric (cotton, I think. Doesn't look or feel like polyester), it's got little buttons and a collar. Nothing remarkable about it. I need another shirt, because they come clean from the store (right?). So I set about to buy one. Now, I'm not too picky about shirts, I only have two rules: it mustn't be outrageously designed (think something along the likes of a big scrape or a taer or gash across the back or one long sleeve and a short one or flaring sleeve cuffs... you get the picture) and it must be black. So where does this leave me? What stores carry non-outrageous, black shirts? Plenty, really, nothing too remarkable about that. It does make me wonder exacly what message or inkling lurks behind the fact that no store has a menswear section at least as large as a womenswear section (one store in particular had male manequins and male clothes on the window, yet carried only ladies clothes. Go figure...). So what am I going to complain about? Fitting!
OK, so I'm fat. I'll be blunt about it, I am fat. I was quite lean last December, but my hernia and all the implications there of made me gain a lot of weight. Now I do understand that it might be far more fun and far easier to design clothes for very tall and slim models, such as Tricia Helfer than the likes of me, but here's a little nibble of fact for all clothes designers out there: Fat people need clothes too! I tried on what felt like a dozen different shirts until I found one that fit in some five different stores, under blazing hot halogen lamps in cramped little dressing rooms to hardly any avail. So here's a hint t designers, the next time you're enjoying your fine Coq au Vin or Vol au Vent or whatnot-UHN, ficture some fat bloke sitting across the table from you, stark naked, with rolling flabs of fat stacking on his sides like puncured tyres and man-boobs bigger than the firm supple breast of any female model you've ever worked with. Ficture the sweaty grime collecting in the furrows of their chins (If they're going to walk agout naked, i's bound to happen), and the lint gathering in their navel. then after you choke to near asphixiation and make a mess with fine spilt red wine on the otherwise immaculate white tablecloth of whatever gourmet diner you were, make me a suitable shirt, you pompous buffoon!
I'm sorry, I'm just still a bit angry about this...
Requiem aeternum dona eis et lux perpetua luceat eis
I mean
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark thought that last entry was worth at least a single ton comment... I guess mechanical watchmaking isn't as popular as I thought it to be. But the poll just got an extension.
I can't help to wonder why is it that the day our Republic was born is marked by a day off to just about everyone. What does this imply? That our Republic is borne of sloth and mediocrity? That the archetypal attitude of our regime is inaction? Or is it something a little more intricate, such as "Republic says: Up yours, citizen!"? How so? read on... I have you hooked now... or have I?
So I need a new pair of trousers. The one I had since before the summer finally became worn off to the point of tearing (and it's always the same spot...), and I think it's safe to assume that we all agree that I should wear trousers. Think of the implications of the contrary... So I figure, there's a store I use to go to get them, I'll use my free time on Friday (go figure, I couldn't possibly assign any classes to Fridays this semester...). It's a bit far away, meaning not even in the same city where I live, but I was going to go up north for the weekend anyway, it's just a small detour from my originally intended route. Before I call it in for the weekend, however, I should go to the launderette to drop off my dirty laundry for the weekend, go to the copy shop to get some papers copied and go to the courthouse to drop off said copies (appearentely I'm something along the lines of an "accidental intervenient" in something I could hardly care any less about; it doesn't concern me at all, yet I must draw from my personal time and resources to help the powers that be. My tax money at work. I pay so that some institution can send crude letters to my home demanding that I work for them for free and at my own expense. Thanks, lads). Only when I found myself before a very closed launderette did I realise it was an institutional holiday. Meaning "Sorry, old chum, so much for the best laid plans of mice and men. And yours, too."
So what are the implications of this? Well, right off the bat, I still need trousers, and I had to make do with some hedious rag I had bought I-forget-how-many-months ago just to make do with (rather figures, doesn't it?), which I can't wait to get out and rid of. But that will have to wait until no sooner than Wednesday (when, go figure, I couldn't manage to squeeze a single class either). Same goes for just about everything else, meaning I'll run out of clean clothes, meaning yet another otherwise unnecessary expense. Make no mistake, I have nothing against unnecessary expense; I buy stuff I don't need, as we all do, and it doesn't bother me for as long as I get some enjoiment out of my purchase, a little tick for my tack, but it absolutely revolts me to be forced or as much as coherced into buying when I really don't want to. Which brings me to...
My shirt. It's fabric (cotton, I think. Doesn't look or feel like polyester), it's got little buttons and a collar. Nothing remarkable about it. I need another shirt, because they come clean from the store (right?). So I set about to buy one. Now, I'm not too picky about shirts, I only have two rules: it mustn't be outrageously designed (think something along the likes of a big scrape or a taer or gash across the back or one long sleeve and a short one or flaring sleeve cuffs... you get the picture) and it must be black. So where does this leave me? What stores carry non-outrageous, black shirts? Plenty, really, nothing too remarkable about that. It does make me wonder exacly what message or inkling lurks behind the fact that no store has a menswear section at least as large as a womenswear section (one store in particular had male manequins and male clothes on the window, yet carried only ladies clothes. Go figure...). So what am I going to complain about? Fitting!
OK, so I'm fat. I'll be blunt about it, I am fat. I was quite lean last December, but my hernia and all the implications there of made me gain a lot of weight. Now I do understand that it might be far more fun and far easier to design clothes for very tall and slim models, such as Tricia Helfer than the likes of me, but here's a little nibble of fact for all clothes designers out there: Fat people need clothes too! I tried on what felt like a dozen different shirts until I found one that fit in some five different stores, under blazing hot halogen lamps in cramped little dressing rooms to hardly any avail. So here's a hint t designers, the next time you're enjoying your fine Coq au Vin or Vol au Vent or whatnot-UHN, ficture some fat bloke sitting across the table from you, stark naked, with rolling flabs of fat stacking on his sides like puncured tyres and man-boobs bigger than the firm supple breast of any female model you've ever worked with. Ficture the sweaty grime collecting in the furrows of their chins (If they're going to walk agout naked, i's bound to happen), and the lint gathering in their navel. then after you choke to near asphixiation and make a mess with fine spilt red wine on the otherwise immaculate white tablecloth of whatever gourmet diner you were, make me a suitable shirt, you pompous buffoon!
I'm sorry, I'm just still a bit angry about this...
Requiem aeternum dona eis et lux perpetua luceat eis
I mean
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark thought that last entry was worth at least a single ton comment... I guess mechanical watchmaking isn't as popular as I thought it to be. But the poll just got an extension.
We hardly knew ye
As some of you might know, I collect mechanical watches. Seldom will you see me with a quarts watch, except on summertime, when I'm likely to break out a Casio G Shock, because you don't want to bring a fine leather bracelet or a polished steel casing to a sandy beach. About a weak ago my father called me, offering me a deal.
It seems he had acquired a watch for himself, a new technology gimmick flagship from Jeager-LeCoultre, the Master Control watch with ceramic ball bearings. You see, ceramic ball bearings offer lower levels of friction and wear and tear, potentially decreasing the need for maintnance and lubrication while increasing accuracy and power reserve capacity. The thing is the days of 42 milimeter wide casings are well over and done with, and major watchmakers lean more and more towards larger sizes, such as 47 milimeters, whilst bullet makers stand adamantly in 9 milimeters. Such wide casings (for watches, I mean) don't go so well with my father's quite narrow wrists (nor do bullet casings or bullets, for that matter...), so he offered to trade... with me.
Quite the chance, I'd say, for me to introduce a new brand to my personal collection. Furthermore, I can't say no to dear daddy. But what to offrer in exchange? Omega, who made the no-longer-absolute majority of my watches, provided quite the solution, with their DeVille Co-Axial Chronometer Small Seconds model. I used to have two, of them: a terribly elegant one with black dial and black aligator leather bracelet and a near exact double, but with a white dial which clashes with most of my shirts, so I didn't wear it so often. So off it went to a better home...
This picture isn't of the actual watch, as you can see by the not-so-small seconds. It would seem that the actual small seconds model has been discontinued. All the better for whoever owns one of them, as their market value is sure to skyrocket. But I feel I struck quite the bargain...
... for, as you can see, this baby is nowhere behind the Omega fine watch in any aspect, be it technology (although it's a different technology), elegant simplicity or beauty. And it fits my wrist much better. Sure, it's not black dialed, but neither is it so white, so the clash won't be quite as violent. It's pretty...
Why does the mere mention of the word "Odeon" send shivers down my spine?
But this little wonder would turn out ont to be all the tick I'd get for my tack.
Dad would like me to have yet another watch, fresh off the Longines drawing board and a steal, he said, given the time and effort put into constructing such a watch, seeing as it comes with a chronographe and a complete calendar (and, as he forgot the recipt inside the walnut box, I agree). Enter the new Master Collection, the second Longines watch I own.
In Soviet Russia, watch wear YOU!!
And since we're on a bit of an image spree, I'd like to call back to the news of Glen Larson making a Knight Rider Movie. As it seems, Mr. Larson isn't the only one interested on a slice of the pie a talking car might bring in, and so Universal Studios, which once helped to make the original Knight Rider series (and then proceded to anihilate the whole franchise with such subpar works as Knight Rider 2000 and Team Knight Rider) wants in on this. For this effect, they plan to release a new series and a two hour TV movie. It seems they are legally allowed to make as much Knight Rider material as they please, for as long as it is only televised, as opposed to a theatrical movie, to which only Mr. Larson is entitled. A friend of his asked me for my help by bearing this seal as a token of my support. Ergo...
... just so you know where I stand.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will be returning to his usual hustle and bustle of classes tomorrow, with a brand new Algorithms course to begin with. New corse, same old teacher who finally explained phi bach when I started this blog. Psyched!!!
It seems he had acquired a watch for himself, a new technology gimmick flagship from Jeager-LeCoultre, the Master Control watch with ceramic ball bearings. You see, ceramic ball bearings offer lower levels of friction and wear and tear, potentially decreasing the need for maintnance and lubrication while increasing accuracy and power reserve capacity. The thing is the days of 42 milimeter wide casings are well over and done with, and major watchmakers lean more and more towards larger sizes, such as 47 milimeters, whilst bullet makers stand adamantly in 9 milimeters. Such wide casings (for watches, I mean) don't go so well with my father's quite narrow wrists (nor do bullet casings or bullets, for that matter...), so he offered to trade... with me.
Quite the chance, I'd say, for me to introduce a new brand to my personal collection. Furthermore, I can't say no to dear daddy. But what to offrer in exchange? Omega, who made the no-longer-absolute majority of my watches, provided quite the solution, with their DeVille Co-Axial Chronometer Small Seconds model. I used to have two, of them: a terribly elegant one with black dial and black aligator leather bracelet and a near exact double, but with a white dial which clashes with most of my shirts, so I didn't wear it so often. So off it went to a better home...
This picture isn't of the actual watch, as you can see by the not-so-small seconds. It would seem that the actual small seconds model has been discontinued. All the better for whoever owns one of them, as their market value is sure to skyrocket. But I feel I struck quite the bargain...
... for, as you can see, this baby is nowhere behind the Omega fine watch in any aspect, be it technology (although it's a different technology), elegant simplicity or beauty. And it fits my wrist much better. Sure, it's not black dialed, but neither is it so white, so the clash won't be quite as violent. It's pretty...
Why does the mere mention of the word "Odeon" send shivers down my spine?
But this little wonder would turn out ont to be all the tick I'd get for my tack.
Dad would like me to have yet another watch, fresh off the Longines drawing board and a steal, he said, given the time and effort put into constructing such a watch, seeing as it comes with a chronographe and a complete calendar (and, as he forgot the recipt inside the walnut box, I agree). Enter the new Master Collection, the second Longines watch I own.
In Soviet Russia, watch wear YOU!!
And since we're on a bit of an image spree, I'd like to call back to the news of Glen Larson making a Knight Rider Movie. As it seems, Mr. Larson isn't the only one interested on a slice of the pie a talking car might bring in, and so Universal Studios, which once helped to make the original Knight Rider series (and then proceded to anihilate the whole franchise with such subpar works as Knight Rider 2000 and Team Knight Rider) wants in on this. For this effect, they plan to release a new series and a two hour TV movie. It seems they are legally allowed to make as much Knight Rider material as they please, for as long as it is only televised, as opposed to a theatrical movie, to which only Mr. Larson is entitled. A friend of his asked me for my help by bearing this seal as a token of my support. Ergo...
... just so you know where I stand.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will be returning to his usual hustle and bustle of classes tomorrow, with a brand new Algorithms course to begin with. New corse, same old teacher who finally explained phi bach when I started this blog. Psyched!!!
Dieting
How many books have you ever seen on the shelves on the topic? How many tomes of wisdom promised fast weight loss, until the media drew the public's attention to the hazzards of such practices? How many books have you since seen promising long lasting results?
Well, I'm not about to unveil the great grand secret to swift, safe and permanent weight loss, but let's talk diets for a while...
Up until the Great Tragedy of 2006 (well, so what if I want to embellish the puny disgraces of my life? I like a little flair...) - that's my hernia, if you remember - I was quite lean, for myself and my long histoy of moderate obesity. Last summer I had undertaken a self constructed course of strict boiled white meat and regular exercise - which was, at some point, somewhat disheveled by a severe cold - to great effect. Then, unable to make the long-ish hike my dieting meant to prevent me from gaining it all back, I gained it all back. After my surgery, it was even worse. Then, this summer, I had planned to return to my strict diet and exercise plan, but, alas, my back wasn't healed enough. I couldn't exercise. And, without the seretonin from the exercise, I couldn't keep my spirits high enough to stick to my diet (hell, I couldn't even sleep right) and fell back into temptation. I managed minimal weight loss. Then summer vacationing ended and I tried another regime, one with a different, less strict diet of balanced meals of grilled meat or fish, vegetables and carbs, along with a 3 mile hike every other night. I managed to gain weight with that. Then, about two weeks ago, I went back to college to study up (to no avail). During that time, I found myself lazily ordering pizza up to three night per week, snacking on pastry and resorting to stress foods ever so often. I eevn found my new poison: creamed camambert cheese on crackers. Now that I came back home (let's see for how long...), I expected a major weight gain. So today, just after breakfast, I stepped on the scale. I hadn't put on a single pound! For my metric readers, that's about 450 grams. For my L.A. readers, I mean fat; grams aren't always heroin or cocaine. For my Australian readers, g'day, mate(s). So explain that to me?
