It sears all the way down my leg nearly all the time. It really drives me to tears. I hate being dependant on pain killers and still not getting anything done. You see, I can't sit for very long, half an hour at the most, and I tire from standing a lot (and I mean a LOT. As in a "helluva" LOT) faster than I would without my back pain. The back support belt helps a (very) little, and if I wear it for too long I get all sorts of pain from the constriction on my gut, and the darn thing isn't even that tight - quite the contrary, really, sometimes I wish it would tighten a little.
Which brings me to my next point - for nearly a year I dieted - to great effect, really - and now I feeal as all has been for naught. The heavy workload last December left me with little time, let alone little will, to diet and I put on a little weight. Then come Christmas and New Year, and I don't suppose one's expected to diet at those times. Now, when I'd really get my act, not to mention my regime together, I can't walk the 2 Km for a diet meal every night. I can't even walk off the extra weight - it kills me to walk - limp, really - for longer than precious few minutes at a time, sometimes even less.
And guess what else - this year, for the first time since I got into college, i had felt that things really were going well, I was putting out good work, i was getting the grades I wanted and I had always known i could get, even if I hadn't really been getting them, and now, when all was going under way with only the small matter of exams to endy a great semester in glory, i find myself drowsy all the time from muscle relaxants and in pain from sitting at a desk, be it to study or to write the damned exam. Long story short, the whole semester, it feels, has been for naught as well. Even if I make the grades, it will be nothing like the grades I could make, the grades I've been working for for the last three months. And this year I can't even get the grades from the work done throughout the semester carry over to next year, when I would do a lot better, because with this, Bologne Process deal - as good a deal though it may be - next year the courses I've been working my bottom off for won't even exist any more.
It sucks
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is really going belly up with the pain. He even almost forgot to slip in a secret message.
Spam
Whew, seems like over a month since I last posted... Oh, wait!
Yep, over a month... December, my favourite month of the year (and not just because of Christmas), really had me all tied up - leet me rephrase that - really had me swamped. Between System Analysis and Artificial Intleigence, as well as some nonsence generally refered to as Corporate Management, I had my work cut out for me, and blogging was sadly left on hold for a while. Then comes Christmas, and you know it's plain rude to blog during Christmas Dinner and then the week I spend 51 weeks a year waiting for - London - and it's all worth it. So, here's the skinny: As if I cinically believe you would ever expect something skinny here...
The good:
London... What else is there to say? It's good! It's the place where I'd expect to find God vacationing if I weren't an atheist. It's the place - mark my words - where I can see myself living and thriving in five years or less.
Christmas... Well, it's usually fairly good, isn't it? Oh, sure, the religious meaning of the whole thing is way past lost, and I don't find myself waking every morning from December 1st to December 24th just itching to know what's under the wraps, but 'tis still the season to be merry and so on and so forth... live with it!
The bad:
That would be Michael Jackson, or so he claims.
Would you Adam and Eve it, I got a sciatic pain problem at my age? This is going to be a real bitch, since I can't stand for very long, I can't sit for more than half an hour without excruciating pain, I can only lie down in certain positions, I limp when I walk and I can't carry heavy weights. This is going to do wonders for the exam season, as my Network Architectures exam can state - it went like utter smeg. Mind you, the teacher - a great big kudos to him - was kind enough to let me retake it in about two weeks, provided that I get a medical certificate for my condition, but alas, I have a conflicting exam... thank you anyway!
The ugly:
Someone has been spreading around a rumor that I have 30 GB worth of pornography in my computer. Now, having been the "kid kids love to hate" in junior high, being the subject of nasty rumors is nothing new to me. Being the subject of nasty and plausible rumors is nothing new either. Having said rumors carried to my parents and having to dismiss them is still not new. Having them carried by someone I used to hold in great esteem is just plain hurtful. Not being told where said rumors come from, while still not new, is a clear message now, isn't it? So, to the Spreader of Such Rumors, hereafter refered to as "scum", may death not find you for another thousand millenia, but may grievance without end befall every single one of your living hours. Oh, and "fuck you", if you'll excuse my french.
The Spam:
Lots of it! Now, before you do something rash, I don't mean unsolicitd and potentially harmful e-mal - that would have been spam, not Spam. Nor do I mean processed and spiced canned pork. I mean, quite simply, Spamalot, a musical lovingly ripped from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail". I had the chance to watch it during my stay in London and I must say it is certainly amon all the other "best things since sliced bread", which, by the way, you can use to make a Spam sandwich - ripper! A must-see for all Monty Python lovers and non-Monty Python lovers (well, now, it's not they're fault they're that way...) alike.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark missed blogging. But break out the two-notes theme, 'Shark's back with a vengeance. Actually, make that a Vendetta.
Go figure...
Yep, over a month... December, my favourite month of the year (and not just because of Christmas), really had me all tied up - leet me rephrase that - really had me swamped. Between System Analysis and Artificial Intleigence, as well as some nonsence generally refered to as Corporate Management, I had my work cut out for me, and blogging was sadly left on hold for a while. Then comes Christmas, and you know it's plain rude to blog during Christmas Dinner and then the week I spend 51 weeks a year waiting for - London - and it's all worth it. So, here's the skinny: As if I cinically believe you would ever expect something skinny here...
The good:
London... What else is there to say? It's good! It's the place where I'd expect to find God vacationing if I weren't an atheist. It's the place - mark my words - where I can see myself living and thriving in five years or less.
Christmas... Well, it's usually fairly good, isn't it? Oh, sure, the religious meaning of the whole thing is way past lost, and I don't find myself waking every morning from December 1st to December 24th just itching to know what's under the wraps, but 'tis still the season to be merry and so on and so forth... live with it!
The bad:
That would be Michael Jackson, or so he claims.
Would you Adam and Eve it, I got a sciatic pain problem at my age? This is going to be a real bitch, since I can't stand for very long, I can't sit for more than half an hour without excruciating pain, I can only lie down in certain positions, I limp when I walk and I can't carry heavy weights. This is going to do wonders for the exam season, as my Network Architectures exam can state - it went like utter smeg. Mind you, the teacher - a great big kudos to him - was kind enough to let me retake it in about two weeks, provided that I get a medical certificate for my condition, but alas, I have a conflicting exam... thank you anyway!
The ugly:
Someone has been spreading around a rumor that I have 30 GB worth of pornography in my computer. Now, having been the "kid kids love to hate" in junior high, being the subject of nasty rumors is nothing new to me. Being the subject of nasty and plausible rumors is nothing new either. Having said rumors carried to my parents and having to dismiss them is still not new. Having them carried by someone I used to hold in great esteem is just plain hurtful. Not being told where said rumors come from, while still not new, is a clear message now, isn't it? So, to the Spreader of Such Rumors, hereafter refered to as "scum", may death not find you for another thousand millenia, but may grievance without end befall every single one of your living hours. Oh, and "fuck you", if you'll excuse my french.
The Spam:
Lots of it! Now, before you do something rash, I don't mean unsolicitd and potentially harmful e-mal - that would have been spam, not Spam. Nor do I mean processed and spiced canned pork. I mean, quite simply, Spamalot, a musical lovingly ripped from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail". I had the chance to watch it during my stay in London and I must say it is certainly amon all the other "best things since sliced bread", which, by the way, you can use to make a Spam sandwich - ripper! A must-see for all Monty Python lovers and non-Monty Python lovers (well, now, it's not they're fault they're that way...) alike.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark missed blogging. But break out the two-notes theme, 'Shark's back with a vengeance. Actually, make that a Vendetta.
Go figure...
Final Gamble
Some of you might not know this, some of you might. I am a Bond Fan.
Not a Bond Boy! Ugh, wierd!!!!!
Much to my dismay, however, the James Bond franchise, in spite of actor Pierce Brosnan's superb performance as Bond, has been disappointing me for some time now. Goldeneye infused the then though-to-be-declining franchise (especially because, if you recall, it was preceeded by a hiatus of mourning) with new life, but Tomorrw Never Dies failed to match it. Some would say The World Is Not Enough followed the same path, and much as I liked it myself, I have to say Die Another Day is a very dark stain on the world's favourite spy's permanent record, though by no means Bond's fault (at least not Mr. Brosnan's fault, that is). That said, upon hearing of a new bond movie in the making, many felt, as I did, that this was the franchise's last chance to redeem itself. Now, everyone out in the collective of countries other than but my own (hereafter refered to as "The Civilised World") must have either seen it by now or aren't planning on seeing it at all. for the few that remain, here's my review.
A typical Bond movie begins with the trademark gun barrel sequence, wich dissolves into the very first scene with the very first action sequence and a bond pun. This, my friends, is not a typical bond movie. The first action sequence preceedes the gun barrel, and change doesn't stop there. The opening credits sequence follows a very much unexplored graphical philosophy in bond movies, and quite the refreshing change that is. As for Bond Himself, Daniel Craig lives up to the bequeathal of his predecessors and then some.
Right off the bat, those who reveled in George Lazenby's experience as a martial arts instructor for the Australian army's experience put to great effect in realistic fight scenes - no wimpy punches, Roger Moore style - will be thrilled to experience this new Bond's great fight sequences, where realistic hand to hand combat in closed spaces seems to have been emphasised. That, alongside with many complex and no doubt extenuating stunts make for quite the phisically demanding film, but expect no silly, however visually gratifying stunts, Mission: Impossible style.
Charisma abounds, surpassing Moore, Lazenby and Dalton - though I'll hold off saying the same in relation to Brosnan or Connery - as do charm and wit. Quite noteworthy is Judi Dench's interpretation of M, who seems to have taken yet another (dis)liking to Bond, in more tense, yet humorous lines, masterfully delivered not only by Dench, but also by many other secondary characters, not the least of wich Felix Leiter, played by Jeffrey Wright. The villain for this movie seems to take on a deprecated stereotype, carefully re-implemmented to great effect.
Many tense scenes will keep you on the edge of your seat - a gambling scene in particular had me mumbling "five and seven of spades" into my fedora over and over again. Other staples of Bond movies are here as well - Aston Martin, gambling and vodka martini, among others - and in no small amount. Gadgets, however present, despite Q's absence, have been de-emphasised and "sobered down".
This new Bond won't be found suffering for the sake of a hero suffering, yet his stoicism and even spite in the face of agony can be found aplenty, and not without yet another handful of Bond-esque puns. Being a far less nether-regions-driven character, Craig's Bond, while not being a cold hearted Bond, is a far more cold eyed Bond in the face of danger, adversity and overwhelming odds. Alongside being a much more vengeful Bond than we've seen so far, Daniel Craig portrays a less knight and more hero/anti-hero balanced James Bond, as it would befit a James bond for an age when the elitistic separation between good and evil appears far less crisp and clear as before.
The franchise, I dare say, is saved. Good job, Sony Pictures, and Godspeed. For "Bond 22", which, I believe, is in the making already, that is.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
Shark, ArabianShark, too knows what M stands for. But you won't find it here.
Not a Bond Boy! Ugh, wierd!!!!!
Much to my dismay, however, the James Bond franchise, in spite of actor Pierce Brosnan's superb performance as Bond, has been disappointing me for some time now. Goldeneye infused the then though-to-be-declining franchise (especially because, if you recall, it was preceeded by a hiatus of mourning) with new life, but Tomorrw Never Dies failed to match it. Some would say The World Is Not Enough followed the same path, and much as I liked it myself, I have to say Die Another Day is a very dark stain on the world's favourite spy's permanent record, though by no means Bond's fault (at least not Mr. Brosnan's fault, that is). That said, upon hearing of a new bond movie in the making, many felt, as I did, that this was the franchise's last chance to redeem itself. Now, everyone out in the collective of countries other than but my own (hereafter refered to as "The Civilised World") must have either seen it by now or aren't planning on seeing it at all. for the few that remain, here's my review.
A typical Bond movie begins with the trademark gun barrel sequence, wich dissolves into the very first scene with the very first action sequence and a bond pun. This, my friends, is not a typical bond movie. The first action sequence preceedes the gun barrel, and change doesn't stop there. The opening credits sequence follows a very much unexplored graphical philosophy in bond movies, and quite the refreshing change that is. As for Bond Himself, Daniel Craig lives up to the bequeathal of his predecessors and then some.
Right off the bat, those who reveled in George Lazenby's experience as a martial arts instructor for the Australian army's experience put to great effect in realistic fight scenes - no wimpy punches, Roger Moore style - will be thrilled to experience this new Bond's great fight sequences, where realistic hand to hand combat in closed spaces seems to have been emphasised. That, alongside with many complex and no doubt extenuating stunts make for quite the phisically demanding film, but expect no silly, however visually gratifying stunts, Mission: Impossible style.
Charisma abounds, surpassing Moore, Lazenby and Dalton - though I'll hold off saying the same in relation to Brosnan or Connery - as do charm and wit. Quite noteworthy is Judi Dench's interpretation of M, who seems to have taken yet another (dis)liking to Bond, in more tense, yet humorous lines, masterfully delivered not only by Dench, but also by many other secondary characters, not the least of wich Felix Leiter, played by Jeffrey Wright. The villain for this movie seems to take on a deprecated stereotype, carefully re-implemmented to great effect.
Many tense scenes will keep you on the edge of your seat - a gambling scene in particular had me mumbling "five and seven of spades" into my fedora over and over again. Other staples of Bond movies are here as well - Aston Martin, gambling and vodka martini, among others - and in no small amount. Gadgets, however present, despite Q's absence, have been de-emphasised and "sobered down".
This new Bond won't be found suffering for the sake of a hero suffering, yet his stoicism and even spite in the face of agony can be found aplenty, and not without yet another handful of Bond-esque puns. Being a far less nether-regions-driven character, Craig's Bond, while not being a cold hearted Bond, is a far more cold eyed Bond in the face of danger, adversity and overwhelming odds. Alongside being a much more vengeful Bond than we've seen so far, Daniel Craig portrays a less knight and more hero/anti-hero balanced James Bond, as it would befit a James bond for an age when the elitistic separation between good and evil appears far less crisp and clear as before.
The franchise, I dare say, is saved. Good job, Sony Pictures, and Godspeed. For "Bond 22", which, I believe, is in the making already, that is.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
Shark, ArabianShark, too knows what M stands for. But you won't find it here.
At last!!!
So, figure this out...
I was just having dinner tonight (not my usual salad, but some different salad) when out of the blue (um... green?) I get this nagging feeling in my head. Turns out it was... words! Wonderful words! (OK, fair words. I mean, I like them. Get off me, won't you!) I can write again! My vampires (whom, if you recall, I keep in my socks drawer) will be unleashed for at least another prowl. I believe I found my muse. Think "How's your belly where the bat bit ya?".
In other news, my job satisfaction level is higher than ever. I mean, I had never realised what a handfull Systems Analysis could be, but it's a handfull I'm glad to handle. Heck, I hand't had so much fun with my work since... ever!
And for an extra bit of lore, "an apple a day keeps the doctor away". Well, I wouldn't know about that, but it did wonders for my heartburn. And, come to think of it, I haven't seen a single doctor all day long. Maybe it does work.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is quite tired, but even more so happy to let his vampires out again. Off you go, just be home before dawn.
I was just having dinner tonight (not my usual salad, but some different salad) when out of the blue (um... green?) I get this nagging feeling in my head. Turns out it was... words! Wonderful words! (OK, fair words. I mean, I like them. Get off me, won't you!) I can write again! My vampires (whom, if you recall, I keep in my socks drawer) will be unleashed for at least another prowl. I believe I found my muse. Think "How's your belly where the bat bit ya?".
In other news, my job satisfaction level is higher than ever. I mean, I had never realised what a handfull Systems Analysis could be, but it's a handfull I'm glad to handle. Heck, I hand't had so much fun with my work since... ever!
And for an extra bit of lore, "an apple a day keeps the doctor away". Well, I wouldn't know about that, but it did wonders for my heartburn. And, come to think of it, I haven't seen a single doctor all day long. Maybe it does work.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is quite tired, but even more so happy to let his vampires out again. Off you go, just be home before dawn.
Daylight saving time, part II
I'm sure you remember an entry of days gone by, known only as Daylight Saving Time. Onwards.
Error 1336: Error 1337 Imminent.
My Internal Clock (which, the geekiest among my readers might like to know, is a binary blue led one, not unlike those avaliable at Think Geek) feels much better now. And nothing quite like a 49 hours weekend to celebrate. Now, I really can't help but wonder: Where is all the saved daylight stored? Can everyone help themselves to some? Is it for sale? I suppose it would dramatically reduce my electricity bill if I could just crack open a bottle of 2006 saved daylight instead of flicking on the light switch every night. And whenever some small object rolls under a bed or a couch, who wouldn't like to be able to just unscrew a little hip flask of saved daylight rather than feeling with your fingertips around the dirty floor or finding that the batteries in your torch are dead as can be and you've been trying to get yourself to buy some since forever?
On the not-so-bright side, I have a question for my esteemed readers (both of them): At 1:40 A.M. this sunday, would you have said it was twenty to two or twenty to one? On one hand, forty minutes past one makes it twenty to two, but in twenty minutes it would be one again. See the issue?
Trick or treat? Both, I say, both! Trick me, what a treat wouldn't that be! A little fright for jollies, come, come! Halloween is nigh, and I'll be busy... not trick or treating, but reaping the early benefiths of the impending holliday, so I might as well make my point now. All Hallows Eve, or so it was believed by Saxon druids, was the day when witches and their likes walked the earth, and so one would be wise to look like one of them, so they'd find one akin to them and spare them any harm (or so I've been told). Saxon druids no longer abound, not even in good old UK, but the tradition lives on, as even today in one of their former colonies which shall not be named, little children come out on the streets dressed as ghouls and other fantasy archetypes more or less related to the old superstition to knock on doors and extort candy with the threat of tricks. I judge them no, lest they judge me, and, really, any chance for the little angels (or fiends, if it suits the occasion better) to get their hands on a little treat should ge promtly grasped... by the dentist, at the very least. A few thousand kilometers across the Ocean (and I mean over here, should you need that I spell it out), it hasn't been long since that tradition became popular as well. Sure, kids aren't carying carved pumpkins around and they don't even do it propperly, they just knock on your door all dressed up in whatever most wierd rags they can find and plastered with ridiculous amounts of ghastly make up and drably say "It's like, you know, it's Halloween and so..." and they can be dissuaded with as little as "... so?". What saddens me (very slightly only, mind you) is that we used to have our own similar tradition, although entirely unrelated to any such belief as the wenches of Satan roaming amongst common folk, and the theme phrase which takes the place of "Trick or treat" roughly translates to "bread by God", but that tradittion was forgotten a long time ago. It saddens me (agin, very, very slightly) that kids would rather inherit (poorly) a tradition from beyond the sea than perpetuate a nearly equal tradition deeply rooted in their own history and ancestry. Oh, well, what are you going to do about it... Kids there days...