At any rate, I worry. My back has been giving me no end of trouble, and I think I've spotted some troublesome aches on my right sciatic nerve branch. Don't you dare say a prayer for me, but do cross your fingers. Please?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will return to dieting soon enough. And this time, with a vengeance.
Well, I'm not about to unveil the great grand secret to swift, safe and permanent weight loss, but let's talk diets for a while...
Up until the Great Tragedy of 2006 (well, so what if I want to embellish the puny disgraces of my life? I like a little flair...) - that's my hernia, if you remember - I was quite lean, for myself and my long histoy of moderate obesity. Last summer I had undertaken a self constructed course of strict boiled white meat and regular exercise - which was, at some point, somewhat disheveled by a severe cold - to great effect. Then, unable to make the long-ish hike my dieting meant to prevent me from gaining it all back, I gained it all back. After my surgery, it was even worse. Then, this summer, I had planned to return to my strict diet and exercise plan, but, alas, my back wasn't healed enough. I couldn't exercise. And, without the seretonin from the exercise, I couldn't keep my spirits high enough to stick to my diet (hell, I couldn't even sleep right) and fell back into temptation. I managed minimal weight loss. Then summer vacationing ended and I tried another regime, one with a different, less strict diet of balanced meals of grilled meat or fish, vegetables and carbs, along with a 3 mile hike every other night. I managed to gain weight with that. Then, about two weeks ago, I went back to college to study up (to no avail). During that time, I found myself lazily ordering pizza up to three night per week, snacking on pastry and resorting to stress foods ever so often. I eevn found my new poison: creamed camambert cheese on crackers. Now that I came back home (let's see for how long...), I expected a major weight gain. So today, just after breakfast, I stepped on the scale. I hadn't put on a single pound! For my metric readers, that's about 450 grams. For my L.A. readers, I mean fat; grams aren't always heroin or cocaine. For my Australian readers, g'day, mate(s). So explain that to me?
At any rate, I worry. My back has been giving me no end of trouble, and I think I've spotted some troublesome aches on my right sciatic nerve branch. Don't you dare say a prayer for me, but do cross your fingers. Please?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will return to dieting soon enough. And this time, with a vengeance.
Refurbished
This came a little later than I first expected and a little sooner than I then expected. You see, in May or then abouts I figured I'd change computers in late june or possibly early July. Then, in late June, I figured the end of the Summer would be a good time. Not much later I was advised to wait until the end of the year, for the price drop in quad core processors, and much as I accepted said advice, I was fairly sure I would do no such thing in December, and January would be right out of the issue, with Exam season and what not, and even February didn't seem too likely... Then fate took all my decisions for me.
About a week ago I came back from vacation and found my computer to be inopperative. One long beep followed by a few short beeps during post suggested my graphics adapter was shot. A few tries later, after checking that the gigantic GeForce 7800 GTX SLI was propperly inserted, the cooling fans started to sound rather slow and the leds weren't quite as bright, which made me think the power unit was about to kick the bucket. Sure enough, I could have replaced those parts, but I figured, "Now is as good a time to change as any other." Sure, in just a few short months Quad core processors will be much cheaper and some new and exciting advent of technology will make current technology obsolete and I really should wait, but you know what, in a few more months from then some other sort of processor will become much cheaper and some other new and eciting technology will mane the new and exciting technology we are now expecting obsolete. So I figure any time os a great time to change. So I did.
And so I'm now runnig test running my new custom machine. At first I thought I'd splurge a little (more) and go all out on an Intel Core 2 Quad Extreme processor, but I figured I'd never be able to afford the harware to fully enjoy that, so I settled for a Core 2 Duo 3.0 GHZ with a 1333 MHz FSB. With the same clock frequency as the Quad core I'd get, it will, most likely, perform much better for the price (much less than a third), since I don't really run anything that takes advantage of multiple cores. After that was settled, the Asus P5K-E Motherboard was quite the natural choice, as were the twin Western Digital 500 GB SATAII hard disks, for a mean SATA RAID Type 0, because you really can't enjoy a wicked fast processor without a wicked fast data storage such as a RAID device. 4 GB RAM might seem a bit wasteful, since I'm running a 32 bit system (I experimented with 64 bits systems with my Athlon 64 FX. Nothing great about it.), but Linux can index it all, even if Windows can only index just over 3 GB. The active cooler I got for it, in addition the passive coolers it came with (Corsair stuff, they go all out to keep it cool) might have been a little much, but the price was quite right. I only had half a mind to change my graphics card, but since the one I had could be bust anyway, in came a XFX GeForce 8800 Ultra 768 MB GDDR3. Talk about huge, I've seen entire computers smaller than that thing (think PDAs). And before you go on rambling about ATI cards, great though they may be, and ATI Crossfire technology, great though it might seem, remember only that Linux doesnt always fare as well with ATI cards, and Crossfire, just like SLi, looks great on paper, and you think you can always get a card just like the one you have when they're dirt cheap instead of a whole new card, but by the time you would, it just might be time for a full upgrade (just like this). The case I had only haf a mind to change, since my minitower proved to be a bit awkward at times, not really providing much room to fir components or to circulate air, so in came a brand new aluminium case. I could barely believe how light it is, when I first took it, I honestly thought it to be an empty shell. It is most definitely the coolest case I've ever had, not the least reason for it that it comes with 3 cooling fans: one intake fan in front, near the disk drives, one exhaust fan, in the back, just beneath the power supply unit, for good air flow, and yet another rail mounted 120 mm fan level with the graphics adapter. Throw in a waterpipe CPU heatsink with it's own 120 mm fan, the 120 mm fan from the power supply unit and the three 40 mm fans from the memory cooler and it is definitely the most well refirgerated computer I ever had, surpassing its predecessor by about four fans.
On the down side, recent motherboards only have one IDE channel, meaning I no longer have a four optic drive extravaganza, but two will do just as well. And it's two less components generating heat inside the case. AS soon as I have money I must remember to get me one of those nifty extra long and cylindrical, as opposed to flat, IDE cables, because the one I have now kind of looks like it could disrupt the optimal airflow the good people at F13 PC went to great lengths to ensure would be spotless.
But, you know, performance isn't all there is to it. After most of the Summer "making do" with a laptop keyboars and the extra, unexpected week of waiting to get my hands on my very wierd looking bent and crooked ergonomic keyboard, this feeling of being back on the saddle cannot be put into words. Meaning I could wrap up this entry here, but no, this feels good. I must have more of this! Plenty more! Welcome to the unsurpassable Wall of Tai Ping! Ha ha.
Our Russian readers may be assured this Great blog is as you read assessing your mood, gathering physiological data about you and asserting your personality, because in Soviet Rossya, blog reads YOU!! This has geen a guest intervention by Russian Reversal.
How many of you remember "Knight Rider"? Did you know the concept derived from a mock pitch dubbed "The Six Words Man"? The pitch was for a show about a man who, at the start of each episode, would get out of bed, turn to the woman therein and say "Thank you". Upon recieving orders from his boss, he'd say "Okay". Somewhere along the episode, he'd threaten the baddies with "Freeze!", and, at the very end, upon being thanked by the damsel in distress no more, he'd say "You're Welcome", and leave all the talking to the car. The finished product has more than six words (most of which are either "buddy" or "pal", refering to the "suaver"-than-thou car), but the talking car concept remains. Did you know they are still going to make the feature film? Expected to be released in mid 2008, the Knight Rider movie may or may not take place in the same continuity as the Knight Rider show from the 80's (not too likely), and definitely does not take place it the same continuity as the Knight Rider 2000 movie (which does, however, take place in the same continuity as the show... wierd...), will feature a black car (not red, Knight Rider 2000) with a red scanner (remember the iconic red scanner, Knight Rider 2000?), the ability to Turbo Boost (as if anything could replace that... I mean, what would one come up with, turning into a boat?) and will not be named KIFT (because that would be silly, wouldn't it, Knight Rider 2000?). Oh, and have you ever heard of a Knight Rider 2010 moive? Spare yourself, there is nothing Knight (or Rider, for that matter) about it. Remember always that a talikng car a Knight Industries does not make. I mean, Inspector Gadget (the film featuring Matthew Broderick) ahd a talking car, but it made no such claims.
Psyched? Let's see a teaser trailer:
Movie not loading...
Right, it's much too soon for a teaser trailer. Let's see a teaser poster isstead:
Like that? Don't think the new KITT is too rounded? Let's take a closer look:
How about it? Like that? Well, don't get excited, it's fake as a €3,00 bill.
See for yourself, straight from Koenigsegg Official site, a picture of the CCX supercar:
See the similarities? The author of the so-called Teaser poster had admitied to making the fake poster as a joke. Not half bad, however.
It should be noted that the movie is being considered since 2004, but, then again, lest we forget, the domain www.simpsonsmovie.com has been registred since circa 1997, when there was nary an inkling towards a feature Simpsons movie. Patience, Grasshopper.
And, should you be curious about it, this won't be a reboot or a continuation, at least not quite. The movie is, confirmedly, going to be set in present day and age, not the 80's, and won't feature a Pontic Trans Am as per the 80's show, not the least reason for it that Pontiac Won't allow it and that it only allows replicas to be used in television or movies for parody purposes. This will be a reimaging on the show.
Psyched now? Remeber the Battlestar Gallactica (also from Glen A. Larson's mind) movies? Liked the new sexy model Cylons and the new plot? No? Well good, because it seems very few people did, their creators included. Glen Larson himself did just about all he could to distance himself from that, but he is spearheading the Knight Rider movie project and writing the script himself according to his own and original vision (not the "Six Words Man"!), not the crappy plots of the TV "movies" or Knight Rider 2000 (which kind of resembles the plot of Robocop, in a way...) or even Team Knight Rider (Ugh! What the hell was that about?).
If you can read this, it is possible that you have little or no life. Yet I congratulate you on your endurance.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really missed his keyboard. All is well now.
About a week ago I came back from vacation and found my computer to be inopperative. One long beep followed by a few short beeps during post suggested my graphics adapter was shot. A few tries later, after checking that the gigantic GeForce 7800 GTX SLI was propperly inserted, the cooling fans started to sound rather slow and the leds weren't quite as bright, which made me think the power unit was about to kick the bucket. Sure enough, I could have replaced those parts, but I figured, "Now is as good a time to change as any other." Sure, in just a few short months Quad core processors will be much cheaper and some new and exciting advent of technology will make current technology obsolete and I really should wait, but you know what, in a few more months from then some other sort of processor will become much cheaper and some other new and eciting technology will mane the new and exciting technology we are now expecting obsolete. So I figure any time os a great time to change. So I did.
And so I'm now runnig test running my new custom machine. At first I thought I'd splurge a little (more) and go all out on an Intel Core 2 Quad Extreme processor, but I figured I'd never be able to afford the harware to fully enjoy that, so I settled for a Core 2 Duo 3.0 GHZ with a 1333 MHz FSB. With the same clock frequency as the Quad core I'd get, it will, most likely, perform much better for the price (much less than a third), since I don't really run anything that takes advantage of multiple cores. After that was settled, the Asus P5K-E Motherboard was quite the natural choice, as were the twin Western Digital 500 GB SATAII hard disks, for a mean SATA RAID Type 0, because you really can't enjoy a wicked fast processor without a wicked fast data storage such as a RAID device. 4 GB RAM might seem a bit wasteful, since I'm running a 32 bit system (I experimented with 64 bits systems with my Athlon 64 FX. Nothing great about it.), but Linux can index it all, even if Windows can only index just over 3 GB. The active cooler I got for it, in addition the passive coolers it came with (Corsair stuff, they go all out to keep it cool) might have been a little much, but the price was quite right. I only had half a mind to change my graphics card, but since the one I had could be bust anyway, in came a XFX GeForce 8800 Ultra 768 MB GDDR3. Talk about huge, I've seen entire computers smaller than that thing (think PDAs). And before you go on rambling about ATI cards, great though they may be, and ATI Crossfire technology, great though it might seem, remember only that Linux doesnt always fare as well with ATI cards, and Crossfire, just like SLi, looks great on paper, and you think you can always get a card just like the one you have when they're dirt cheap instead of a whole new card, but by the time you would, it just might be time for a full upgrade (just like this). The case I had only haf a mind to change, since my minitower proved to be a bit awkward at times, not really providing much room to fir components or to circulate air, so in came a brand new aluminium case. I could barely believe how light it is, when I first took it, I honestly thought it to be an empty shell. It is most definitely the coolest case I've ever had, not the least reason for it that it comes with 3 cooling fans: one intake fan in front, near the disk drives, one exhaust fan, in the back, just beneath the power supply unit, for good air flow, and yet another rail mounted 120 mm fan level with the graphics adapter. Throw in a waterpipe CPU heatsink with it's own 120 mm fan, the 120 mm fan from the power supply unit and the three 40 mm fans from the memory cooler and it is definitely the most well refirgerated computer I ever had, surpassing its predecessor by about four fans.
On the down side, recent motherboards only have one IDE channel, meaning I no longer have a four optic drive extravaganza, but two will do just as well. And it's two less components generating heat inside the case. AS soon as I have money I must remember to get me one of those nifty extra long and cylindrical, as opposed to flat, IDE cables, because the one I have now kind of looks like it could disrupt the optimal airflow the good people at F13 PC went to great lengths to ensure would be spotless.
But, you know, performance isn't all there is to it. After most of the Summer "making do" with a laptop keyboars and the extra, unexpected week of waiting to get my hands on my very wierd looking bent and crooked ergonomic keyboard, this feeling of being back on the saddle cannot be put into words. Meaning I could wrap up this entry here, but no, this feels good. I must have more of this! Plenty more! Welcome to the unsurpassable Wall of Tai Ping! Ha ha.
Our Russian readers may be assured this Great blog is as you read assessing your mood, gathering physiological data about you and asserting your personality, because in Soviet Rossya, blog reads YOU!! This has geen a guest intervention by Russian Reversal.
How many of you remember "Knight Rider"? Did you know the concept derived from a mock pitch dubbed "The Six Words Man"? The pitch was for a show about a man who, at the start of each episode, would get out of bed, turn to the woman therein and say "Thank you". Upon recieving orders from his boss, he'd say "Okay". Somewhere along the episode, he'd threaten the baddies with "Freeze!", and, at the very end, upon being thanked by the damsel in distress no more, he'd say "You're Welcome", and leave all the talking to the car. The finished product has more than six words (most of which are either "buddy" or "pal", refering to the "suaver"-than-thou car), but the talking car concept remains. Did you know they are still going to make the feature film? Expected to be released in mid 2008, the Knight Rider movie may or may not take place in the same continuity as the Knight Rider show from the 80's (not too likely), and definitely does not take place it the same continuity as the Knight Rider 2000 movie (which does, however, take place in the same continuity as the show... wierd...), will feature a black car (not red, Knight Rider 2000) with a red scanner (remember the iconic red scanner, Knight Rider 2000?), the ability to Turbo Boost (as if anything could replace that... I mean, what would one come up with, turning into a boat?) and will not be named KIFT (because that would be silly, wouldn't it, Knight Rider 2000?). Oh, and have you ever heard of a Knight Rider 2010 moive? Spare yourself, there is nothing Knight (or Rider, for that matter) about it. Remember always that a talikng car a Knight Industries does not make. I mean, Inspector Gadget (the film featuring Matthew Broderick) ahd a talking car, but it made no such claims.
Psyched? Let's see a teaser trailer:
Movie not loading...
Right, it's much too soon for a teaser trailer. Let's see a teaser poster isstead:
Like that? Don't think the new KITT is too rounded? Let's take a closer look:
How about it? Like that? Well, don't get excited, it's fake as a €3,00 bill.
See for yourself, straight from Koenigsegg Official site, a picture of the CCX supercar:
See the similarities? The author of the so-called Teaser poster had admitied to making the fake poster as a joke. Not half bad, however.
It should be noted that the movie is being considered since 2004, but, then again, lest we forget, the domain www.simpsonsmovie.com has been registred since circa 1997, when there was nary an inkling towards a feature Simpsons movie. Patience, Grasshopper.
And, should you be curious about it, this won't be a reboot or a continuation, at least not quite. The movie is, confirmedly, going to be set in present day and age, not the 80's, and won't feature a Pontic Trans Am as per the 80's show, not the least reason for it that Pontiac Won't allow it and that it only allows replicas to be used in television or movies for parody purposes. This will be a reimaging on the show.
Psyched now? Remeber the Battlestar Gallactica (also from Glen A. Larson's mind) movies? Liked the new sexy model Cylons and the new plot? No? Well good, because it seems very few people did, their creators included. Glen Larson himself did just about all he could to distance himself from that, but he is spearheading the Knight Rider movie project and writing the script himself according to his own and original vision (not the "Six Words Man"!), not the crappy plots of the TV "movies" or Knight Rider 2000 (which kind of resembles the plot of Robocop, in a way...) or even Team Knight Rider (Ugh! What the hell was that about?).
If you can read this, it is possible that you have little or no life. Yet I congratulate you on your endurance.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really missed his keyboard. All is well now.
Trust Doesn't Rust
... is arguably the best episode of long gone but never forgotten 1980s show Knight Rider, the one that featured not one but two shiny black nigh-omnipotent supercars, punctuated with humorous remarks from the good trans am, the Knight Industries Two Thousand, or KITT, for short, such as "That car is going to give Trans Am a bad reputation...", humurous misunderstanding driven questions from the evil prototype, the Knight Automated Roving Robot, who would allow you to call him KARR, such as "I saw you deactivate your Tony. Was he malfunctioning?", and the cant-do-without presence of Michael Knight, boasting the indispensable black leather jacket and somewhat exagerated curls, seasoned with his own brand of attitude, not the least of which towards the dignified, if pompous, figure of Devon Miles and the ever imminent romantic leaning towards the pretty face in front of the big brains of Bonnie Barstow. But Im sure you don't think I'm here to talk about that.
I have trust issues. Difficulty to trust someone is quite the most prominent issue, but certainly not the only one. See, I used to be the blind trust type, never - I mean never - ever pausing to reflect whether my trust was ever misplaced. As a kid, that got me in trouble all the time. So now I have a hard time placing more than just a smidgeon of trust in anyone, really. But the worst issue still seems to be that whenever I manage to overcome the previous issue, I still find my trust to be misplaced. It just snowballs from there. But I'm not here to talk about myself either.
Trust is quite the strange thing. It can take eons to build, but even the so-deemed strongest of trusts may be shattered by a single deed. Sad though it may be that, in a moment of distraction, irreflection, poor foresight or, on the other hand, anger or hurt, a single deed may raze what might have taken forever to raise. But saddest of all is that said deed need not be done at all.
I don't mean that a deed done by innaction, or, thus, the lack of a deed might break one's long since trust. I mean that suspicion, needingly paired with stubbornness, might make one see beyond what has been done and what might have been done and into what hasn't been done and wouldn't be done, and the deed undone, which would, no doubt destroy one's trust in another when done, will do so just as well iven if not done. The operative word, of course, being suspicion. Sure, hard-headedness cannot be dispensed with, but tolerated, if not for suspicion.
Hence my thought: Trust is a thing too fickle to have, even if one cant do without it. To deposit in someone more thrust than they reciprocate can much too easily lead to hurt feelings when they become assured they've been wronged in ways you'd never dream of, let alone even consider, but how does one assess another's trust without testing it?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders if any such thing as a a capella version of the Knight Rider theme can be had. And don't get started on the infamous dubbing of "A Super Máquina!" Herbert & Richards...
I have trust issues. Difficulty to trust someone is quite the most prominent issue, but certainly not the only one. See, I used to be the blind trust type, never - I mean never - ever pausing to reflect whether my trust was ever misplaced. As a kid, that got me in trouble all the time. So now I have a hard time placing more than just a smidgeon of trust in anyone, really. But the worst issue still seems to be that whenever I manage to overcome the previous issue, I still find my trust to be misplaced. It just snowballs from there. But I'm not here to talk about myself either.
Trust is quite the strange thing. It can take eons to build, but even the so-deemed strongest of trusts may be shattered by a single deed. Sad though it may be that, in a moment of distraction, irreflection, poor foresight or, on the other hand, anger or hurt, a single deed may raze what might have taken forever to raise. But saddest of all is that said deed need not be done at all.
I don't mean that a deed done by innaction, or, thus, the lack of a deed might break one's long since trust. I mean that suspicion, needingly paired with stubbornness, might make one see beyond what has been done and what might have been done and into what hasn't been done and wouldn't be done, and the deed undone, which would, no doubt destroy one's trust in another when done, will do so just as well iven if not done. The operative word, of course, being suspicion. Sure, hard-headedness cannot be dispensed with, but tolerated, if not for suspicion.
Hence my thought: Trust is a thing too fickle to have, even if one cant do without it. To deposit in someone more thrust than they reciprocate can much too easily lead to hurt feelings when they become assured they've been wronged in ways you'd never dream of, let alone even consider, but how does one assess another's trust without testing it?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders if any such thing as a a capella version of the Knight Rider theme can be had. And don't get started on the infamous dubbing of "A Super Máquina!" Herbert & Richards...
Clubbing
from to club
verb;
To beat with a heavy stick, usually thicker at one end, suitable to be used as a weapon.
Good to know, but certainly not what I mean.
Remeber Pac-Man? Little round chap, wandering about dark rooms filled with bright white spots where loud, electronic, repetitive music could be heard, avoiding phantoms like entities? I can empathise abit right now.
My head is buzzing, but not swimming. It might account for any unusual degree of uncommoness about this post. Bear with me. Like you always do, friends dearest.
There's this friend of mine I've known since... 1995! Feels so long ago now, but I still remember how we first met and how we became such friends. I mean, such good friends. We kept really close until about 2002. Then college, the best thing to ever happen to me though it may be, put an end to many good things I had going on. It did make us a bot apart, but it takes more than a highly (un)organised and quite powerful teaching institution to break such friends apart for good. This week I thought I'd look him up and get together. We did.
Tonight, he invited me to go clubbing (no, not bludgeoning) with him. I did. It was (is, really) so not me, to go clubbing, and to that point, we realised, each holding a glass of crushed ice, lime and liquor that in the 12 years we've known each other, we had never gone for a night out together.
And what do I have to show for it? The music reminded me of my Philosophy final paper, back in 2001 (long as hell, but saying barely anything. Worth an A-. 19 out of 20, that was). The people around I had never met, might never meet again and if I do, I won't know it, and I don't much care for drinking; two shots to make minimum consumption and a Caipiroska (lime juice, sugar and vodka, shaken with crushed ice, in the very odd chance you're wandering) can't really make my head feel lighter or any such effect, but the music did a bit of a number on my ears. For a while, that was.
My final account? Best night of the whole Summer. As per Austin Danger Powers, KBE's immortal words, "Yeah, baby!" So I'm pretty tired and I feel somewhat "busted up", mainly beacuse I was feeling a bit under the weather to begin with this morning, but I don't recall ever being happier these lastfew months year. Sure, I could not be going to bed alone, but, then again, I could be obscenely wealthy, live in a white marble manor just outside London with a full complement of serving staff waiting on my hand and foot for my every desire, have a British Racing Green Jaguar XJ8 Sovereign LWB (for a quiet, comfortable drive) and a Plate Jaguar XJK (for a spirity drive) in my garage and shelter a dozen gorgeous and sculptural raving nymphomaniacs head over heels in love with me, but often that which we most ardently desire might stop us from enjoying that which we do have. (meaning, of course, "Not going to happen, old chap, carry on".)
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes to apologise for attempting to mislead his faithful readers into shedding some e-blood for his own profit. But you're all still welcome to keep donating.
verb;
To beat with a heavy stick, usually thicker at one end, suitable to be used as a weapon.
Good to know, but certainly not what I mean.
Remeber Pac-Man? Little round chap, wandering about dark rooms filled with bright white spots where loud, electronic, repetitive music could be heard, avoiding phantoms like entities? I can empathise abit right now.
My head is buzzing, but not swimming. It might account for any unusual degree of uncommoness about this post. Bear with me. Like you always do, friends dearest.
There's this friend of mine I've known since... 1995! Feels so long ago now, but I still remember how we first met and how we became such friends. I mean, such good friends. We kept really close until about 2002. Then college, the best thing to ever happen to me though it may be, put an end to many good things I had going on. It did make us a bot apart, but it takes more than a highly (un)organised and quite powerful teaching institution to break such friends apart for good. This week I thought I'd look him up and get together. We did.
Tonight, he invited me to go clubbing (no, not bludgeoning) with him. I did. It was (is, really) so not me, to go clubbing, and to that point, we realised, each holding a glass of crushed ice, lime and liquor that in the 12 years we've known each other, we had never gone for a night out together.
And what do I have to show for it? The music reminded me of my Philosophy final paper, back in 2001 (long as hell, but saying barely anything. Worth an A-. 19 out of 20, that was). The people around I had never met, might never meet again and if I do, I won't know it, and I don't much care for drinking; two shots to make minimum consumption and a Caipiroska (lime juice, sugar and vodka, shaken with crushed ice, in the very odd chance you're wandering) can't really make my head feel lighter or any such effect, but the music did a bit of a number on my ears. For a while, that was.
My final account? Best night of the whole Summer. As per Austin Danger Powers, KBE's immortal words, "Yeah, baby!" So I'm pretty tired and I feel somewhat "busted up", mainly beacuse I was feeling a bit under the weather to begin with this morning, but I don't recall ever being happier these last
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes to apologise for attempting to mislead his faithful readers into shedding some e-blood for his own profit. But you're all still welcome to keep donating.
Speaking of nibbles...
I wonder if I can recruit your help with a small favour...
I ask for no money (but, needless to say, if you want to give it...), just a morsel of your time.
Shady dealings ahoy...
Were I to provide a link, would you click it? Note, said link has my personal guarantee of carrying no mailce. It's appropriate for adults, thoug not X-rated. It's appropriate for very small enfants, for it contains no small pieces which may be inhaled, an thus poses no choking hazard. It's appropriate for teens. This is truly a family link, and I don't mean it in the way that The Sound of Music is a family film. This link may be enjoied equally by the whole family.
Would you click it?
If you would, then here it is:
Link!
And, sure enough, if you wouldn't, I'll provide something else, just for you:
Alternate Link! Which just happens to be the same...
So... if everyone's had enough links...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is done linking here for today. Check back regularly for links of similar and far better quality.
I ask for no money (but, needless to say, if you want to give it...), just a morsel of your time.
Shady dealings ahoy...
Were I to provide a link, would you click it? Note, said link has my personal guarantee of carrying no mailce. It's appropriate for adults, thoug not X-rated. It's appropriate for very small enfants, for it contains no small pieces which may be inhaled, an thus poses no choking hazard. It's appropriate for teens. This is truly a family link, and I don't mean it in the way that The Sound of Music is a family film. This link may be enjoied equally by the whole family.
Would you click it?
If you would, then here it is:
Link!
And, sure enough, if you wouldn't, I'll provide something else, just for you:
Alternate Link! Which just happens to be the same...
So... if everyone's had enough links...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is done linking here for today. Check back regularly for links of similar and far better quality.
Scorchin'!
I thought I'd squeeze in one more post this month. Lets get on with it, then, shall we?
Even as I write this, the short-term fix for my lack of internet connectivity is a very precarious would-be broadband... thing, I'm not even sure how to call it. And here to elaborate on the perils of new technologies and their misaplications, we would have Detective John McClane, who wasn't able to provide us with a defenitive answer, yet whom we expect to make an appearence at any time.
This Internet connection thing really has me on edge. I'm working with what calls itself a Z020 Telemodem. It will often disconnect of its own accord, but even worse, even more often it will lose connection with any webserver whilst mantaining some sort of ISP connection, or at least believing as much, meaning it wont provide Internet access, and if you try to disconnect to re-connect, it won't be able to terminate the connection - and well it should not, if there is no connection to terminate... - and should you try to unplug the thing, Windows might crash. I'm not sure what the X factor is here, but it sure is one gargantuan red X.
It's been hot, and it's been about a year since Mr. Bloke made his appearence here to tell us of his dislike of warm weather. Said weather is still just as warm, which, I've just found out, can also give me insomnia. I really ought to invest on a cooling fan for myself, some day... But get this! Just a few days ago, on the news, some reporter made a point of going out and interview people regarding the hot weather. Now is it me or is this a clear sign that 1 hour long news programmes might be a bit more than our networks can handle? At any rate, some norse couple complained about the heat and commented that it made them "feel like doing nothing" and further added that if it was ever this hot in their country "they wouldn't be as productive"! Well, there you have it! Norse insight just excused our lame entropy with the most guilt-free reason - the very weather. What would become of us without norse knowledge...