Speaking of which... having several relatives who are teachers, I'm often confounded with some acts of not-so-brightness (to use a kinder expression) from their students. Now, you should know these are Junior Hgih and High School students only that we're talking about, but seeing how daft these kids can be sometimes, it scares me that someday I might find myself turning to them for medical attention or any other life-or-death sort of service. Immigration... now that's a word with a nice ring to it. Off to...
Do I have an error 1337 yet? No?
New Zealand, which formearly had motto quite similar to my own, is as far as you can get from here without the help of Oxygen-Hydrogen powered engines and a wicked strong heat-proof and air tight hull. For those kind folks Daylight Saving has just begun. Stay strong, it's only six months.
How about now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders if he should start saving Nightlight Time. Ah, good ol' days when I had a nightlight... '94, you'll hardly be forgotten... in spite of all the ugly business therein.
Error 1336: Error 1337 Imminent.
My Internal Clock (which, the geekiest among my readers might like to know, is a binary blue led one, not unlike those avaliable at Think Geek) feels much better now. And nothing quite like a 49 hours weekend to celebrate. Now, I really can't help but wonder: Where is all the saved daylight stored? Can everyone help themselves to some? Is it for sale? I suppose it would dramatically reduce my electricity bill if I could just crack open a bottle of 2006 saved daylight instead of flicking on the light switch every night. And whenever some small object rolls under a bed or a couch, who wouldn't like to be able to just unscrew a little hip flask of saved daylight rather than feeling with your fingertips around the dirty floor or finding that the batteries in your torch are dead as can be and you've been trying to get yourself to buy some since forever?
On the not-so-bright side, I have a question for my esteemed readers (both of them): At 1:40 A.M. this sunday, would you have said it was twenty to two or twenty to one? On one hand, forty minutes past one makes it twenty to two, but in twenty minutes it would be one again. See the issue?
Trick or treat? Both, I say, both! Trick me, what a treat wouldn't that be! A little fright for jollies, come, come! Halloween is nigh, and I'll be busy... not trick or treating, but reaping the early benefiths of the impending holliday, so I might as well make my point now. All Hallows Eve, or so it was believed by Saxon druids, was the day when witches and their likes walked the earth, and so one would be wise to look like one of them, so they'd find one akin to them and spare them any harm (or so I've been told). Saxon druids no longer abound, not even in good old UK, but the tradition lives on, as even today in one of their former colonies which shall not be named, little children come out on the streets dressed as ghouls and other fantasy archetypes more or less related to the old superstition to knock on doors and extort candy with the threat of tricks. I judge them no, lest they judge me, and, really, any chance for the little angels (or fiends, if it suits the occasion better) to get their hands on a little treat should ge promtly grasped... by the dentist, at the very least. A few thousand kilometers across the Ocean (and I mean over here, should you need that I spell it out), it hasn't been long since that tradition became popular as well. Sure, kids aren't carying carved pumpkins around and they don't even do it propperly, they just knock on your door all dressed up in whatever most wierd rags they can find and plastered with ridiculous amounts of ghastly make up and drably say "It's like, you know, it's Halloween and so..." and they can be dissuaded with as little as "... so?". What saddens me (very slightly only, mind you) is that we used to have our own similar tradition, although entirely unrelated to any such belief as the wenches of Satan roaming amongst common folk, and the theme phrase which takes the place of "Trick or treat" roughly translates to "bread by God", but that tradittion was forgotten a long time ago. It saddens me (agin, very, very slightly) that kids would rather inherit (poorly) a tradition from beyond the sea than perpetuate a nearly equal tradition deeply rooted in their own history and ancestry. Oh, well, what are you going to do about it... Kids there days...
Speaking of which... having several relatives who are teachers, I'm often confounded with some acts of not-so-brightness (to use a kinder expression) from their students. Now, you should know these are Junior Hgih and High School students only that we're talking about, but seeing how daft these kids can be sometimes, it scares me that someday I might find myself turning to them for medical attention or any other life-or-death sort of service. Immigration... now that's a word with a nice ring to it. Off to...
Do I have an error 1337 yet? No?
New Zealand, which formearly had motto quite similar to my own, is as far as you can get from here without the help of Oxygen-Hydrogen powered engines and a wicked strong heat-proof and air tight hull. For those kind folks Daylight Saving has just begun. Stay strong, it's only six months.
How about now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders if he should start saving Nightlight Time. Ah, good ol' days when I had a nightlight... '94, you'll hardly be forgotten... in spite of all the ugly business therein.
Windows Experience
Hello there!
Thinking about a Windows XP related entry, are we? Well, then, we're plain wrong! Today's entry will be about something far deeper. Far more unfathomable. Far more... senseless. Senseless is good, right? Onwards.
Let's try not to fall into error 1337 agian, shall we?
Staring through a window, the whole world looks and feels so unlike it does through empty air, doesn't it? Much like a movie pales in comparison with reality, so does a window often show a bland and drab world. And yet, what ineffable sensation is it one gets from a window? What magic property does the plain sheet of glass endow? It it transparence? Or is it... invisibility!
Ninja!!! ... OK, let's not do that again.
This magically wondeful effect hardly ever works on a ground floor window. But part of the magic of it is that... it does work, on occasion.
Staring through a window, a small window, likely a dirty one, smudged with dirt and dust, high atop on a third floor, looking down at people on the street, going about their lives... it all can seem so surreal at times. Partially because you can't (usually) listen to them, partially because you can see a larger picture than when you're among them... it feels quite different. But most importantly, you know, or at least feel like they can't see you, that they're unnaware that you're there... looking at them... watching them... And so, while it should hardly strike you as surprising that a window, when looked through from the outside should become quite the voyeuristic object, isn't it strange that it should become just as voyeuristic an object when looked out of? But most strikingly, isn't it funny how invisible one can feel when just looking out a window?
Have no clue what the hell I'm talking about? Just look out any old window and wave at someone. And then at someone else. And then wave at some more people. Then count how many waves back you got.
Can you feel it now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to take this opportunity to discourage most other sharks to do any such thing. If, by any chance, there's a window a shark can look out of, most likely the people on the other side are indeed able and most willing to see it.
Thinking about a Windows XP related entry, are we? Well, then, we're plain wrong! Today's entry will be about something far deeper. Far more unfathomable. Far more... senseless. Senseless is good, right? Onwards.
Let's try not to fall into error 1337 agian, shall we?
Staring through a window, the whole world looks and feels so unlike it does through empty air, doesn't it? Much like a movie pales in comparison with reality, so does a window often show a bland and drab world. And yet, what ineffable sensation is it one gets from a window? What magic property does the plain sheet of glass endow? It it transparence? Or is it... invisibility!
Ninja!!! ... OK, let's not do that again.
This magically wondeful effect hardly ever works on a ground floor window. But part of the magic of it is that... it does work, on occasion.
Staring through a window, a small window, likely a dirty one, smudged with dirt and dust, high atop on a third floor, looking down at people on the street, going about their lives... it all can seem so surreal at times. Partially because you can't (usually) listen to them, partially because you can see a larger picture than when you're among them... it feels quite different. But most importantly, you know, or at least feel like they can't see you, that they're unnaware that you're there... looking at them... watching them... And so, while it should hardly strike you as surprising that a window, when looked through from the outside should become quite the voyeuristic object, isn't it strange that it should become just as voyeuristic an object when looked out of? But most strikingly, isn't it funny how invisible one can feel when just looking out a window?
Have no clue what the hell I'm talking about? Just look out any old window and wave at someone. And then at someone else. And then wave at some more people. Then count how many waves back you got.
Can you feel it now?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to take this opportunity to discourage most other sharks to do any such thing. If, by any chance, there's a window a shark can look out of, most likely the people on the other side are indeed able and most willing to see it.
Never blog in anger...
Today's post wasn't going to be even remotely simillar to what it'll turn out to be. Nor will it be even slightly similar to the wide majority of all entries. Live with it!
Sir Austin Danger Powers, KBE's father, Nigel Powers (thank you very much, Mr. Caine), hated (or is it "hates"?) only two sorts of people: people intolerant of other cultures and the Dutch. I myself am yet to meet any Dutch person, nor have I ever been to the Netherlands, thus, I cannot possibly tell what might Mr. Powers hold against the Dutch. Now the French, however, are a pet peeve of mine.
Is it pollitically incorrect to say such a thing? I'm sure it is, but, really, I can't bring myself to lie on this. I've seen the French tourists in my country be nothing but obnoxious, refusing to even attempt to speak the native tongue (or any other tongue besides their own, not even any one the natives might be fluent in or at least familiar with. "English, motherfucker, do you speak it!?" Thank you, Mr. Jackson), I've seen the French being obnoxious abroad (Dominican Republic, Summer of 1999 and the UK, last week of 2005. Appearentely, it was my fault that I had a breathing condition and I was struggling and gasping for breath and thus I should take lip from some French snot because I was "ruining" her otherwise perfect evening at the opera.) and, needless to say, I've seen the French be obnoxious in France, where I should never return unless heavily (and, ironically, I mean heavilly) coherced. The French can have all of France to themselves, for all I care, and, by all means, never, ever leave. And really, I ask of you, what good things have come from France? Champagne? I'd very much settle for (prefer, actually) fine Itallian sparkling wine. Cognac? What's wrong with brandy? French movies? The endless futility of French fashion and cosmetics? Prolog? Oh please...
This, however, takes the cake. How is it that non-French scientists have never thought of this? Well, I suppose one could say they're all fatter than the French scientologists... ahem, scientists. I'd never think I'd say this, but now I very much support the Americans' decision of deprecating the phrase "french fries" in favour of "freedom fries". As for me, I'll never eat another francesinha until they change its name.