Detective McClane has yet not arrived, but we expect him to drop by in time for the end of this entry.
Summer time is a poficient time for some things, despite the inexorable truth in the norseman's prespective. Spotting hotties on the beach, for one thing, is rather hard during the Winter. But Summer time is also prolific for movies. Now over here, and contrarily to most of Europe's general practice, we like to subtitle our imported media, be it cinema or TV shows, something which remained from the censorship dodging of the old regime, but lately, dubbing has become more and more of a common practice - which I resent. Just last Thursday I was about to watch The Simpsons Movie ("in glorious 2D") when I'm told it's dubbed over. I see... so we should also probably draft up a letter reading "Your voice acting, superb though it may be, has been deemed unsuitable for our narrow little minds. Thanks for a job well done and subsequently wasted." and send it to Dan Castellanetta, Julie Kavner, Nancy Cartwright, Yeardley Smith, Hank Azaria and Harry Shearer (off the top of my head, I'm not bothering with IMDb links, get them yourself), just to name a few. I wonder how the dubbers would feel if ever they knew of their hard work (which, I hear, in this particular instance, isn't so hard at all...) just being discarded on a whim. I'd dub their whines of protest myself.
Or maybe it's just the heat getting to me. Perhaps I shoulf fly South... Do I hear Australia? It ought to be nice and cool there by now...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to thank Det. John McClane for his contribution to today's edition of Shark Nibbles. Yipee-Ka-Yay, Motherfucker!
Even as I write this, the short-term fix for my lack of internet connectivity is a very precarious would-be broadband... thing, I'm not even sure how to call it. And here to elaborate on the perils of new technologies and their misaplications, we would have Detective John McClane, who wasn't able to provide us with a defenitive answer, yet whom we expect to make an appearence at any time.
This Internet connection thing really has me on edge. I'm working with what calls itself a Z020 Telemodem. It will often disconnect of its own accord, but even worse, even more often it will lose connection with any webserver whilst mantaining some sort of ISP connection, or at least believing as much, meaning it wont provide Internet access, and if you try to disconnect to re-connect, it won't be able to terminate the connection - and well it should not, if there is no connection to terminate... - and should you try to unplug the thing, Windows might crash. I'm not sure what the X factor is here, but it sure is one gargantuan red X.
It's been hot, and it's been about a year since Mr. Bloke made his appearence here to tell us of his dislike of warm weather. Said weather is still just as warm, which, I've just found out, can also give me insomnia. I really ought to invest on a cooling fan for myself, some day... But get this! Just a few days ago, on the news, some reporter made a point of going out and interview people regarding the hot weather. Now is it me or is this a clear sign that 1 hour long news programmes might be a bit more than our networks can handle? At any rate, some norse couple complained about the heat and commented that it made them "feel like doing nothing" and further added that if it was ever this hot in their country "they wouldn't be as productive"! Well, there you have it! Norse insight just excused our lame entropy with the most guilt-free reason - the very weather. What would become of us without norse knowledge...
Detective McClane has yet not arrived, but we expect him to drop by in time for the end of this entry.
Summer time is a poficient time for some things, despite the inexorable truth in the norseman's prespective. Spotting hotties on the beach, for one thing, is rather hard during the Winter. But Summer time is also prolific for movies. Now over here, and contrarily to most of Europe's general practice, we like to subtitle our imported media, be it cinema or TV shows, something which remained from the censorship dodging of the old regime, but lately, dubbing has become more and more of a common practice - which I resent. Just last Thursday I was about to watch The Simpsons Movie ("in glorious 2D") when I'm told it's dubbed over. I see... so we should also probably draft up a letter reading "Your voice acting, superb though it may be, has been deemed unsuitable for our narrow little minds. Thanks for a job well done and subsequently wasted." and send it to Dan Castellanetta, Julie Kavner, Nancy Cartwright, Yeardley Smith, Hank Azaria and Harry Shearer (off the top of my head, I'm not bothering with IMDb links, get them yourself), just to name a few. I wonder how the dubbers would feel if ever they knew of their hard work (which, I hear, in this particular instance, isn't so hard at all...) just being discarded on a whim. I'd dub their whines of protest myself.
Or maybe it's just the heat getting to me. Perhaps I shoulf fly South... Do I hear Australia? It ought to be nice and cool there by now...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to thank Det. John McClane for his contribution to today's edition of Shark Nibbles. Yipee-Ka-Yay, Motherfucker!
We do have contact
So it all worked fine... ish! The test contacts did arrive in the predicted timeframe and I have them. They're comfortable and I see fairly well with them. So now for the sunny side down bit.
Because they're only test contacts, the astigmatism isn't fully corrected which means tha, while I can go on about with them, reading is out of the question. Which isn't too bad, since I wasn't really planning on wearing them to work. The other thing is that the right lens seems to turn around a lot, which really imparts my sight sometimes. Still, not too much, just enough to notice. Also they seem to fit too snugly, which could become hazardous to my eyes, if worn for oo long or too often. For the usage I intend for them, however, they should be fine. The only real issue is that putting them on and taking them off is way more complicated than I originally thought. That and that by the end of my first day (rather, my first few hours, I put them on in the early evening), I had one mean splitting migraine. I couldn't even enjoy the symphony of sensuous screaming from my neighbours (you say voyeur, I say victim. It's not like I'm eavesdropping, she's just... loud. For all I know, they could even get off on making it known that they're having it off. Not that I'm complaining, she has a beautiful voice). And it echoes. A lot.
So today i was just enjoying a lazy Sunday and flipping through the channels when Demolition Man comes up. Now, I had seen it before, quite a few times in fact, but its not like I had annything better to do, so I sat and watched it. Not too long into the movie, much to my surprise, after a quick brush with Wesley Snipes, Nigel Hawthorne invites Sylvester Stallone to dinner at Pizza Hut. I though, "Well, now, If I remember right, wasn't it Taco Bell?". I spent the next few minutes watching intently and listening for any breaks in sound, because I did think I heard somewhat of a dubbing splice when Hawthorne said "Pizza Hut". I searched in vain for a Taco Bell logo not edited out or replaced, tried my best to read the characters lips as they spoke "Pizza Hut" (and I thought I could spot the mismatch every single time, even if the dubing seemed flawless every other time). Not happy, I looked it up on IMDb and found out that, for some countries, they produced a "second version" in which all references to Taco Bell are replaced with Pizza Hut.
So that was the hand we were dealt. A version sophisticated enough to dub the name of a worldwide known franchise over that of a not quite so widespread one (with multiple degrees of proficiency), but not sophisticated enough to have the mention to an alledgedly alive convict fellow actually deceased edited out. I hate living off the tablecraps of the Spanish, I really do.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will give Systems Analysis one last go before shipping off to Summer Vacation. And that's nearly all I can think of right now. Summer Vacation...
Because they're only test contacts, the astigmatism isn't fully corrected which means tha, while I can go on about with them, reading is out of the question. Which isn't too bad, since I wasn't really planning on wearing them to work. The other thing is that the right lens seems to turn around a lot, which really imparts my sight sometimes. Still, not too much, just enough to notice. Also they seem to fit too snugly, which could become hazardous to my eyes, if worn for oo long or too often. For the usage I intend for them, however, they should be fine. The only real issue is that putting them on and taking them off is way more complicated than I originally thought. That and that by the end of my first day (rather, my first few hours, I put them on in the early evening), I had one mean splitting migraine. I couldn't even enjoy the symphony of sensuous screaming from my neighbours (you say voyeur, I say victim. It's not like I'm eavesdropping, she's just... loud. For all I know, they could even get off on making it known that they're having it off. Not that I'm complaining, she has a beautiful voice). And it echoes. A lot.
So today i was just enjoying a lazy Sunday and flipping through the channels when Demolition Man comes up. Now, I had seen it before, quite a few times in fact, but its not like I had annything better to do, so I sat and watched it. Not too long into the movie, much to my surprise, after a quick brush with Wesley Snipes, Nigel Hawthorne invites Sylvester Stallone to dinner at Pizza Hut. I though, "Well, now, If I remember right, wasn't it Taco Bell?". I spent the next few minutes watching intently and listening for any breaks in sound, because I did think I heard somewhat of a dubbing splice when Hawthorne said "Pizza Hut". I searched in vain for a Taco Bell logo not edited out or replaced, tried my best to read the characters lips as they spoke "Pizza Hut" (and I thought I could spot the mismatch every single time, even if the dubing seemed flawless every other time). Not happy, I looked it up on IMDb and found out that, for some countries, they produced a "second version" in which all references to Taco Bell are replaced with Pizza Hut.
So that was the hand we were dealt. A version sophisticated enough to dub the name of a worldwide known franchise over that of a not quite so widespread one (with multiple degrees of proficiency), but not sophisticated enough to have the mention to an alledgedly alive convict fellow actually deceased edited out. I hate living off the tablecraps of the Spanish, I really do.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will give Systems Analysis one last go before shipping off to Summer Vacation. And that's nearly all I can think of right now. Summer Vacation...
We have contact
Or have we?
So as yo might recall, I am severely myopic. I also have quite a bit of astigmatism. As you may know, I rather dislike bright lights... with a passion. So Summer time is often uncomfortable for me. Granted, shades come in to save the day, to some degree, at least. The thing is, when you're so severely myopic as I am, shades don't come in so ample a supply as you may find at an optician's shop. If you'd like a pair of curved sunglasses that still fits your sight impairment, adequate lens must be cut and assembled at the manufacturer. This usually isn't a problem, until your myopia becomes in excess of about 3,5 diopters. You see, if your lens needs to be quite vergent, the edges must become rather thick. If you'd like your lens to be curved, the edge must become much thicker. My flat (as opposed to curved) uncut lenses vaguely resemble throwing weapons, so thick that they are (my miopia is in excess of 7 diopters, further aggravated by the astigmatism). A curved lens befitting me would be unreasonable to assemble. Of course, I have little trouble, if any, arranging for a pair of flat prescription sunglasses. In fact, that's not my point entirely. What really bothers me is that whenever I go out I must carry my regular glasses with me, or be plunged into darkness whenever I go indoors for some reason. And when I do go indoors I have to swap my glasses and again when I leave. Is it worth the trouble, not being blinded by sunlight and not finding myself running for shelter with bloodshot, aching eyes? Defenitely, but isn't there an easier way around the ordeal?
Certainly. Radial keratomy to the rescue!
OK, let's back down a little here, shall we? Forgive me if I'm just a smidgeon reluctant to start cutting up my corneas in order to reduce their curvature. Let's hear alternatives, if you please...
I hear contacts. I like what I hear. So I slap them on in the morning (morning is a relative term... shortly after I'm up, then) and whenever I go out I put on my (stylishly bent around my face) shades. If I happen to pop indoors for a cup of tea or whatnot, I can just hold them for a while. Sounds good? Must be.
And this is how the cookie crumbles.
So what are the steps to salvation? Step one, we need to get an appointment with an oftalmologist. Sure, no sweat. Not so fast, lads. Would you like a timely appointment or an eventual appointment? For the latter, go on, talk to the receptionist, schedule something to about St. Patrick's day. For the former, and this you won't find in the rulebook, approach the receptionist, proceed exactly as per an eventual appointment, and after she tells you "you're not seeing any doctor any time soon", whine a little and - OK, this really is the crucial step, here, listen up - slip her €5,00. Yeah, she's not working for free, here. She gets paid by the boss, she works for the boss. You need to pay her yourself if you want some service. Oh, and if you'd like to have her not squeeze any geezers in front of you just beacuse something or another, well, you're screwed. Let me know if you find a way. I just know what I know the hard way, i.e., skipping the step when I slip her the bill and being told what I should have doon all too late. But don't worry, she'll illuminate you on how to proceed correctly by schedulling several appointments for "tomorrow" as you wait for your appointment.
Bitch...
Step two, we need to find an optician to order a pair of trial contacts. Again, timely v.s. eventual come to play. I haven't found a surefire way around this problem, but stick with me. I might manage. First, find an optician. Any optician. Tell them what you want. They'll put you through yet another full battery of oftalmological exams. Don't worry, it won't hurt a bit. It's just like going to the oftalmologist. In fact, it's exactly like going to the oftalmologist. Yes, I know, we've already done that, we even showed the optician the prescription the good doctor went to college for 5 or 6 years to write. Why can't they trust him, I'll never know. Then thay'll blabber on something you've already know about semi-rigid contacts v.s. disposable contacts and tell you to return in three weeks. Um, news flash, sweethart, in trhee weeks time I expect to be sipping mai-tais under a palm tree in a tropical beach. Well, not really on a beach. And not mai-tais. And the whole idea of going to a tropical spot seems rather unlikely. But you get the point.
Onwards to...
Step three, we need to find an optician who can really come through for us. So flounder about for a bit until you find one. A standard battery of tests ensues, suck it up. Don't moan about how it's the thrid time you've had it in two days, don't flinch at the burning light they all but jam up your eyes to check your retina, just go through it. If you're lucky enough, they might do a full cornea topography. This might mean you're on the right track. It doesn't hurt, but it does make you see concentric white circles for a while after you've done it, rather like a bullseye. Resist the urge to utter "Headshot!". Just listen through the brief lecture and they just might annonouce that your otherwise 3 to 4 weeks long awaiting time just might be cut down to about six working days.
Step four, we need to remember this is still only a pair of trial lenses we're getting, and there is no guarantee that the contacts will suit you perfectly or at all... but, hey, chin up, they just might!
So now I'm almost all set up. I've got the really nice shades (which I just couldn't fully strip of the manufacturer's brand. You know, they don't pay me to advertise for them. At least I removed the name from the lenses themselves), I'm waiting for the trial contacts, and I'm hoping - hoping! - everything will turn out great. This Summer, with any luck, I'll be done fumbling with two pairs of glasses and a gigantic bulge on my pocket. "Yes, it's a rocket, I'm not that happy to see you."
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes Good Luck upon all who must still labour for those courses that didn't make the grade along the last two semesters and those who will labour for the courses that didn't make enough of a grade to suit you. Carry on, fellows!
So as yo might recall, I am severely myopic. I also have quite a bit of astigmatism. As you may know, I rather dislike bright lights... with a passion. So Summer time is often uncomfortable for me. Granted, shades come in to save the day, to some degree, at least. The thing is, when you're so severely myopic as I am, shades don't come in so ample a supply as you may find at an optician's shop. If you'd like a pair of curved sunglasses that still fits your sight impairment, adequate lens must be cut and assembled at the manufacturer. This usually isn't a problem, until your myopia becomes in excess of about 3,5 diopters. You see, if your lens needs to be quite vergent, the edges must become rather thick. If you'd like your lens to be curved, the edge must become much thicker. My flat (as opposed to curved) uncut lenses vaguely resemble throwing weapons, so thick that they are (my miopia is in excess of 7 diopters, further aggravated by the astigmatism). A curved lens befitting me would be unreasonable to assemble. Of course, I have little trouble, if any, arranging for a pair of flat prescription sunglasses. In fact, that's not my point entirely. What really bothers me is that whenever I go out I must carry my regular glasses with me, or be plunged into darkness whenever I go indoors for some reason. And when I do go indoors I have to swap my glasses and again when I leave. Is it worth the trouble, not being blinded by sunlight and not finding myself running for shelter with bloodshot, aching eyes? Defenitely, but isn't there an easier way around the ordeal?
Certainly. Radial keratomy to the rescue!
OK, let's back down a little here, shall we? Forgive me if I'm just a smidgeon reluctant to start cutting up my corneas in order to reduce their curvature. Let's hear alternatives, if you please...
I hear contacts. I like what I hear. So I slap them on in the morning (morning is a relative term... shortly after I'm up, then) and whenever I go out I put on my (stylishly bent around my face) shades. If I happen to pop indoors for a cup of tea or whatnot, I can just hold them for a while. Sounds good? Must be.
And this is how the cookie crumbles.
So what are the steps to salvation? Step one, we need to get an appointment with an oftalmologist. Sure, no sweat. Not so fast, lads. Would you like a timely appointment or an eventual appointment? For the latter, go on, talk to the receptionist, schedule something to about St. Patrick's day. For the former, and this you won't find in the rulebook, approach the receptionist, proceed exactly as per an eventual appointment, and after she tells you "you're not seeing any doctor any time soon", whine a little and - OK, this really is the crucial step, here, listen up - slip her €5,00. Yeah, she's not working for free, here. She gets paid by the boss, she works for the boss. You need to pay her yourself if you want some service. Oh, and if you'd like to have her not squeeze any geezers in front of you just beacuse something or another, well, you're screwed. Let me know if you find a way. I just know what I know the hard way, i.e., skipping the step when I slip her the bill and being told what I should have doon all too late. But don't worry, she'll illuminate you on how to proceed correctly by schedulling several appointments for "tomorrow" as you wait for your appointment.
Bitch...
Step two, we need to find an optician to order a pair of trial contacts. Again, timely v.s. eventual come to play. I haven't found a surefire way around this problem, but stick with me. I might manage. First, find an optician. Any optician. Tell them what you want. They'll put you through yet another full battery of oftalmological exams. Don't worry, it won't hurt a bit. It's just like going to the oftalmologist. In fact, it's exactly like going to the oftalmologist. Yes, I know, we've already done that, we even showed the optician the prescription the good doctor went to college for 5 or 6 years to write. Why can't they trust him, I'll never know. Then thay'll blabber on something you've already know about semi-rigid contacts v.s. disposable contacts and tell you to return in three weeks. Um, news flash, sweethart, in trhee weeks time I expect to be sipping mai-tais under a palm tree in a tropical beach. Well, not really on a beach. And not mai-tais. And the whole idea of going to a tropical spot seems rather unlikely. But you get the point.
Onwards to...
Step three, we need to find an optician who can really come through for us. So flounder about for a bit until you find one. A standard battery of tests ensues, suck it up. Don't moan about how it's the thrid time you've had it in two days, don't flinch at the burning light they all but jam up your eyes to check your retina, just go through it. If you're lucky enough, they might do a full cornea topography. This might mean you're on the right track. It doesn't hurt, but it does make you see concentric white circles for a while after you've done it, rather like a bullseye. Resist the urge to utter "Headshot!". Just listen through the brief lecture and they just might annonouce that your otherwise 3 to 4 weeks long awaiting time just might be cut down to about six working days.
Step four, we need to remember this is still only a pair of trial lenses we're getting, and there is no guarantee that the contacts will suit you perfectly or at all... but, hey, chin up, they just might!
So now I'm almost all set up. I've got the really nice shades (which I just couldn't fully strip of the manufacturer's brand. You know, they don't pay me to advertise for them. At least I removed the name from the lenses themselves), I'm waiting for the trial contacts, and I'm hoping - hoping! - everything will turn out great. This Summer, with any luck, I'll be done fumbling with two pairs of glasses and a gigantic bulge on my pocket. "Yes, it's a rocket, I'm not that happy to see you."
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes Good Luck upon all who must still labour for those courses that didn't make the grade along the last two semesters and those who will labour for the courses that didn't make enough of a grade to suit you. Carry on, fellows!
Long ago...
Today I took a stroll down a route I hadn't taken since mid 2002, some five years ago. Those who know the place (Oh, so many of you...), come, take my tour.
Our trip goes under the scorching early afternoon sun, but the path of my memories runs through chilly bleak dark mornings.
Early morning, soles meet concrete flooring outside. It's chilly. It's a bleak morning. The sun isn't so high yet. Onwards...
Along the concrete we go, and out of the familiar hiding of the tall building blocks and out into the sloping street. A little climb to wake up. Good for your legs. A little work out. Up to the corner and across the street, and up some more to the parking lot in front of the old Hospital, now darkened and abandones, a shadowy repository of unwanted beds and stretchers, with those cold stony archways and religious statues high atop the roof. On clear winter mornings, about January or February, often the low sun would shine brightly on aluminium window frames just beyond the hill, a little spark in the glummy morning. Across the tarmac and down the small sloped street between the old diner and the tiny mall that never really lived up to its expectations, and out into the rather broad and busy street. The first real whif of activity. Time to pick up our pace.
Again, across the street and up to the corner. Time there was when just nearby the old, perhaps the oldest supermarket in town overlooked that intersection, but not anymore. The old landmark-ish supermarket has been remodeled so far it's no longer where it once was anymore, and a mere shadow of itself, fond memories along with it. Then around the corner and down to another intersection. Here the traffic lights, quite haywire in nature, make for a prickly spot for drivers, and it's been so since 2001, but pedestrians can usually go by just fine. I remember when the road lanes weren't quite so wide. I remember they becoming this wide. In the end, it doesn't really matter.
Just a few more steps along the bushy fence around the park and across the street to our destination, good old High School. The sight brings back memories. The two wings, which, on the fascist days, served boys and girls separately, show only two thirds of the whole building, for, you see, the terrain slopes towards the back, so the ground floor would look like a basement from the front, but easily accessible from the back. But we get ahead of ourselves.
Alves Martins was a most revered bishop from Viseu.
Notice the outer wall, the fence and the gate, how the wall curves inwards around the gate. Just right of the gates, by the fire hydrant, that's where the mates and I would meet before class, before we'd break up into cliques and such. There we'd just talk. We'd always have something to talk about, for we knew, should we run out of talk, we'd have to go inside for class. We didn't dread class, at least I didn't, but never were we in any hurry. So we talked. About classes, and GPAs, and "what did you get for number three of math homework", and the likes. And then, by first bell, we'd go inside.
You know, those chilly dark bleak morings... I miss them.
Pax vobiscum atque vale
ArabianShark cherishes dearly the memoirs of three years in High School. Would that those days would ever come back some time.
Our trip goes under the scorching early afternoon sun, but the path of my memories runs through chilly bleak dark mornings.
Early morning, soles meet concrete flooring outside. It's chilly. It's a bleak morning. The sun isn't so high yet. Onwards...
Along the concrete we go, and out of the familiar hiding of the tall building blocks and out into the sloping street. A little climb to wake up. Good for your legs. A little work out. Up to the corner and across the street, and up some more to the parking lot in front of the old Hospital, now darkened and abandones, a shadowy repository of unwanted beds and stretchers, with those cold stony archways and religious statues high atop the roof. On clear winter mornings, about January or February, often the low sun would shine brightly on aluminium window frames just beyond the hill, a little spark in the glummy morning. Across the tarmac and down the small sloped street between the old diner and the tiny mall that never really lived up to its expectations, and out into the rather broad and busy street. The first real whif of activity. Time to pick up our pace.
Again, across the street and up to the corner. Time there was when just nearby the old, perhaps the oldest supermarket in town overlooked that intersection, but not anymore. The old landmark-ish supermarket has been remodeled so far it's no longer where it once was anymore, and a mere shadow of itself, fond memories along with it. Then around the corner and down to another intersection. Here the traffic lights, quite haywire in nature, make for a prickly spot for drivers, and it's been so since 2001, but pedestrians can usually go by just fine. I remember when the road lanes weren't quite so wide. I remember they becoming this wide. In the end, it doesn't really matter.
Just a few more steps along the bushy fence around the park and across the street to our destination, good old High School. The sight brings back memories. The two wings, which, on the fascist days, served boys and girls separately, show only two thirds of the whole building, for, you see, the terrain slopes towards the back, so the ground floor would look like a basement from the front, but easily accessible from the back. But we get ahead of ourselves.
Alves Martins was a most revered bishop from Viseu.
Notice the outer wall, the fence and the gate, how the wall curves inwards around the gate. Just right of the gates, by the fire hydrant, that's where the mates and I would meet before class, before we'd break up into cliques and such. There we'd just talk. We'd always have something to talk about, for we knew, should we run out of talk, we'd have to go inside for class. We didn't dread class, at least I didn't, but never were we in any hurry. So we talked. About classes, and GPAs, and "what did you get for number three of math homework", and the likes. And then, by first bell, we'd go inside.
You know, those chilly dark bleak morings... I miss them.
Pax vobiscum atque vale
ArabianShark cherishes dearly the memoirs of three years in High School. Would that those days would ever come back some time.
It's been a while
So, yet another bullet point oriented long(ish) post, comming right up. Brace yourselves.
Stage one of exam season is now over (at it has been for a few days...). This year was the first and only to have a very silly system wherein we pick which exam to attend (only too) early in the semester, often only to find we've mqade rather poor choices. Next year, however, only one exam will be available, no re-taking and no early choosing. On the (other) upside, last chance season will follow both semesters, rahter than a last chance season held after the second semester serving both semesters. And for this year only, a special exam season will be held in September. I'm not so sure how useful that is going to be, but I'm glad nonetheless.
Summer's up, and we all know what that usually means, with warm sunny weather and all. This year I'll be trying to add something new: contacts! Yep, this year I've decided that I've had it with my severe myopia preventing me from ever wearing curvy, mirrored shades. This year I might even see clearly unnder water, in the unlikely event that I go swimming. That should prevent another embarassing event, such as the one which happened circa July 1998...
Cue special effects...
Dissolve to white, cut to flashback.
It was Summer in the late nineties. Some unduly assinged duty (like that, unduly assinged duty? Me, I love it) held me in the very bleak capital and away from the Summer activities I did enjoy back in the day, which, believe it or not, invloved beaches and outdoor pools. So, to lightnen up my frstration, I had (limited) access to a work only PC (remember when that phrase used to make some sense?), where I had just managed to run the luscious, although highly pixelated figure of Ms. Lara Croft (way before Angelina Jolie and the very shoddy Tomb Raider pictures corrupted her image and her memory) in 640 x 480 with no 3D acceleration and absolutely no sound but the humming of a 2GB hard drive and a very meek PC fan, fit for a Pentium 166... MMX! Where were we? Ah, yes, my comodities. They also included a very poor community pool, i.e., tiny, crowded and no comodities beyond water closets, which didn't get much use anyway. Crowded, however, is quite the keyword. So picture this: I'm just splashing around in a very clumsy dog stroke (ten years ago, fellows, I wasn't much of a swimmer... I'm still not, but I've come a long way since... which only says how poor a swimmer I was then), and there was a diving board there, so a good quarter of the pool was basically a no-swim area, because you could just as easily be struck with a diver, so both halves adjacent to it were pretty crowded... even more so. So I'm doing laps, and I'm trying hard to shimmy sideways so I don't catch a diver to the head, and other swimmers are going alongside me, others comming the other way and evenothers going across... daredevils that they were. So between the sea of flesh and chlorinated bubbles, I misjudged how close some of the other swimmers were. Next thing I know, my stroke just struck (wow, another play on words... I'm on fire... sarcastic fire) something... something soft. So I try to withraw my hand, but it's tangled on some very thin wires. And some sheet of elastic fabric is preventing my full freedom, so I pop my head out to see where in blazes have I just plunged my hand... and it's some quite buxom swimmer's suit.
So there, a somewhat entertaining little tale of how shortsightedness can influence our bland mundane little lives. Next week I'll do an exposé on the other side of the coin, where you'll learn how incapacitating myopia can be, despite the funny accidents it might lead to.
On the other hand, I don't think I really need to. Come to really think of it, it's a pretty silly idea. Scratch that. Let's all go to Spamalot instead.
So We've had a little handful of points... two and a half of them, to be axact... so it's a toddler's handful. Good enough, right? And I suppose this post's ran long enough. I'll wrap up as per my usual fashion with
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark reminesces about the very first Tomb Raider games, when dear Ms. Croft turned teens' and preteens' minds alike with her simple low poligon beauty, Power Ranger syndrome and yet, back in 1996, Shelley Blond's voice made up for most of her aesthetical shortcomings, which, given the panorama at that time, weren't really that many. In fact, the pretty voice complaining about the crates in the main hall was quite the boon for an otherwise near action/platform game which even today evokes dear memories.
Stage one of exam season is now over (at it has been for a few days...). This year was the first and only to have a very silly system wherein we pick which exam to attend (only too) early in the semester, often only to find we've mqade rather poor choices. Next year, however, only one exam will be available, no re-taking and no early choosing. On the (other) upside, last chance season will follow both semesters, rahter than a last chance season held after the second semester serving both semesters. And for this year only, a special exam season will be held in September. I'm not so sure how useful that is going to be, but I'm glad nonetheless.
Summer's up, and we all know what that usually means, with warm sunny weather and all. This year I'll be trying to add something new: contacts! Yep, this year I've decided that I've had it with my severe myopia preventing me from ever wearing curvy, mirrored shades. This year I might even see clearly unnder water, in the unlikely event that I go swimming. That should prevent another embarassing event, such as the one which happened circa July 1998...
Cue special effects...