Well, then, my BMI, once of 34.259, is now 27.778 and I dare this bold statement: my overwheight tummy is smarter than all of your skinny French arses combined. Come prove me wrong!
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless you're French, that is, in which case "vale" won't really apply, would it? And "Pax"...
ArabianShark would like to take this chance to advertise to all man-eating sharks out there that Frenchman meat is, it would appear, extremely lean and quite the smart food. Get them while they last.
Sir Austin Danger Powers, KBE's father, Nigel Powers (thank you very much, Mr. Caine), hated (or is it "hates"?) only two sorts of people: people intolerant of other cultures and the Dutch. I myself am yet to meet any Dutch person, nor have I ever been to the Netherlands, thus, I cannot possibly tell what might Mr. Powers hold against the Dutch. Now the French, however, are a pet peeve of mine.
Is it pollitically incorrect to say such a thing? I'm sure it is, but, really, I can't bring myself to lie on this. I've seen the French tourists in my country be nothing but obnoxious, refusing to even attempt to speak the native tongue (or any other tongue besides their own, not even any one the natives might be fluent in or at least familiar with. "English, motherfucker, do you speak it!?" Thank you, Mr. Jackson), I've seen the French being obnoxious abroad (Dominican Republic, Summer of 1999 and the UK, last week of 2005. Appearentely, it was my fault that I had a breathing condition and I was struggling and gasping for breath and thus I should take lip from some French snot because I was "ruining" her otherwise perfect evening at the opera.) and, needless to say, I've seen the French be obnoxious in France, where I should never return unless heavily (and, ironically, I mean heavilly) coherced. The French can have all of France to themselves, for all I care, and, by all means, never, ever leave. And really, I ask of you, what good things have come from France? Champagne? I'd very much settle for (prefer, actually) fine Itallian sparkling wine. Cognac? What's wrong with brandy? French movies? The endless futility of French fashion and cosmetics? Prolog? Oh please...
This, however, takes the cake. How is it that non-French scientists have never thought of this? Well, I suppose one could say they're all fatter than the French scientologists... ahem, scientists. I'd never think I'd say this, but now I very much support the Americans' decision of deprecating the phrase "french fries" in favour of "freedom fries". As for me, I'll never eat another francesinha until they change its name.
Well, then, my BMI, once of 34.259, is now 27.778 and I dare this bold statement: my overwheight tummy is smarter than all of your skinny French arses combined. Come prove me wrong!
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless you're French, that is, in which case "vale" won't really apply, would it? And "Pax"...
ArabianShark would like to take this chance to advertise to all man-eating sharks out there that Frenchman meat is, it would appear, extremely lean and quite the smart food. Get them while they last.
Psyched
After a rocky start, it's one of those days. What sort of days, you ask? The sort of days when the fluffy sky blue tinted sunstruck cluds look all the more pretty and one feels ten feet tall and utterly unstoppable with as little encouragement as Beethoven's Fifth randomly popping up on his MP3 player. notice how I used a generic "MP3 player" instead of an all too common "iPod" and the likes.
You could say I'm high. You could then ask what I'm high on. Well, love, two words for you: Job Satisfaction. Nothing quite like it. Instant, long lasting high with no sided effects and perks upon perks.
Cue in guest voice: Mike Myers's Austin Powers.
"Yeah, baby!"
Back on track, then. What got me this high? And why do I ask all these questions? Well, one thing at the time, won't you! Firs things first. Do you know Magic: the Gathering? It's a Trading Card Game set in a mystical environment where two (or more) sorcerers battle amongst themselves with magic spells. If you'd like to know more about the game, here, have a link, they don't pay me to advertise their game for them. I'll merely state it's an aquired taste and not for the very meek, for it takes time, practice and preserveerance to get the hang of it, but once you do it's countless hours of fun. It's not for the very poor either, unless you find a casual circle where you can just scribble the cards' names on any old piece of paper you can shove into a propper card sleeve and call it a playable proxy. Either that or Apprentice. And here's the kicker: I managed to make my Systems Analysis project, which should carry on to Databases Handling next semester, be about that. Job satisfaction, love!
I rule!!!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is barely skimming on his territorial waters today. He's practically flying over them.
You could say I'm high. You could then ask what I'm high on. Well, love, two words for you: Job Satisfaction. Nothing quite like it. Instant, long lasting high with no sided effects and perks upon perks.
Cue in guest voice: Mike Myers's Austin Powers.
"Yeah, baby!"
Back on track, then. What got me this high? And why do I ask all these questions? Well, one thing at the time, won't you! Firs things first. Do you know Magic: the Gathering? It's a Trading Card Game set in a mystical environment where two (or more) sorcerers battle amongst themselves with magic spells. If you'd like to know more about the game, here, have a link, they don't pay me to advertise their game for them. I'll merely state it's an aquired taste and not for the very meek, for it takes time, practice and preserveerance to get the hang of it, but once you do it's countless hours of fun. It's not for the very poor either, unless you find a casual circle where you can just scribble the cards' names on any old piece of paper you can shove into a propper card sleeve and call it a playable proxy. Either that or Apprentice. And here's the kicker: I managed to make my Systems Analysis project, which should carry on to Databases Handling next semester, be about that. Job satisfaction, love!
I rule!!!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is barely skimming on his territorial waters today. He's practically flying over them.
Ephemerality
Have I ever told you about the place where I usually go for dinner? I figure now's as good a time as ever. Ergo...
Months ago (nearing twelve of them now) I went searching for a fast food place that wouldn't make my scale go "One at a time, please" or "No livestock!". I'm not much of a cook (or at least can't be bothered to be much of a cook night in and night out) and à la carte is a luxury my budget can't withstand on a daily basis. The fast food chain whose name starts with M, ends with s, contains the letters "cDonald" and shall remain unnamed was very obviously not a choice. Many other places provide a very narrow choice of two or three dishes and are very affordable (because you get no service to pay for, othar than putting the food on the tray you carry to a free table and busing the tray), but they too weren't all that kind to my scale. Enter the salad joint.
This place too offers little service: you pay (a little bit more than you'd like to) upfront, they make your salad (or sandwich) there and then, before your eyes and bus your tray when you're done and, if you're lucky, you get a good glimpse at a pair of the (second) most beautiful blue eyes... but I digress. Onwards.
Why do I go there every night? First off, it's a bit far from home. Now, I don't drive, so I walk, nearly a mile to get there and another on my way back, but, in my book, that's a perk. I love to walk, at my pace, no rush (or wait... my pace has been called "fast-ish"), and I don't get much of a chance to do it. Then, there's the healthy food factor. Salads and fruit do a body good, remember? And there's always the blue eyes...
A few days ago, I got a good snicker out of some character I spotted there. People there are usually like people everywhere: all the same, equal to myself and each other. Sure, they all have that little (or maybe not so little) something that makes them special and unique in their own ways, but you never notice it, unless you try. Not this character. He's prancing around in a brand new designer black pinstripped suit with a broad collar white shirt, top button undone in casual chic fashion, topped off with designer reading glasses, in a place where there isn't as much as a menu to read. Needless to say, he wasn't carying a book with him. I mean, really, where have you heard of a designer book? The only non-designer object about him was his top-of-the-line Nokia Communicator, which he boasted about with broad gestures, talking with his escort. I (almost) wonder why on Earth he was holding his phone if the person he was talking to was sitting right in front of him. Now I could tell you of the broad gestures (which I believe I did) or the arrongant disdain with which he looked around and down on everyone around him or the smugness of his every atitude, but I think you already get the picture of how much better than everyone else this character though himself to be.
Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against a healthy dose of materialism. I myself have some very prized posessions which I like very much and am very proud of, but they don't define me. I created them (um... bought them... ahem). They are mine, not the other way around, and I know, and don't fear, that some day I might just wake up and find that they are no longer what they used to be or not even there at all. Just as easily, they might be replaced. My point? Posession is good, much as the Jedi forbid it, but it's neither the beginning nor the end of the world as we know it. It's not the stake or the teeth, just the spice. (hey, it's a food entry after all)
You know what I realise about the charecter with the world at his fingertips? Someday he'll wake up and find that the suit doesn't fit him, the glasses are nowhere thick enough, the phone is some old piece of junk and his hair, once carefully cut and styled, has all but fallen off his scalp. All his possessions will then mean nothing to him, and the truth that he's not as better than everyone else as he once thought (or at all, for that matter) will strike him as all the more bitter. But, most importantly, and though he might not realise it, the salad he (thought he) bought was only rented, and if he ever logs on to World of Warcraft, he'll be pweend left and right like everyone else. And that's worth a little snicker to me.
In other news, the cat welded my fish to great effect. Thank you!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will go on treasuring his posessions, for he has not all he likes, but he likes all he has.
Months ago (nearing twelve of them now) I went searching for a fast food place that wouldn't make my scale go "One at a time, please" or "No livestock!". I'm not much of a cook (or at least can't be bothered to be much of a cook night in and night out) and à la carte is a luxury my budget can't withstand on a daily basis. The fast food chain whose name starts with M, ends with s, contains the letters "cDonald" and shall remain unnamed was very obviously not a choice. Many other places provide a very narrow choice of two or three dishes and are very affordable (because you get no service to pay for, othar than putting the food on the tray you carry to a free table and busing the tray), but they too weren't all that kind to my scale. Enter the salad joint.
This place too offers little service: you pay (a little bit more than you'd like to) upfront, they make your salad (or sandwich) there and then, before your eyes and bus your tray when you're done and, if you're lucky, you get a good glimpse at a pair of the (second) most beautiful blue eyes... but I digress. Onwards.