Dissolve to white, cut to flashback.
It was Summer in the late nineties. Some unduly assinged duty (like that, unduly assinged duty? Me, I love it) held me in the very bleak capital and away from the Summer activities I did enjoy back in the day, which, believe it or not, invloved beaches and outdoor pools. So, to lightnen up my frstration, I had (limited) access to a work only PC (remember when that phrase used to make some sense?), where I had just managed to run the luscious, although highly pixelated figure of Ms. Lara Croft (way before Angelina Jolie and the very shoddy Tomb Raider pictures corrupted her image and her memory) in 640 x 480 with no 3D acceleration and absolutely no sound but the humming of a 2GB hard drive and a very meek PC fan, fit for a Pentium 166... MMX! Where were we? Ah, yes, my comodities. They also included a very poor community pool, i.e., tiny, crowded and no comodities beyond water closets, which didn't get much use anyway. Crowded, however, is quite the keyword. So picture this: I'm just splashing around in a very clumsy dog stroke (ten years ago, fellows, I wasn't much of a swimmer... I'm still not, but I've come a long way since... which only says how poor a swimmer I was then), and there was a diving board there, so a good quarter of the pool was basically a no-swim area, because you could just as easily be struck with a diver, so both halves adjacent to it were pretty crowded... even more so. So I'm doing laps, and I'm trying hard to shimmy sideways so I don't catch a diver to the head, and other swimmers are going alongside me, others comming the other way and evenothers going across... daredevils that they were. So between the sea of flesh and chlorinated bubbles, I misjudged how close some of the other swimmers were. Next thing I know, my stroke just struck (wow, another play on words... I'm on fire... sarcastic fire) something... something soft. So I try to withraw my hand, but it's tangled on some very thin wires. And some sheet of elastic fabric is preventing my full freedom, so I pop my head out to see where in blazes have I just plunged my hand... and it's some quite buxom swimmer's suit.
So there, a somewhat entertaining little tale of how shortsightedness can influence our bland mundane little lives. Next week I'll do an exposé on the other side of the coin, where you'll learn how incapacitating myopia can be, despite the funny accidents it might lead to.
On the other hand, I don't think I really need to. Come to really think of it, it's a pretty silly idea. Scratch that. Let's all go to Spamalot instead.
So We've had a little handful of points... two and a half of them, to be axact... so it's a toddler's handful. Good enough, right? And I suppose this post's ran long enough. I'll wrap up as per my usual fashion with
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark reminesces about the very first Tomb Raider games, when dear Ms. Croft turned teens' and preteens' minds alike with her simple low poligon beauty, Power Ranger syndrome and yet, back in 1996, Shelley Blond's voice made up for most of her aesthetical shortcomings, which, given the panorama at that time, weren't really that many. In fact, the pretty voice complaining about the crates in the main hall was quite the boon for an otherwise near action/platform game which even today evokes dear memories.
What else is new?
It's not like I pay much heed to these quick and dirty personality tests you can get out of some 5 - 10 questions, especially not since I thought of combining the results of several tests, which, some years ago, had me arrive at the conclusion that I would be, simultaneously, Dracula's cousin, Bataman, Gambit(from X-Men. As if! Frog...), Hephesto (yes, the Greek god), a velociraptor and a wooden cube. But this, for a change, actually makes some sense:
So there. So long, chaps, I'm off to live my dream, which, appearently, seems to suit reality a lot. Just give me a couple more years.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would also remind you that some other test from Blogthings revealed that my "power animal" is the shark. Who would have thought? What, no irony tag either?
| You Belong in the UK |
 Blimey! A little proper, a little saucy. You're so witty and charming... No one notices your curry breath |
So there. So long, chaps, I'm off to live my dream, which, appearently, seems to suit reality a lot. Just give me a couple more years.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would also remind you that some other test from Blogthings revealed that my "power animal" is the shark. Who would have thought? What, no irony tag either?
It's one of those times of the year again
Yep, Exam Season. This means it is now legal to shoot Exams in the wild. Or does that defenition of season only applies to game season (e.g., rabbit season, duck season, Elmer Fudd season, etc.)? I wonder if we could possibly make an Examiner Season, break out our "elephant guns" and be vewy vewy quiet, we're hunting Examiners. Not all examiners, of course (we need to leave some alive so there'll be more to hunt in January), but I can name a few I'd like to tie to the hood of a pickup I don't plan to own. Can I borrow a pickup truck, anyone?
In other news, I was watching some talk show (don't aske which, I wasn't watching that hard) and someone refered to what American Soldiers are doing in Iraq as "Defending their Country". Against what, I'd like to ask? I'm not saying there isn't actual combat to be had there or that American soldiers don't get injured or killed out there, but what are they defending against? "Loose Change" (look it up, don't expect links to every last word, this isn't Wikipedia) made it quite clear that the matter of 9/11 is quite unclear at best. "Farenheit 911" raised some good questions I'm yet to see answered as well. What I am fairly certain of is that even if the American Armed Forces would fully retreat from the middle east no bombers or the like would cross half a world to deliver their payload onto the Land of the Free and even if they don't retreat, I fail to see how it would prevent events the likes of what is reported of 9/11. So how exactly is it that American soldiers being woulded and killed in Iraq is Defending their Country?
You might wonder why this troubles me. First, let's clarify something: the phrase "Defending my Country" wasn't spoken by some top brass military chief or otherwise some politician who'd quite comfortably sip his liquor and puff oh his fine cigar while the pawns fell half a world away; it had been spoken by a soldier even before she had become a soldier, which means this mediatically powerful position that American soldier serving in Iraq are defending their country is mantained by hte people, who have, the way I see it, little to gain in perpetuating this idea, yet quite a lot to lose. This is symptomatic of a highly powerful propaganda machine, steered by those who do stand to gain from conflict. Who those would be, I'm yet to be sure, but, rest assured, whenever people are dying for no appearent reason, some douchebag is pretty sure he/she's turning a profit.
Besides, when has there been a clear (don't answer this until you've seen at least "Loose Change") attack on American soil? I can't recall a single armed conflict opposing the United States to another country that actually took place in the United States. The closest I can think of is Vietnam, and last I checked (on GoogleEarth, too) it was still pretty far away from America. What concerns me is that if there is such a powerful Propaganda Engine in America, there might be no stopping the driver of this infernal device from turning the American people's efforts against some other nation. While I'm not really afraid that Mr. Bush and his ilk might turn their attention to my little slice of heaven (Oh, right, there is no sarcasm tag in HTML...), there are other nations I care about (you'd never guess, from some of my previous posts, but, really, they're there. Look hard enough).
Then you might think, "But, Sharky, ol' bean, doesn't it bother you that some other country might do the same? Some other country with even more man power? Say, China?" My answer to that is, "Not really". First and foremost, if China was to strike here, where would the Chinese immigrants go? On a serious note, here, have a link, courtesy of an American Army Brat, ergo, presumably someone who has at least a smidgeon of a clue of the matter at hand. And by that I mean "Listen up and listen up good, the lady knows what she's saying".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to make perfectly clear that despite the quip about Chinese immigrants, he holds no prejudice or otherwise ill will against them. Loveable chaps, every last one of those I've had the pleasure of meeting.
In other news, I was watching some talk show (don't aske which, I wasn't watching that hard) and someone refered to what American Soldiers are doing in Iraq as "Defending their Country". Against what, I'd like to ask? I'm not saying there isn't actual combat to be had there or that American soldiers don't get injured or killed out there, but what are they defending against? "Loose Change" (look it up, don't expect links to every last word, this isn't Wikipedia) made it quite clear that the matter of 9/11 is quite unclear at best. "Farenheit 911" raised some good questions I'm yet to see answered as well. What I am fairly certain of is that even if the American Armed Forces would fully retreat from the middle east no bombers or the like would cross half a world to deliver their payload onto the Land of the Free and even if they don't retreat, I fail to see how it would prevent events the likes of what is reported of 9/11. So how exactly is it that American soldiers being woulded and killed in Iraq is Defending their Country?
You might wonder why this troubles me. First, let's clarify something: the phrase "Defending my Country" wasn't spoken by some top brass military chief or otherwise some politician who'd quite comfortably sip his liquor and puff oh his fine cigar while the pawns fell half a world away; it had been spoken by a soldier even before she had become a soldier, which means this mediatically powerful position that American soldier serving in Iraq are defending their country is mantained by hte people, who have, the way I see it, little to gain in perpetuating this idea, yet quite a lot to lose. This is symptomatic of a highly powerful propaganda machine, steered by those who do stand to gain from conflict. Who those would be, I'm yet to be sure, but, rest assured, whenever people are dying for no appearent reason, some douchebag is pretty sure he/she's turning a profit.
Besides, when has there been a clear (don't answer this until you've seen at least "Loose Change") attack on American soil? I can't recall a single armed conflict opposing the United States to another country that actually took place in the United States. The closest I can think of is Vietnam, and last I checked (on GoogleEarth, too) it was still pretty far away from America. What concerns me is that if there is such a powerful Propaganda Engine in America, there might be no stopping the driver of this infernal device from turning the American people's efforts against some other nation. While I'm not really afraid that Mr. Bush and his ilk might turn their attention to my little slice of heaven (Oh, right, there is no sarcasm tag in HTML...), there are other nations I care about (you'd never guess, from some of my previous posts, but, really, they're there. Look hard enough).
Then you might think, "But, Sharky, ol' bean, doesn't it bother you that some other country might do the same? Some other country with even more man power? Say, China?" My answer to that is, "Not really". First and foremost, if China was to strike here, where would the Chinese immigrants go? On a serious note, here, have a link, courtesy of an American Army Brat, ergo, presumably someone who has at least a smidgeon of a clue of the matter at hand. And by that I mean "Listen up and listen up good, the lady knows what she's saying".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to make perfectly clear that despite the quip about Chinese immigrants, he holds no prejudice or otherwise ill will against them. Loveable chaps, every last one of those I've had the pleasure of meeting.
Spamincidences
"Spamincidence" is, to the best of my knowledge, not a word, but when you combine "spam" (notice the small s, just so you know I'm not talking about pork products) with "coincidence", "spamincidence" pops to mind. Right?
Now I, just like most people I know on "The Internets", recieve some amount of spam in my e-mail, along with the odd - and quite clumsy, may I add - attempt of phishing. Some of this spam comes from the future, oddly enough. Indeed, I do recieve e-mails from people whom I've never heard of with Arabic sounding names (that's what you get for having an alias such as ArabianShark) with the subject composed of some Egyptian city and a date, usually a week after the date of delivery. Most of the spam i get, however, is of pharmaceutical nature.
Every single day I get some five or so e-mails advertising cheap online stores for Viagra, Scialis and other products I've never heard of, which I can only assume serve similar purposes. It's mildly amusing how the advertisers attempt to get past the spam filter (which is the default filter, I haven't deigned to mess with it) with invariant degrees of failure, spelling Viagra like "\/|agra" and Scilais like "$cia|is" and such. Makes me wonder what happened to good old "1337" spelling, like Vi46r4 or 5ci41i5. I don't think it would have fooled the spam filter, but at least it would have been a smidgeon more amusing.
Just as frequent are e-mails advertising all herbal or not so herbal remedies to lengthen the male genitalia. Since these don't have fancy well known names, the subject line on these is often quite straight forward, and just as uselessly alternatively spelled. Some of these treatments even allegedly combine both effects, increasing penile size and compensating for erectile disfunction. These don't mention recognised names or use words the filters are set to look for (such as "dick". This might mean that if you ever decide to send me an offensive e-mail with "You're a dick!" on the subject line, the spam filter will get it first... unless you don't spell dick like "D|CK"), so they might have propper spelling on catch phrases which they use for subject, such as "Want to be a hero in bed?". Well, aren't they spoiling business for other advertisers? What if someone wants to sell me Superman pajamas? Their efforst will be foiled by overzealous spam filters. That's just not right!
So is this the impression advertisers have of me? Just some bloke with a small limp dick? Look, people, I'm perfectly happy with the hand I've been dealt. It might not be a Royal Flush, but it beats a pair of Jacks (I mean Queens... er... Kings... er... oh, there's just no talking out of that one, is there? Well, it is a Straight, at any rate, rest assured) any day.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would, however, like to recieve an apology from the aforementioned advertisers followed by an immediate cessation of their futile efforts, but that might just as well be caught by the spam filter.
The things we do to procrastinate...
Now I, just like most people I know on "The Internets", recieve some amount of spam in my e-mail, along with the odd - and quite clumsy, may I add - attempt of phishing. Some of this spam comes from the future, oddly enough. Indeed, I do recieve e-mails from people whom I've never heard of with Arabic sounding names (that's what you get for having an alias such as ArabianShark) with the subject composed of some Egyptian city and a date, usually a week after the date of delivery. Most of the spam i get, however, is of pharmaceutical nature.
Every single day I get some five or so e-mails advertising cheap online stores for Viagra, Scialis and other products I've never heard of, which I can only assume serve similar purposes. It's mildly amusing how the advertisers attempt to get past the spam filter (which is the default filter, I haven't deigned to mess with it) with invariant degrees of failure, spelling Viagra like "\/|agra" and Scilais like "$cia|is" and such. Makes me wonder what happened to good old "1337" spelling, like Vi46r4 or 5ci41i5. I don't think it would have fooled the spam filter, but at least it would have been a smidgeon more amusing.
Just as frequent are e-mails advertising all herbal or not so herbal remedies to lengthen the male genitalia. Since these don't have fancy well known names, the subject line on these is often quite straight forward, and just as uselessly alternatively spelled. Some of these treatments even allegedly combine both effects, increasing penile size and compensating for erectile disfunction. These don't mention recognised names or use words the filters are set to look for (such as "dick". This might mean that if you ever decide to send me an offensive e-mail with "You're a dick!" on the subject line, the spam filter will get it first... unless you don't spell dick like "D|CK"), so they might have propper spelling on catch phrases which they use for subject, such as "Want to be a hero in bed?". Well, aren't they spoiling business for other advertisers? What if someone wants to sell me Superman pajamas? Their efforst will be foiled by overzealous spam filters. That's just not right!
So is this the impression advertisers have of me? Just some bloke with a small limp dick? Look, people, I'm perfectly happy with the hand I've been dealt. It might not be a Royal Flush, but it beats a pair of Jacks (I mean Queens... er... Kings... er... oh, there's just no talking out of that one, is there? Well, it is a Straight, at any rate, rest assured) any day.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would, however, like to recieve an apology from the aforementioned advertisers followed by an immediate cessation of their futile efforts, but that might just as well be caught by the spam filter.
The things we do to procrastinate...
Addendum
Naturally, that delightful idea of the Kandy Kanes represents a party, which, like any other party, does not stand unopposed. Therefore, it's only fair that Kandy Kanes have a counterpart, preferably a potential equal.
Then again, it's only candy! The only aspect a GDI oriented product would have to match is the aesthetical aspect.
Consider this, then. From my experience, the vast majority of the target market share happens to be of the male persuasion. And lo, the geek aspect probably discarded by making a GDI product may so very easily be offset (again) by the aesthetical side of
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces ! *
An easy recipe for (yet another) success. From the Kandy Kane template, replace the red stripes with gold stripes (not only because it's more attuned to the Original C&C colour scheme but also because blue stripes would conflict with the Blue Tiberium version), the Scorpion Tail icon by the Swooping Eagle icon and the likeness of Joe Kucan by the likeness of Jennifer Morrison. (Captain Kirce James, in Command & Conquer 3, if you're wondering... which you shouldn't be!)
You know you want it.
Naturally, the Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces would be an even greater aesthetical success. Gold and Blue are a perfect match. Deluxe candy with that sort of colour scheme is guaranteed to sell.
Subliminal message #2.
The greatest issue here is finding some small piece of GDI memorabilia to match the very cool NOD rings. So... Perhaps...
I'd still get some.
You know what, I'm fresh out of ideas here. Unless you can figure out a way of squeezing a Mammoth Tank into a small package of Kandy Kirces, I'm going to leave it up to the Marketing types to figure this one out.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how these delicious candy products would actually fare in the real market. Would Westwood still be with us, I'd give a shot. Subliminal messaging works, right?.
Then again, it's only candy! The only aspect a GDI oriented product would have to match is the aesthetical aspect.
Consider this, then. From my experience, the vast majority of the target market share happens to be of the male persuasion. And lo, the geek aspect probably discarded by making a GDI product may so very easily be offset (again) by the aesthetical side of
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces ! *
An easy recipe for (yet another) success. From the Kandy Kane template, replace the red stripes with gold stripes (not only because it's more attuned to the Original C&C colour scheme but also because blue stripes would conflict with the Blue Tiberium version), the Scorpion Tail icon by the Swooping Eagle icon and the likeness of Joe Kucan by the likeness of Jennifer Morrison. (Captain Kirce James, in Command & Conquer 3, if you're wondering... which you shouldn't be!)
You know you want it.
Naturally, the Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces would be an even greater aesthetical success. Gold and Blue are a perfect match. Deluxe candy with that sort of colour scheme is guaranteed to sell.
Subliminal message #2.
The greatest issue here is finding some small piece of GDI memorabilia to match the very cool NOD rings. So... Perhaps...
I'd still get some.
You know what, I'm fresh out of ideas here. Unless you can figure out a way of squeezing a Mammoth Tank into a small package of Kandy Kirces, I'm going to leave it up to the Marketing types to figure this one out.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how these delicious candy products would actually fare in the real market. Would Westwood still be with us, I'd give a shot. Subliminal messaging works, right?.
The New Season Candy of choice
Marketing didn't figure this out yet. Here's my pitch.
Sure, it's not a broad spectrum product, you don't expect nice old ladies to dish these out on Halloween, and you don't expect little kids to appreciate them either (nor should you want them to...). It's meant for the geek masses.
Without further ado...
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! *
Think about it. Straight sugary rods, green with bright red stripes spiraling down the length of the shaft with Joe Kucan's likeness sculpted at the top and the age-old scorpion tail NOD icon embossed at regular intervals. And since nobody has tasted actual Tiberium (and lived to tell... for long), they can just make up any palatable flavour and say that's what the Green crystal tastes like.
But wait! There's more! For those who want only the very best, Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! Just make them blue instead of green, add some mint flavour and nasal decongestant to the mix and jack up the price about 25%. Deluxe edition candy!
Add some gimmick like one free replica of the NOD ring Joe Kucan did not steal put in every fifth pack of the regular Kandy Kanes or every fourth pack of the Deluxe Kandy Kanes and you've got a sugary hit.
And that's not all. Have a sugar free version of each type handy for the geeks who reject the stereotype of the ever snacking couch potato types and you've just broadened your market share. Bimbos who might want to look smart will resort to these as well. Geeks who actually might want to lose weight will swiftly substitute their snack of choice with these in a heartbeat. Supermodels will want to look FAB, licking these high-tech candy sticks in every fashion mag... OK, perhaps the supermodels won't be so attracted to these... but who needs them, anyway? Geeks are Legion! Legion, I tell you! Legion!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how come the folks in engineering figured this out before the marketing types. Or is it that we don't really need cool candy? I'd still buy it.
Sure, it's not a broad spectrum product, you don't expect nice old ladies to dish these out on Halloween, and you don't expect little kids to appreciate them either (nor should you want them to...). It's meant for the geek masses.
Without further ado...
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! *
Think about it. Straight sugary rods, green with bright red stripes spiraling down the length of the shaft with Joe Kucan's likeness sculpted at the top and the age-old scorpion tail NOD icon embossed at regular intervals. And since nobody has tasted actual Tiberium (and lived to tell... for long), they can just make up any palatable flavour and say that's what the Green crystal tastes like.
But wait! There's more! For those who want only the very best, Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! Just make them blue instead of green, add some mint flavour and nasal decongestant to the mix and jack up the price about 25%. Deluxe edition candy!
Add some gimmick like one free replica of the NOD ring Joe Kucan did not steal put in every fifth pack of the regular Kandy Kanes or every fourth pack of the Deluxe Kandy Kanes and you've got a sugary hit.
And that's not all. Have a sugar free version of each type handy for the geeks who reject the stereotype of the ever snacking couch potato types and you've just broadened your market share. Bimbos who might want to look smart will resort to these as well. Geeks who actually might want to lose weight will swiftly substitute their snack of choice with these in a heartbeat. Supermodels will want to look FAB, licking these high-tech candy sticks in every fashion mag... OK, perhaps the supermodels won't be so attracted to these... but who needs them, anyway? Geeks are Legion! Legion, I tell you! Legion!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how come the folks in engineering figured this out before the marketing types. Or is it that we don't really need cool candy? I'd still buy it.
Catch up
It feels like a long time since our lsat update. Quite a bit of catching up to do. Where, oh where to begin...
Movies: My most recent theater trips include Sunshine, Spider-Man 3 and Mr. Bean's Holiday. Neither is particularly brilliant. In fact, Sunshine and Spider-Man 3 are downright pretty bad. Spider-Man 3, like its prequels, displays poor portraits of age-old and suitably well known characters, besides Tobey Maguire's voice being all wrong for Spidey and who writes this day and age's Spidey wit? The character of Venom, included for all the right reasons, is, again, poorly portrayed, both script wise and graphical wise. Same applies to Eddie Brock. Mr. Bean's Holiday wasn't all bad, but after the previous Bean movie and ages of the TV Show, the concept (unlike Mr. Atkinson's talent) begins to wear thin. It's still a good movie for hardcore fans of Bean, though. Sunshine... Well, just scratch that off your list.
Marketing: The definition of Marketing has changed. It no longer is "The Art of Telling Consumers Why They Need What They Can't Afford" or "The Art of Explaining Why You Need Everything in Triplicate but in Different Colours". It is now "The Art of Discovering Consumers' Needs Which They Themselves Didn't Know Of". Don't ask why, it just is. I'm serious.
Savings: I wonder if I can save up € 1600.00 by the end of July. € 500.00 down, € 1100.00 to go. I might luck out, if I add my birthday into the math.
Tech Support: This Acer "check on your repair status" isn't so great after all. All it says is whether they have recieved the package (which they'll text when they do), whether they're waiting for it (which I'd assume they are until they text me upon arrival) or whether they've sent it back (whaich, again, they'll text). Hey, how about saying how long you estimate reapirs will take? Is that too much to ask?
Overheard: I'm fairly sure I've mentioned Overheard in New York here before. Well, now there's a couple of new sites to join that particular family, Overheard at the Beach, Overheard Everywhere and Celebrity Wit. Some of these feature overhearings in Canadia. Not a typo, Canadia. This has, indeed, generated some uproar within the readers, who have submited their opinions (which range from irate "Fix that, you fools" to coy "Umm, I think you made a mistake" to amused and confused "Why?") in e-mail form, which have been compiled for entertainment, along with a very adept speller, who quite irately warned them that the correct spelling of the country in question was "Canada" (notice, no 'i'). The same reader proceded to clarify the misspelling of "Australia", versus the correct spelling, "Australa". Now I'm no whiz with a map, but I can't find "Australa" anywhere. I suppose that's where "Vegemte" (however you pronounce that) comes from. Still, do check out the sister sites (and, why not, the original site, it gets updated all the time). They're a larf or two.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark spins the globe away, combing both hemispheres for this promised land of "Australa". Hey, it sounds like a fair vacaton spot. Not a typo, just a lame pun.
Movies: My most recent theater trips include Sunshine, Spider-Man 3 and Mr. Bean's Holiday. Neither is particularly brilliant. In fact, Sunshine and Spider-Man 3 are downright pretty bad. Spider-Man 3, like its prequels, displays poor portraits of age-old and suitably well known characters, besides Tobey Maguire's voice being all wrong for Spidey and who writes this day and age's Spidey wit? The character of Venom, included for all the right reasons, is, again, poorly portrayed, both script wise and graphical wise. Same applies to Eddie Brock. Mr. Bean's Holiday wasn't all bad, but after the previous Bean movie and ages of the TV Show, the concept (unlike Mr. Atkinson's talent) begins to wear thin. It's still a good movie for hardcore fans of Bean, though. Sunshine... Well, just scratch that off your list.
Marketing: The definition of Marketing has changed. It no longer is "The Art of Telling Consumers Why They Need What They Can't Afford" or "The Art of Explaining Why You Need Everything in Triplicate but in Different Colours". It is now "The Art of Discovering Consumers' Needs Which They Themselves Didn't Know Of". Don't ask why, it just is. I'm serious.
Savings: I wonder if I can save up € 1600.00 by the end of July. € 500.00 down, € 1100.00 to go. I might luck out, if I add my birthday into the math.
Tech Support: This Acer "check on your repair status" isn't so great after all. All it says is whether they have recieved the package (which they'll text when they do), whether they're waiting for it (which I'd assume they are until they text me upon arrival) or whether they've sent it back (whaich, again, they'll text). Hey, how about saying how long you estimate reapirs will take? Is that too much to ask?
Overheard: I'm fairly sure I've mentioned Overheard in New York here before. Well, now there's a couple of new sites to join that particular family, Overheard at the Beach, Overheard Everywhere and Celebrity Wit. Some of these feature overhearings in Canadia. Not a typo, Canadia. This has, indeed, generated some uproar within the readers, who have submited their opinions (which range from irate "Fix that, you fools" to coy "Umm, I think you made a mistake" to amused and confused "Why?") in e-mail form, which have been compiled for entertainment, along with a very adept speller, who quite irately warned them that the correct spelling of the country in question was "Canada" (notice, no 'i'). The same reader proceded to clarify the misspelling of "Australia", versus the correct spelling, "Australa". Now I'm no whiz with a map, but I can't find "Australa" anywhere. I suppose that's where "Vegemte" (however you pronounce that) comes from. Still, do check out the sister sites (and, why not, the original site, it gets updated all the time). They're a larf or two.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark spins the globe away, combing both hemispheres for this promised land of "Australa". Hey, it sounds like a fair vacaton spot. Not a typo, just a lame pun.
Tales from Tech Support
I should really start this post by re-stating that I am not a xenophobe. Granted, my pet peeve doesn't do much in the way of confirming it, nor will this entry, but I am not a xenophobe. Onwards.
A few weeks ago my laptop took a small bump whick caused the power jack to burrow dep into the laptop body. So deep in fact that the charger jack no longer makes contact, making battery charging and battery-less operation impossible. It is my understanding that the jack is directly welded into the motherboard, so replacing it should probably be left to the professionals. As it happend, however, said professionals happen to be extremely rare, and I don't mean undercooked. My only way out was to resort to the brand tech support.
Where matters of warranty and sending back products are concerned, I'm always a bit weary. This is swampy grounds for me. Usually this just means my stuff will be "at the shop" for months only to return partially repaired or deemed unsuitable for warranty repair. Still, never would I imagine this.
My first call to tech support was awkward enough. Even though it was a business day and not 17:00 yet, I got no more response than a recording commanding (not politely asking, brutally commanding) that I called Monday to Friday, from 9:00 to 17:00, with a very thick accent (Italian, I guess), and hung up. How wierd is it when a machine hangs up on you? Still I tried again the next day. Making myself clear before the operator (whose accent wasn't quite as thick as the on on the record) took most of the call. After some wasted half hour struggling to make myself understood, she tells me the system is down and she cannot process my request.
So let me get this straight, fellows. You make computers, but your computer isn't working? Oh, yeah, that's guaranteed to impress even the most skeptic consumer.
I called later that day with the same results. I called the other day, and the operator had the nerve to hang up on me. I called again, and finally my request was granted. I was assigned an RMA and told to ship my computer over to their tech support labs... in Spain. At least DHL would do it free of charge for me. Still, packing and padding were my responsability, which I'm thinking it shouldn't be. Nonetheless.
At least the good people at DHL gave me no grief of any sort. The operator, bless her heart, was more than helpful with packaging guidelines, arrangements for pickup, etc. She was even polite. How often does that come around these days?
So sure enough they pick up my laptop at the arranged date, and a few days ago I got a text (in Spanish) telling me my laptop was ready and being shipped back (or at least that's what I figured). Indeed, just yesterday the good people at DHL delivered it straight to my door. However, the contents of their delivery couldn't be more ghastly.
The repair report was written in some melange of languages I could barely make out. My name was mispelled and not even capitalised. Even the problem wasn't propperly stated. It was "battery can't charge." While this is true, it's but a result of the problem, not the cause. And sure enough, the geniuses at the repair labs shipped it back with a new battery (which I have no intention of giving back. For my greivancve). They didn't even bother turning the damned thing on, even though they claim to have updated my BIOS from v.0.3.1.22 to v0.3.1.22, a major change.