Why do I go there every night? First off, it's a bit far from home. Now, I don't drive, so I walk, nearly a mile to get there and another on my way back, but, in my book, that's a perk. I love to walk, at my pace, no rush (or wait... my pace has been called "fast-ish"), and I don't get much of a chance to do it. Then, there's the healthy food factor. Salads and fruit do a body good, remember? And there's always the blue eyes...
A few days ago, I got a good snicker out of some character I spotted there. People there are usually like people everywhere: all the same, equal to myself and each other. Sure, they all have that little (or maybe not so little) something that makes them special and unique in their own ways, but you never notice it, unless you try. Not this character. He's prancing around in a brand new designer black pinstripped suit with a broad collar white shirt, top button undone in casual chic fashion, topped off with designer reading glasses, in a place where there isn't as much as a menu to read. Needless to say, he wasn't carying a book with him. I mean, really, where have you heard of a designer book? The only non-designer object about him was his top-of-the-line Nokia Communicator, which he boasted about with broad gestures, talking with his escort. I (almost) wonder why on Earth he was holding his phone if the person he was talking to was sitting right in front of him. Now I could tell you of the broad gestures (which I believe I did) or the arrongant disdain with which he looked around and down on everyone around him or the smugness of his every atitude, but I think you already get the picture of how much better than everyone else this character though himself to be.
Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against a healthy dose of materialism. I myself have some very prized posessions which I like very much and am very proud of, but they don't define me. I created them (um... bought them... ahem). They are mine, not the other way around, and I know, and don't fear, that some day I might just wake up and find that they are no longer what they used to be or not even there at all. Just as easily, they might be replaced. My point? Posession is good, much as the Jedi forbid it, but it's neither the beginning nor the end of the world as we know it. It's not the stake or the teeth, just the spice. (hey, it's a food entry after all)
You know what I realise about the charecter with the world at his fingertips? Someday he'll wake up and find that the suit doesn't fit him, the glasses are nowhere thick enough, the phone is some old piece of junk and his hair, once carefully cut and styled, has all but fallen off his scalp. All his possessions will then mean nothing to him, and the truth that he's not as better than everyone else as he once thought (or at all, for that matter) will strike him as all the more bitter. But, most importantly, and though he might not realise it, the salad he (thought he) bought was only rented, and if he ever logs on to World of Warcraft, he'll be pweend left and right like everyone else. And that's worth a little snicker to me.
In other news, the cat welded my fish to great effect. Thank you!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will go on treasuring his posessions, for he has not all he likes, but he likes all he has.
Fairyland
Today's post was going to be a mellow one, about how things are turning out nicely this semester and how I've managed to nearly finish September without losing momentum. Well, that was this morning. Much (not really) has changed since then.
I still haven't lost momentum, that much is true. Onwards. Raving time.
Prolog - It's supposed to stand for Programming with (first order) Logic. Well, it doesn't seem all that logical to me that a variable can be instanciated, but not changed. It's a bloody variable! What part of "variable" don't you understand? It's supposed to change! That's why it's not called a bloody constant. That was half a seemester lost, a little over a year ago. LISP might have been more useful, or at least it's said to be useful when developing Artificial Inteligence, which is the course that stuck me with the hell-spawn (actually, France-spawn... coincidence? Stay tuneed for more on that sometime) interpreted language. I can't help to feel like I'd be better off with good ol' C.
Movies - "World Trade Center" has premiered over here, but when has anyone ever heard of such a thing as a screening of "Loose Change"? In case you don't know, "Loose Change" is a film about 9/11, suggesting (and corroborating it's implications with testimony and evidence) that the attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon was not commited by Middle Eastern Terrorists. It's featured on Google video, just look it up and prepare for a very large download, but an interesting documentary. The warning at the end says the FBI (or some other law enforcing branch of the USA) has orders to arrest anyone carrying that film on DVD, so unless you live somewhere where there is no censorship, neither the blatant nor the hypocrit type, perhaps you shouldn't record it to a CD or a DVD. I'd say it should still be alright to download it and view it, but the laws of the Land of the Free baffle me: you can purchase ammunition for your 9mm handgun at most supermarkets, provided they have a license to sell hunting supplies, and don't ask who'd go hunting geese with a Glock 9mm, but you can't carry around a documentary on DVD. I'm not even sure you can be reading this blog without risking an FBI or CIA or TLA agent showing up at your door to protect your freedom. My advice: ... Oh, come on, you didn't come here looking for advice. At any rate, my point is that even movie studios are willing to show you a documentary on any given topic, but hardly willing (if willing at all) to show youa documentary about the very same topic from another point of view. Farenheit 911? With all due respect to Mr. Michael Moore, it doesn't even come close, even though it does cover several other areas. Come to think of it, I'll just sign my death sentence with the Bush Administration and say it: watch both. My point is (was?), even movies have become a vehicle for propaganda, and no, it hasnn't always been so. We can discuss this later.
Vampires - I can't write... I just can't. For the life of me, I can't. I have all this great imagery in my head, all these vivid details, all this great (I like it, and that suffices) story in my head, but for the life of me I can't put it in words. It's getting me down. Which makes me unable to write, which gets me down and so on and so forth. And don't give me non of that "sazonal depression" crap just because we're past the...
Equinox - At last, it's Autumn. No more "early evening meal", my favourite meal is back: dinner! Now, if we could only dial down the sun and the heat a little... Can we? Please? And can we make up our minds about the "water falling from above" thing? Get some rain down here, already. The foggy morning preceding the bright sunny day thin gets old really fast, now make the grass grow so cows can eat it and grow dreat juicy tender sirloin stakes so we can have... dinner! Did I mention dinner is back?
Management - It's a known fact that students love and hate courses based on who lectures them, so can we make up our minds about how is the Management Course for this season going to be? Will it be Monday-clear-and-concise, kind-management-department-teacher style or Thursday-obscure-football-metaphore-o-rama, aggressive-and-insecure-management-department-teacher style? Either way is fine, though I need not tell which one I'd prefer; I'll give my best anyhow, I just might (or not) enjoy it. Which brings me to...
Thursday-obscure-football-metaphore-o-rama, aggressive-and-insecure-management-department-teacher style - All my life, up until comming to college, I had been ostracised for not liking, not following and not having the slightest interest of some sport where 20 or so men run after a ball for nearly two hours, struggling to get some sort of unfair advantage without letting some manner of triumvirate of judges find out. I even got told off for not recognising the description of some so-called world-renowed football players. That Scottish redhead idiot... Thought I was tryng to be funny? Pulling a prank? How do you think that made me feel? I had enough ostracising without your help, thank you very much. And now, 10 years after that incident, after four blissfully football related ostracising free years, Mr. No-self-confidence-compensated-by-uncalled-aggressivity (I really must dedicate an entry to this topic...) decides it's a good idea to bring back the old recurring nightmare. Have you any idea of the self loathing the likes of you out me through because of my inability to like your silly little game until I realised there was nothing wrong with me, bastard? So put a worn, smelly, sweatty football sock in it already! Go root for your team and get forked! A play on words... how unusual of me.
Now, if you have your calendar handy, you'll notice this is being written on a Wednesday late night. See what I'm looking at in a few hours? So don't give me no "Sazonal depression" crap. I've every right to be upset. Furthermore, Have you ever had the feeling that everyone/thing is out to get you? It has been one of those days. On the other hand, I just know I'll feel better (much better indeed) in 90 days, and Christams will have little to do with it. Or rather, it might have something to do with it, but I just know I'll feel better regardless. 90 days, then... Might as well be 90 years from where I'm looking at it. "Patience, Grasshopper, patience."
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
Arabianshark would like to reassure his readers (both of them) that "vale", although discordant in number with "vobiscum", is well employed, as the form "valete" is not used with the same meaning. Now don't tell me that isn't a load off your chest...
I still haven't lost momentum, that much is true. Onwards. Raving time.
Prolog - It's supposed to stand for Programming with (first order) Logic. Well, it doesn't seem all that logical to me that a variable can be instanciated, but not changed. It's a bloody variable! What part of "variable" don't you understand? It's supposed to change! That's why it's not called a bloody constant. That was half a seemester lost, a little over a year ago. LISP might have been more useful, or at least it's said to be useful when developing Artificial Inteligence, which is the course that stuck me with the hell-spawn (actually, France-spawn... coincidence? Stay tuneed for more on that sometime) interpreted language. I can't help to feel like I'd be better off with good ol' C.
Movies - "World Trade Center" has premiered over here, but when has anyone ever heard of such a thing as a screening of "Loose Change"? In case you don't know, "Loose Change" is a film about 9/11, suggesting (and corroborating it's implications with testimony and evidence) that the attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon was not commited by Middle Eastern Terrorists. It's featured on Google video, just look it up and prepare for a very large download, but an interesting documentary. The warning at the end says the FBI (or some other law enforcing branch of the USA) has orders to arrest anyone carrying that film on DVD, so unless you live somewhere where there is no censorship, neither the blatant nor the hypocrit type, perhaps you shouldn't record it to a CD or a DVD. I'd say it should still be alright to download it and view it, but the laws of the Land of the Free baffle me: you can purchase ammunition for your 9mm handgun at most supermarkets, provided they have a license to sell hunting supplies, and don't ask who'd go hunting geese with a Glock 9mm, but you can't carry around a documentary on DVD. I'm not even sure you can be reading this blog without risking an FBI or CIA or TLA agent showing up at your door to protect your freedom. My advice: ... Oh, come on, you didn't come here looking for advice. At any rate, my point is that even movie studios are willing to show you a documentary on any given topic, but hardly willing (if willing at all) to show youa documentary about the very same topic from another point of view. Farenheit 911? With all due respect to Mr. Michael Moore, it doesn't even come close, even though it does cover several other areas. Come to think of it, I'll just sign my death sentence with the Bush Administration and say it: watch both. My point is (was?), even movies have become a vehicle for propaganda, and no, it hasnn't always been so. We can discuss this later.