So come Monday I'll be going through the motions to send it back again. Only this time I'm sticking some post-it notes around the little power hole, with pointing arrows stating "look here" and "reapir this".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders why the hell there isn't a better solution. What happened to those Knights of the Soldering Iron who'd clearly state that your warranty will be void, but the job will get done? Because these wops aren't pulling through, you know...
A few weeks ago my laptop took a small bump whick caused the power jack to burrow dep into the laptop body. So deep in fact that the charger jack no longer makes contact, making battery charging and battery-less operation impossible. It is my understanding that the jack is directly welded into the motherboard, so replacing it should probably be left to the professionals. As it happend, however, said professionals happen to be extremely rare, and I don't mean undercooked. My only way out was to resort to the brand tech support.
Where matters of warranty and sending back products are concerned, I'm always a bit weary. This is swampy grounds for me. Usually this just means my stuff will be "at the shop" for months only to return partially repaired or deemed unsuitable for warranty repair. Still, never would I imagine this.
My first call to tech support was awkward enough. Even though it was a business day and not 17:00 yet, I got no more response than a recording commanding (not politely asking, brutally commanding) that I called Monday to Friday, from 9:00 to 17:00, with a very thick accent (Italian, I guess), and hung up. How wierd is it when a machine hangs up on you? Still I tried again the next day. Making myself clear before the operator (whose accent wasn't quite as thick as the on on the record) took most of the call. After some wasted half hour struggling to make myself understood, she tells me the system is down and she cannot process my request.
So let me get this straight, fellows. You make computers, but your computer isn't working? Oh, yeah, that's guaranteed to impress even the most skeptic consumer.
I called later that day with the same results. I called the other day, and the operator had the nerve to hang up on me. I called again, and finally my request was granted. I was assigned an RMA and told to ship my computer over to their tech support labs... in Spain. At least DHL would do it free of charge for me. Still, packing and padding were my responsability, which I'm thinking it shouldn't be. Nonetheless.
At least the good people at DHL gave me no grief of any sort. The operator, bless her heart, was more than helpful with packaging guidelines, arrangements for pickup, etc. She was even polite. How often does that come around these days?
So sure enough they pick up my laptop at the arranged date, and a few days ago I got a text (in Spanish) telling me my laptop was ready and being shipped back (or at least that's what I figured). Indeed, just yesterday the good people at DHL delivered it straight to my door. However, the contents of their delivery couldn't be more ghastly.
The repair report was written in some melange of languages I could barely make out. My name was mispelled and not even capitalised. Even the problem wasn't propperly stated. It was "battery can't charge." While this is true, it's but a result of the problem, not the cause. And sure enough, the geniuses at the repair labs shipped it back with a new battery (which I have no intention of giving back. For my greivancve). They didn't even bother turning the damned thing on, even though they claim to have updated my BIOS from v.0.3.1.22 to v0.3.1.22, a major change.
So come Monday I'll be going through the motions to send it back again. Only this time I'm sticking some post-it notes around the little power hole, with pointing arrows stating "look here" and "reapir this".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders why the hell there isn't a better solution. What happened to those Knights of the Soldering Iron who'd clearly state that your warranty will be void, but the job will get done? Because these wops aren't pulling through, you know...
Now paging Dr. Phill
Actually, I think the good doctor might be acquainted with the case at hand. He did host it on his show, so hold the page. Onwards.
So this couple comes up on Dr. Phill, during a segment called Conception Deception (and no, I won't make a segment out of that here. I should think I have enough segments as is). The wife complains that the husband has tricked her into pregnancy. Four times.
The first time she got pregnant as a result of a misconducted coitus interruptus, which her husband had no idea of conducting properly in the first place. Well, can't really say that I sympathise with her on this point, she ought to know better. I mean, I must have been 9 when I was told not to rely on "the pull out method". I hardly knew enough not to ask "pull what out of what". That they didn't use adequate contraceptives at that peculiar time is as much her fault as it is his, IMO. Sure, he might have complained about condoms (so many men do... too many men do. Get real fellows), and, as it turns out, he would have complained about birth control pills or a diaphram and foam, but at least then she'd know what to expect.
As it turns out, this fellow is so insecure about his relationship that he needs the children to trap his wife in their marriage. I'm wagering she wouldn't have married him (or at least she might not have had his child) in the first place if she knew, and thus I sympathise with her. But wait, it gets worse.
At least one of her pregnancies (if I recall, they had some four children, although I'm not sure that's with or without the one on the way) was a result of him having unprotectes sex with her while she was asleep. I mean, how is that possible? Without the help of Rohypnol, gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, ketamine or any other such treats of the pharmaceutical industry, that is. Actually, now I wonder if he did use any such "daddy little helpers", in which case the word would plainly and blatanty be "rape". In fact, I see no reason why the word shouldn't plainly and blatantly be "rape" even if he didn't drug her up, other than she stated she didn't feel raped. I suppose that would have been because, either way, she didn't feel it at all.
Shocked yet? Here's the kicker: The couple is introduced by Dr. Phill McGraw and his story is summarised in a brief clip, after which the host asks the couple the ever-the-first question along the lines "How does this make you feel", to which this creep of a husband replies "It came out rather harsh". He actually tried to make himself look like the victim. Sure, tell me that I'm taking sides too soon and that I haven't heard his side of the story (actually, I have, and, for the most part, it was awkward silence, whining and distasteful puns to try to steer the conversation off course), but I dare you to come up with a likely scenario that actually makes a man who will impregnate his wife in her sleep against her will look like a good husband. I'm not questioning his motives; he stated that he loves his wife, and seeing as he'd go that far just to make sure she'd stay with him and not just take off, I just might believe him, but still...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is slightly disturbed that, keeping with the theme of today's entry, he managed to guess Oprah Winfrey's bra size seconds before she'd state it on her own talk show. Does anyone else think it's wierd?
So this couple comes up on Dr. Phill, during a segment called Conception Deception (and no, I won't make a segment out of that here. I should think I have enough segments as is). The wife complains that the husband has tricked her into pregnancy. Four times.
The first time she got pregnant as a result of a misconducted coitus interruptus, which her husband had no idea of conducting properly in the first place. Well, can't really say that I sympathise with her on this point, she ought to know better. I mean, I must have been 9 when I was told not to rely on "the pull out method". I hardly knew enough not to ask "pull what out of what". That they didn't use adequate contraceptives at that peculiar time is as much her fault as it is his, IMO. Sure, he might have complained about condoms (so many men do... too many men do. Get real fellows), and, as it turns out, he would have complained about birth control pills or a diaphram and foam, but at least then she'd know what to expect.
As it turns out, this fellow is so insecure about his relationship that he needs the children to trap his wife in their marriage. I'm wagering she wouldn't have married him (or at least she might not have had his child) in the first place if she knew, and thus I sympathise with her. But wait, it gets worse.
At least one of her pregnancies (if I recall, they had some four children, although I'm not sure that's with or without the one on the way) was a result of him having unprotectes sex with her while she was asleep. I mean, how is that possible? Without the help of Rohypnol, gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, ketamine or any other such treats of the pharmaceutical industry, that is. Actually, now I wonder if he did use any such "daddy little helpers", in which case the word would plainly and blatanty be "rape". In fact, I see no reason why the word shouldn't plainly and blatantly be "rape" even if he didn't drug her up, other than she stated she didn't feel raped. I suppose that would have been because, either way, she didn't feel it at all.
Shocked yet? Here's the kicker: The couple is introduced by Dr. Phill McGraw and his story is summarised in a brief clip, after which the host asks the couple the ever-the-first question along the lines "How does this make you feel", to which this creep of a husband replies "It came out rather harsh". He actually tried to make himself look like the victim. Sure, tell me that I'm taking sides too soon and that I haven't heard his side of the story (actually, I have, and, for the most part, it was awkward silence, whining and distasteful puns to try to steer the conversation off course), but I dare you to come up with a likely scenario that actually makes a man who will impregnate his wife in her sleep against her will look like a good husband. I'm not questioning his motives; he stated that he loves his wife, and seeing as he'd go that far just to make sure she'd stay with him and not just take off, I just might believe him, but still...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is slightly disturbed that, keeping with the theme of today's entry, he managed to guess Oprah Winfrey's bra size seconds before she'd state it on her own talk show. Does anyone else think it's wierd?
Harlot
–noun
a prostitute; whore.
The word harlot nowadays refers to a particular kind of woman, but interestingly it used to refer to a particular kind of man. The word is first recorded in English in a work written around the beginning of the 13th century, meaning "a man of no fixed occupation, vagabond, beggar," and soon afterwards meant "male lecher." Already in the 14th century it appears as a deprecatory word for a woman, though exactly how this meaning developed from the male sense is not clear. For a time the word could also refer to a juggler or jester of either sex, but by the close of the 17th century its usage referring to males had disappeared.
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless, of course, the above applies, in which case Pax would be wasted vobiscum and you're quite incapable of vale.
ArabianShark just needed to get that off his chest. Thanks for listening. Cheers, mates.
a prostitute; whore.
The word harlot nowadays refers to a particular kind of woman, but interestingly it used to refer to a particular kind of man. The word is first recorded in English in a work written around the beginning of the 13th century, meaning "a man of no fixed occupation, vagabond, beggar," and soon afterwards meant "male lecher." Already in the 14th century it appears as a deprecatory word for a woman, though exactly how this meaning developed from the male sense is not clear. For a time the word could also refer to a juggler or jester of either sex, but by the close of the 17th century its usage referring to males had disappeared.
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless, of course, the above applies, in which case Pax would be wasted vobiscum and you're quite incapable of vale.
ArabianShark just needed to get that off his chest. Thanks for listening. Cheers, mates.
Just noticed...
On my wall, above my flatscreen, hangs a calendar, a Star Wars calendar (go figure, a geek like me), the third of its lineage, this one celebrating 30 of Star Wars (a very heart felt Congratulations and Thank You for Mr. Lucas, in the immensely odd chance he might be reading this). For April, the main picture is a frame from Episode II: Attack of the Clones, from the scene in the Naboo Lake district when Padmé and Anakin kiss. This particular frame pertains to just before the kiss, when the charactres' lips are barely an inch apart. What could be more romantic?
How about if Hayden Christensen hadn't that look of (what is that? Revolt? I'll go with) repulse about him. Really, watch the movie again (of course you have watched it once), get it on DVD (now watch me do the mind trick: You will get it on DVD), just get a load of the frickin' frame and tell me if there's not something wrong there. What, does the Jedi Council warp Padawans' minds so that they'll find attractive women repulsive? Or is against Christensen's religion to kiss Natalie Portman without looking like you're only doing this for the cash? Take a leaf from Hugo Weaving's book, you didn't see him grimacing when Ms. Portman kissed the lips of his Guy Fawkes mask in V for Vendetta. Well, actually, for all I know, he could have been choking in disgust behind the mask, provided that he didn't move... but, come on, Weaving? Not likely! Not at all! No! Silly 'Shark, even suggesting such a thing.
Come to think of it, there could have been nobody behind the mask at that particular time. Even more reason to think Mr. Weaving would not be grimacing at that time.
OK, then, on to a better example: Goya's Ghosts. Alas, I am yet to see that one. Oh well.
So what's left? How about senseless movie connctions? I'll attempt to prove, by means of connecting actors and actreses to each other, possibly in ridiculous ways, that Weaving hasn't or wouldn't have grimaced. So:
Hugo Weaving is know to be greatly attatched both to England and Australia, where he currently resides, or so I'm told; actor Hugh Jackman is widely known to be Australian as well; Mr. Jackman had kissing scenes with actress Scarlett Johansson in the movie Scoop, without ever grimacing; Scarlett Johansson has absolutely nothing whatsoever to connect her to Natalie Portman, except for the fact that Johansson stared in Lost in Translation, directed by Sofia Coppola, who also stared with Portman in The Phantom Menace. This should be irrefutable evidence that Hugo Weaving has not/would not/will not grimace in a kissing scene with Natalie Portman unless so specified by the script.
OK, that was plenty strange. I'll just wrap up here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would just remind you all that the once (though I think no more) centre of the Hollywood universe is Christopher Lee, know for roles as Sorcerer, Frankanstein, Sith Lord, Bond Villain and time and again Dracula. Surely you can see the cleverly hidden mystery in this. I know I can.
How about if Hayden Christensen hadn't that look of (what is that? Revolt? I'll go with) repulse about him. Really, watch the movie again (of course you have watched it once), get it on DVD (now watch me do the mind trick: You will get it on DVD), just get a load of the frickin' frame and tell me if there's not something wrong there. What, does the Jedi Council warp Padawans' minds so that they'll find attractive women repulsive? Or is against Christensen's religion to kiss Natalie Portman without looking like you're only doing this for the cash? Take a leaf from Hugo Weaving's book, you didn't see him grimacing when Ms. Portman kissed the lips of his Guy Fawkes mask in V for Vendetta. Well, actually, for all I know, he could have been choking in disgust behind the mask, provided that he didn't move... but, come on, Weaving? Not likely! Not at all! No! Silly 'Shark, even suggesting such a thing.
Come to think of it, there could have been nobody behind the mask at that particular time. Even more reason to think Mr. Weaving would not be grimacing at that time.
OK, then, on to a better example: Goya's Ghosts. Alas, I am yet to see that one. Oh well.
So what's left? How about senseless movie connctions? I'll attempt to prove, by means of connecting actors and actreses to each other, possibly in ridiculous ways, that Weaving hasn't or wouldn't have grimaced. So:
Hugo Weaving is know to be greatly attatched both to England and Australia, where he currently resides, or so I'm told; actor Hugh Jackman is widely known to be Australian as well; Mr. Jackman had kissing scenes with actress Scarlett Johansson in the movie Scoop, without ever grimacing; Scarlett Johansson has absolutely nothing whatsoever to connect her to Natalie Portman, except for the fact that Johansson stared in Lost in Translation, directed by Sofia Coppola, who also stared with Portman in The Phantom Menace. This should be irrefutable evidence that Hugo Weaving has not/would not/will not grimace in a kissing scene with Natalie Portman unless so specified by the script.
OK, that was plenty strange. I'll just wrap up here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would just remind you all that the once (though I think no more) centre of the Hollywood universe is Christopher Lee, know for roles as Sorcerer, Frankanstein, Sith Lord, Bond Villain and time and again Dracula. Surely you can see the cleverly hidden mystery in this. I know I can.
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