Vampires - I can't write... I just can't. For the life of me, I can't. I have all this great imagery in my head, all these vivid details, all this great (I like it, and that suffices) story in my head, but for the life of me I can't put it in words. It's getting me down. Which makes me unable to write, which gets me down and so on and so forth. And don't give me non of that "sazonal depression" crap just because we're past the...
Equinox - At last, it's Autumn. No more "early evening meal", my favourite meal is back: dinner! Now, if we could only dial down the sun and the heat a little... Can we? Please? And can we make up our minds about the "water falling from above" thing? Get some rain down here, already. The foggy morning preceding the bright sunny day thin gets old really fast, now make the grass grow so cows can eat it and grow dreat juicy tender sirloin stakes so we can have... dinner! Did I mention dinner is back?
Management - It's a known fact that students love and hate courses based on who lectures them, so can we make up our minds about how is the Management Course for this season going to be? Will it be Monday-clear-and-concise, kind-management-department-teacher style or Thursday-obscure-football-metaphore-o-rama, aggressive-and-insecure-management-department-teacher style? Either way is fine, though I need not tell which one I'd prefer; I'll give my best anyhow, I just might (or not) enjoy it. Which brings me to...
Thursday-obscure-football-metaphore-o-rama, aggressive-and-insecure-management-department-teacher style - All my life, up until comming to college, I had been ostracised for not liking, not following and not having the slightest interest of some sport where 20 or so men run after a ball for nearly two hours, struggling to get some sort of unfair advantage without letting some manner of triumvirate of judges find out. I even got told off for not recognising the description of some so-called world-renowed football players. That Scottish redhead idiot... Thought I was tryng to be funny? Pulling a prank? How do you think that made me feel? I had enough ostracising without your help, thank you very much. And now, 10 years after that incident, after four blissfully football related ostracising free years, Mr. No-self-confidence-compensated-by-uncalled-aggressivity (I really must dedicate an entry to this topic...) decides it's a good idea to bring back the old recurring nightmare. Have you any idea of the self loathing the likes of you out me through because of my inability to like your silly little game until I realised there was nothing wrong with me, bastard? So put a worn, smelly, sweatty football sock in it already! Go root for your team and get forked! A play on words... how unusual of me.
Now, if you have your calendar handy, you'll notice this is being written on a Wednesday late night. See what I'm looking at in a few hours? So don't give me no "Sazonal depression" crap. I've every right to be upset. Furthermore, Have you ever had the feeling that everyone/thing is out to get you? It has been one of those days. On the other hand, I just know I'll feel better (much better indeed) in 90 days, and Christams will have little to do with it. Or rather, it might have something to do with it, but I just know I'll feel better regardless. 90 days, then... Might as well be 90 years from where I'm looking at it. "Patience, Grasshopper, patience."
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
Arabianshark would like to reassure his readers (both of them) that "vale", although discordant in number with "vobiscum", is well employed, as the form "valete" is not used with the same meaning. Now don't tell me that isn't a load off your chest...
You haven't seen the last of me yet...
... but, damn, has it been some time since we last spoke. OK, since I last spoke... to you... to all of you... at once... oh, you get my point. Onwards.
So much could be told I thought of leaking it in several small(ish) posts over the next few days, but I really don't have the patience for it. Many posts on one day? I like my oversized rantings like my online video streams: continuous and seamless. So put your seating pants on and brace yourselves.
First blood has been drawn. The semester begun at last. Or already. I suppose it deppends on how your vacation was. I was pretty much looking forward to it, and so far, I haven't lost momentum. This could be the prelude of a good semester, despite that nasty currcular revision business and new evaluaion rules. Stay tuned.
Is a rounded V a U? I don't think so. An O? Not likely. A D? How about a DD? No, we're not talking about bra cup sizes (yet). By now you should know this sort of nutty rambling precedes some reference to "V for Vendetta", which is now (Oh, shock!) avaliable in DVD. Sure, I'm late to tell, but I got my hands on mine one day before the official release date. Chalk it up to incompetence, overzealousness or plain need for less-than-dinkum edge on the retailer's part. the malicious in me leans towards the first choice.
I'm not a hardcore gamer, but I like some gaming now and then... some polygonal escape from the drab and dull everyday hustle and bustle and a little pixelated parade of pleasures pertaining not to the pale paradigm of... you know what, I really can't alliterate, for the life of me, I can't. However, I still found this interesting and amusing. And I happen to agree with most of it too.
My vampires, who been on hiatus since early June might be comming back for the Triology soon. I know I'm looking forward to it. In other news, I just met someone today whose browser configuration bypassed the template for this page, showing my secret messages. Yes, I mean you. Or do I?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is glad to be back to all of those little things that make life neat. The courses, the blogs, the would-be witty lines...
So much could be told I thought of leaking it in several small(ish) posts over the next few days, but I really don't have the patience for it. Many posts on one day? I like my oversized rantings like my online video streams: continuous and seamless. So put your seating pants on and brace yourselves.
First blood has been drawn. The semester begun at last. Or already. I suppose it deppends on how your vacation was. I was pretty much looking forward to it, and so far, I haven't lost momentum. This could be the prelude of a good semester, despite that nasty currcular revision business and new evaluaion rules. Stay tuned.
Is a rounded V a U? I don't think so. An O? Not likely. A D? How about a DD? No, we're not talking about bra cup sizes (yet). By now you should know this sort of nutty rambling precedes some reference to "V for Vendetta", which is now (Oh, shock!) avaliable in DVD. Sure, I'm late to tell, but I got my hands on mine one day before the official release date. Chalk it up to incompetence, overzealousness or plain need for less-than-dinkum edge on the retailer's part. the malicious in me leans towards the first choice.
I'm not a hardcore gamer, but I like some gaming now and then... some polygonal escape from the drab and dull everyday hustle and bustle and a little pixelated parade of pleasures pertaining not to the pale paradigm of... you know what, I really can't alliterate, for the life of me, I can't. However, I still found this interesting and amusing. And I happen to agree with most of it too.
My vampires, who been on hiatus since early June might be comming back for the Triology soon. I know I'm looking forward to it. In other news, I just met someone today whose browser configuration bypassed the template for this page, showing my secret messages. Yes, I mean you. Or do I?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is glad to be back to all of those little things that make life neat. The courses, the blogs, the would-be witty lines...
When RTFM isn't enough
I'm assuming everyone here knows what RTFM means. If not, well, SNAFU, which, as you most likely know, means Situation Normal (or Nominal, in some cases), All Fouled (or a similar adjective, stemming from another four letter word beginning with f) Up. Likewise, RTFM means Read The Friendly (and, again, F can stand for other adjectives...) Manual. If you already knew this, then SUSFU. Onwards.SUSFU, by the way, means Situation Unchanged, Still Fucked Up.
The word of the day is Hoodwinked. Archaicaly, this meant blindfolded. An obsolete meaning of the word is that of concealed. Currently, it means decieved. Also, it's the title of a movie.
Before you profile it as a "kiddie movie", just because it's approved for all audiences and it's CG animation and it tells the ancient story of Little Red Riding Hood (with many a twist, mind you), I'd just like to say screw you, it's a bundle of laughs and if you can't find it in you to laugh at the many funnies in it, your loss. If, however, you weren't planning on profiling it in any way, then don't screw you. Be merry, read on.
I had had the pleasure of seeing this film before, although through the veil of a dubbing. Sure enough, in some countries, dubbings are of very high quality indeed (I'm told that in Germany, for example, the most renowed actors are dubbed by the same voice actor in every movie, so that his/her voice may be easily recognised in any dubbing), but over here someone even managed to translate a word processor cursor as if it were the word "I" (in Superman Returns. By the way, not impressive). This time I got to see it in it's untranslated glory. But that's not what this entry is about.
The young lady at the ticket counter must have misinterpreted my very odd accent (which, to this day, I didn't know I had) and was probably not sure if I had asked for a seat "in the centre of the room" or "way back and in a corner", so she gave me something in between. A waste of good seats, I say, the room was just about empty, except for myself, a couple or two and a very odd group, the very focus of this entry.
They were four, and four they were. Not three, not five, not six, but four. Four girls, two pre-teen girls, a very young child and (probably) her mother, nearly all with extra bright (hmm, not very catchy... how about Xtra-Brite?) cellphones, very crunchy popcorn and pretty slurpy drinks. Perfect...
At this point, I'd like to toss this little tidbit of meat to the beasts: what is it with popcorn at the movies? Bevrages i can understand, since even with air conditioning it gets pretty stuffy and dry in a theater, but popcorn? They always look and smell better than they taste, with artificial colorant and artificial butter-ish flavour, but in the end, they're just sugary, bland noisemakers, aren't they? Why do people still buy them? Why, o, why...
Onwards, then. Just as they find their seats they take their time to settle. Mathematics (Combinatory Calculus, to be more precise) tells us that four people can occupy four seats in a row in 4! (that's factorial, not "four!" as in "Oh my God, four!") different manners, that is, 4x3x2x1=24 manners. They tried nearly all of them until they found themselves comfortable. Then comes the crunching of popcorn, and the slurping of drinks and the beeping of cellphones and the lighting up half the room with them and we're not even done with the trailers yet. Also, they're talkers. I know... bliss, isn't it?
And then the movie starts. Just as the narrator begins his tale, the white subtitles sprinkle the bottom of the screen (you wouldn't believe the effort I've put into training myself not to get distracted by those things. I really don't need them, but I find myself rushing to read them out of reflex...) and the oldest (sounds a bit mean... let's say "least young" instead) of them says "It's in English?". Well, congratualtions, madam, you sure know your languages. I was hoping they'd be able to slip some five, maybe ten minutes of film before you noticed. What was it that tipped you off? Was it the "VO" (Stands for original version, in case you're wondering) next to the movie title above the room door? Was it the "VO" in the fliers outside? or was it the colossal sticker reading "Original Version" on the poster?
Dope...
Innevitably, pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark Sits idly by, grasping, to the best of his ability, the few remaining days of his vacation, yet ever aware that with each day gone by, he's one day closer to his dreams.
The word of the day is Hoodwinked. Archaicaly, this meant blindfolded. An obsolete meaning of the word is that of concealed. Currently, it means decieved. Also, it's the title of a movie.
Before you profile it as a "kiddie movie", just because it's approved for all audiences and it's CG animation and it tells the ancient story of Little Red Riding Hood (with many a twist, mind you), I'd just like to say screw you, it's a bundle of laughs and if you can't find it in you to laugh at the many funnies in it, your loss. If, however, you weren't planning on profiling it in any way, then don't screw you. Be merry, read on.
I had had the pleasure of seeing this film before, although through the veil of a dubbing. Sure enough, in some countries, dubbings are of very high quality indeed (I'm told that in Germany, for example, the most renowed actors are dubbed by the same voice actor in every movie, so that his/her voice may be easily recognised in any dubbing), but over here someone even managed to translate a word processor cursor as if it were the word "I" (in Superman Returns. By the way, not impressive). This time I got to see it in it's untranslated glory. But that's not what this entry is about.
The young lady at the ticket counter must have misinterpreted my very odd accent (which, to this day, I didn't know I had) and was probably not sure if I had asked for a seat "in the centre of the room" or "way back and in a corner", so she gave me something in between. A waste of good seats, I say, the room was just about empty, except for myself, a couple or two and a very odd group, the very focus of this entry.
They were four, and four they were. Not three, not five, not six, but four. Four girls, two pre-teen girls, a very young child and (probably) her mother, nearly all with extra bright (hmm, not very catchy... how about Xtra-Brite?) cellphones, very crunchy popcorn and pretty slurpy drinks. Perfect...
At this point, I'd like to toss this little tidbit of meat to the beasts: what is it with popcorn at the movies? Bevrages i can understand, since even with air conditioning it gets pretty stuffy and dry in a theater, but popcorn? They always look and smell better than they taste, with artificial colorant and artificial butter-ish flavour, but in the end, they're just sugary, bland noisemakers, aren't they? Why do people still buy them? Why, o, why...
Onwards, then. Just as they find their seats they take their time to settle. Mathematics (Combinatory Calculus, to be more precise) tells us that four people can occupy four seats in a row in 4! (that's factorial, not "four!" as in "Oh my God, four!") different manners, that is, 4x3x2x1=24 manners. They tried nearly all of them until they found themselves comfortable. Then comes the crunching of popcorn, and the slurping of drinks and the beeping of cellphones and the lighting up half the room with them and we're not even done with the trailers yet. Also, they're talkers. I know... bliss, isn't it?
And then the movie starts. Just as the narrator begins his tale, the white subtitles sprinkle the bottom of the screen (you wouldn't believe the effort I've put into training myself not to get distracted by those things. I really don't need them, but I find myself rushing to read them out of reflex...) and the oldest (sounds a bit mean... let's say "least young" instead) of them says "It's in English?". Well, congratualtions, madam, you sure know your languages. I was hoping they'd be able to slip some five, maybe ten minutes of film before you noticed. What was it that tipped you off? Was it the "VO" (Stands for original version, in case you're wondering) next to the movie title above the room door? Was it the "VO" in the fliers outside? or was it the colossal sticker reading "Original Version" on the poster?
Dope...
Innevitably, pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark Sits idly by, grasping, to the best of his ability, the few remaining days of his vacation, yet ever aware that with each day gone by, he's one day closer to his dreams.
Liebe schmeckt wie Kaviar
Some of you might recall this line from one of the (not quite) recommended titles from this post. It means "love tastes like caviar" (or at least I think it does). But then again, "Love is only any good when it hurts" (For 200 points, which misician was that from?), and caviar... I suppose something is very wrong when caviar hurts. And just what is all this talk about caviar all about? Patience! I'm getting to it! Since when do I tolerate you to be so pushy!?
I had never really enjoied caviar before, but then again, I don't think I had ever had propper caviar before. At any rate, it's not my fault. Do you know what kind of stuff gets peddled around as caviar? Ever had some very fine, pitch black roe from a tin labeled "Caviar"? In all probability, that wasn't caviar at all. Actual caviar, I'll have you know, doesn't need to be pitch black or very small eggs. Caviar can be grey, brownish and even reddish in colour and each individual egg can be anywhere from as small as one millimeter in diameter to as large as a pea. And don't you go buying Beluga caviar (unless you're in Russia, in which case I envy you), because you're lucky if that's even caviar at all. And I'm nowhere closer to making a point, but you know what, that's the beauty of being the blogger around here. My blog, my rules.
Me, I've just had some real osetra caviar, brouhgt by a beloved relative from a vacation in Russia, and, my, I can't believe I've waited this long to get my hands (and my taste buds) on the stuff. I've just split a tiny jar of it with... erm... never you mind who I split it with... and I'm almost glad it was such a tiny portion, otherwise I'd be hooked on it by now. Whoosh!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is very seriously considering a trip to the Caspian Sea to look for some Russian sturgeon. Not to eat it, mind you, but the roe...
I had never really enjoied caviar before, but then again, I don't think I had ever had propper caviar before. At any rate, it's not my fault. Do you know what kind of stuff gets peddled around as caviar? Ever had some very fine, pitch black roe from a tin labeled "Caviar"? In all probability, that wasn't caviar at all. Actual caviar, I'll have you know, doesn't need to be pitch black or very small eggs. Caviar can be grey, brownish and even reddish in colour and each individual egg can be anywhere from as small as one millimeter in diameter to as large as a pea. And don't you go buying Beluga caviar (unless you're in Russia, in which case I envy you), because you're lucky if that's even caviar at all. And I'm nowhere closer to making a point, but you know what, that's the beauty of being the blogger around here. My blog, my rules.
Me, I've just had some real osetra caviar, brouhgt by a beloved relative from a vacation in Russia, and, my, I can't believe I've waited this long to get my hands (and my taste buds) on the stuff. I've just split a tiny jar of it with... erm... never you mind who I split it with... and I'm almost glad it was such a tiny portion, otherwise I'd be hooked on it by now. Whoosh!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is very seriously considering a trip to the Caspian Sea to look for some Russian sturgeon. Not to eat it, mind you, but the roe...
Crickey!
Do remind me to get cable TV next time I go on vacation. Public Television (actually, Independent Television... a station that shall remain unnamed) would sooner make a silk purse out of a sow's ear than get their own programming right. My staying up until quite unhealthy hours in hopes of catching House M.D. was rewarded with a very generous delay, a first (they come in pairs. I guess the humble people of this network view themselves as Noah) episode that was defenitely not the one scheduled and a non-existing second episode. Thanks a bunch. But that's a rant for another day. Meanwhile, the pox on you, filthy scum who cannot find your own arse with both hands, and your kind!
Public Television (Government owned and all) sometimes has a brilliant idea. About once every thirty years or so. Last time it was colour picture, this time it was Discovery Moment. Little tidbiths of civilization in the form of Discovery Channel documentaries, ever so often, free of charge. These, believe it or not, are actually quite alright, if you're into the sort. I suppose I like it. Most of it, that is. The documentary explainig (or rather attempting to explain, with various degrees of success) the myth behind werewolves and the truth in the French werewolf trials was pretty good. The Australian zoologist whose aspiration in life was to touch a King Cobra was alright, although fellows who aren't really fond of snakes might have taken a rain check on that. Most docuentaries on Sharks are good as well (surprise surprise). Now, this Aussie the other day really takes the cake. And I'm not sure I mean it in a good way... you be the judge of that.
This fellow would like to give us an in-depth view of insects and the like in our own homes and ackyards in a segment he called "Bugs in the Burbs". I only caught the second half of it, but it was plenty. He told us how quickly aphids reproduce. He taught us that aphid females can even reproduce on their own, effectively cloning themselves. He even showed us that aphid clones are often born pregnant with their own clones (I gues being a copy of a copy of a copy works for them...). Then he reminded us that, although one could just kill them with an insecticide spray, we'd be wiser to introduce the aphid's natural predator to the scene, that is, the lady bug. Now things get strange. Sure, lady bugs love aphind in the way I love porterhouse stake grilled rare, that's hardly wierd, but seing this caring insectologist have a bunch (and a very large bunch at that) of lady bugs crawl over his arms, his face and into his clothes is... unnusual. Then come bigger fish, or should I say, bugs, as he finds his way into an africanised killer bees nest. Sure, he wears his protective gear and his bee net over his face he even locks off his cuffs and his pants with duct tape. you wouldn't think he'd go on and provoke the bees, now, would you? Yet he did, he went on and blew into the bees nest. sure enough, he got stung a couple of dozen times through his socks and, reportedly, couldn't walk for a few days. You'd think he's learn his lesson by now, but no, he goes on to mess with yet another type of bug: cockroaches. He seeks to demistify the myth that cockroaches byte, and so he sticks his bare leg and foot into a conrolled environment acrylic box and pours some roaches on himself. If you're not wierd out yet by now, perhaps you'd like to know that cockroaches do bite. not only that but also they can digest ceratonin, which means they can even ear your hair (appearently, very few animals can).
So... crickey, mate!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is cooking up another update for very very soon... but he'll reveal nothing at this point, leaving you to marinate in the atecipation. What do you mean, there's no sarcasm tag in html!?
Public Television (Government owned and all) sometimes has a brilliant idea. About once every thirty years or so. Last time it was colour picture, this time it was Discovery Moment. Little tidbiths of civilization in the form of Discovery Channel documentaries, ever so often, free of charge. These, believe it or not, are actually quite alright, if you're into the sort. I suppose I like it. Most of it, that is. The documentary explainig (or rather attempting to explain, with various degrees of success) the myth behind werewolves and the truth in the French werewolf trials was pretty good. The Australian zoologist whose aspiration in life was to touch a King Cobra was alright, although fellows who aren't really fond of snakes might have taken a rain check on that. Most docuentaries on Sharks are good as well (surprise surprise). Now, this Aussie the other day really takes the cake. And I'm not sure I mean it in a good way... you be the judge of that.
This fellow would like to give us an in-depth view of insects and the like in our own homes and ackyards in a segment he called "Bugs in the Burbs". I only caught the second half of it, but it was plenty. He told us how quickly aphids reproduce. He taught us that aphid females can even reproduce on their own, effectively cloning themselves. He even showed us that aphid clones are often born pregnant with their own clones (I gues being a copy of a copy of a copy works for them...). Then he reminded us that, although one could just kill them with an insecticide spray, we'd be wiser to introduce the aphid's natural predator to the scene, that is, the lady bug. Now things get strange. Sure, lady bugs love aphind in the way I love porterhouse stake grilled rare, that's hardly wierd, but seing this caring insectologist have a bunch (and a very large bunch at that) of lady bugs crawl over his arms, his face and into his clothes is... unnusual. Then come bigger fish, or should I say, bugs, as he finds his way into an africanised killer bees nest. Sure, he wears his protective gear and his bee net over his face he even locks off his cuffs and his pants with duct tape. you wouldn't think he'd go on and provoke the bees, now, would you? Yet he did, he went on and blew into the bees nest. sure enough, he got stung a couple of dozen times through his socks and, reportedly, couldn't walk for a few days. You'd think he's learn his lesson by now, but no, he goes on to mess with yet another type of bug: cockroaches. He seeks to demistify the myth that cockroaches byte, and so he sticks his bare leg and foot into a conrolled environment acrylic box and pours some roaches on himself. If you're not wierd out yet by now, perhaps you'd like to know that cockroaches do bite. not only that but also they can digest ceratonin, which means they can even ear your hair (appearently, very few animals can).
So... crickey, mate!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is cooking up another update for very very soon... but he'll reveal nothing at this point, leaving you to marinate in the atecipation. What do you mean, there's no sarcasm tag in html!?
Some like it hot...
... and, sure enough, some don't. Me, I like hot weather as much as The "Next" Bloke, who just so happens to be a guest on this blog today. How do you do, Mr. Bloke?
The, please.
Right, then. Tell, us, The, how was it that you came across that nickname, "Next"?
Well, now, it all started back when I was about twelve and I started going to the movies by myself. I remember being in line to the tickets and even though I would be first in line sometimes, nothing felt quite as nice as being "next" in line. You know, I'd just see whoever was in front of me get their turn and think, "Woohoo, I'm next"! When my mates found out how much I liked that special feeling, they began calling me "Next"."
And so you're known as The "Next" Bloke today.
Exactly
Now, then, what we'd all like to know is how much do you like warm weather, The?
Not one bit, Shark, old chap, not one bit.
Thank you, then, The. I hope we'll be seing plenty more of you around here.
My pleasure.
That was The "Next" Bloke on Shark Nibbles, and he doesn't like warm weather. And so, as previously stated, neither do I and, for the issue, neither does my laptop charger, who, just last night, overheated twice and scared the lights out of me when I thought it had sent its soul to its maker. Turns out ten minutes in the freezer (in a plastic bag, mind you) did the trick... for another half hour.
So, my advice on how to deal with the heat, keep to the shade, drink plenty of fluids (cold, preferably) and put an ice pack on that laptop charger. If you don't have any, you can fashion one by soaking a rag, wrapping it in a plastic bag and putting it in the freezer. Works fine, if you don't mind sitching the makeshift ice pck every twenty minutes or so. This little trick did wonders for me last night.
You didn't think I'd wrap up without a secret message, did you?
Sizzling hot farewells.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is dealing with the heat in his own way, i. e., dreaming of cooler places. Syberia sounds just right...
The, please.
Right, then. Tell, us, The, how was it that you came across that nickname, "Next"?
Well, now, it all started back when I was about twelve and I started going to the movies by myself. I remember being in line to the tickets and even though I would be first in line sometimes, nothing felt quite as nice as being "next" in line. You know, I'd just see whoever was in front of me get their turn and think, "Woohoo, I'm next"! When my mates found out how much I liked that special feeling, they began calling me "Next"."
And so you're known as The "Next" Bloke today.
Exactly
Now, then, what we'd all like to know is how much do you like warm weather, The?
Not one bit, Shark, old chap, not one bit.
Thank you, then, The. I hope we'll be seing plenty more of you around here.
My pleasure.
That was The "Next" Bloke on Shark Nibbles, and he doesn't like warm weather. And so, as previously stated, neither do I and, for the issue, neither does my laptop charger, who, just last night, overheated twice and scared the lights out of me when I thought it had sent its soul to its maker. Turns out ten minutes in the freezer (in a plastic bag, mind you) did the trick... for another half hour.
So, my advice on how to deal with the heat, keep to the shade, drink plenty of fluids (cold, preferably) and put an ice pack on that laptop charger. If you don't have any, you can fashion one by soaking a rag, wrapping it in a plastic bag and putting it in the freezer. Works fine, if you don't mind sitching the makeshift ice pck every twenty minutes or so. This little trick did wonders for me last night.
You didn't think I'd wrap up without a secret message, did you?
Sizzling hot farewells.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is dealing with the heat in his own way, i. e., dreaming of cooler places. Syberia sounds just right...
Blood drinkers, unite
Recently I found myself reading a would-be serious vampirism manual, by a Brazillian author, Paulo Coelho. If you have never read any of his work, count your blessings. If you've ever read anything by him then you'll understand how come my stomach churns every time I see six copies of "O Zahir" on display on a bookstore window like it's God's gift to readers.
This Practical Vampirism Manual, however, is different. It's not (supposed) to be fiction. This is (supposed) to lift the shroud of mysticism that surrounds vampires and bare the whole truth about them, that they exist and what's fact or fiction about them. Mind you, it's as poorly written as any other one of his works and has nary a speck of verifyable fact about it. In short, a bundle of laughs, if you think someone expected readers to swallow this codswallop.
One of the aspects it focusses on is how to recognise (and avoid, if you'd like) a vampire, and so I've compiled, from it's pages, a handy list of things to look out for:
Well groomed, kind mannered, well spoken, attractive Europeans looking for one night stands are likely to be vampires;
Bissexual men have "vampire" written all over them;
Bissexual women are all vampires;
Lesbians are vampires too. All of them.
If you can read this you might be a vampire too.
At this point I'd like to remind you that I myself would never label anyone as "vampire" or anything else based on his/her sexual orientation, but it seems Mr. Coelho would disagree. Bear in mind, though, this is just for laughs. It cannot be any other way.
ArabianShark wonders what are the odds of running into a well groomed, kind mannered, well spoken, attractive European bissexual woman looking for a one night stand. Now paging Dr. van Helsing.
This Practical Vampirism Manual, however, is different. It's not (supposed) to be fiction. This is (supposed) to lift the shroud of mysticism that surrounds vampires and bare the whole truth about them, that they exist and what's fact or fiction about them. Mind you, it's as poorly written as any other one of his works and has nary a speck of verifyable fact about it. In short, a bundle of laughs, if you think someone expected readers to swallow this codswallop.
One of the aspects it focusses on is how to recognise (and avoid, if you'd like) a vampire, and so I've compiled, from it's pages, a handy list of things to look out for:
Well groomed, kind mannered, well spoken, attractive Europeans looking for one night stands are likely to be vampires;
Bissexual men have "vampire" written all over them;
Bissexual women are all vampires;
Lesbians are vampires too. All of them.
If you can read this you might be a vampire too.
At this point I'd like to remind you that I myself would never label anyone as "vampire" or anything else based on his/her sexual orientation, but it seems Mr. Coelho would disagree. Bear in mind, though, this is just for laughs. It cannot be any other way.
ArabianShark wonders what are the odds of running into a well groomed, kind mannered, well spoken, attractive European bissexual woman looking for a one night stand. Now paging Dr. van Helsing.
That'll work...
I wonder what posesses someone to send a chain e-mail claiming that for each person the e-mail is sent to, something will happen. The list is endless: that you might win a free cellphone, that some organisation will donate a minute amount of money for each time the messge is forwarded to help some ill and dying person, that some organisation will donate a huge sum if the message is forwarded more than so many times, that one's e-mail/MSN Messenger account will be deleted if the message isn't forwarded, that MSN will cease to be a free service unless so many names are signed and sent to Microsoft, that one's MSN Messenger account will remain free whereas all others will become a paid service if the holder's name is on the list to be sent to Microsoft... I could type all day and not list half the story behind these messages. I wonder what posesses someone to start one of these things. I suppose one could do it as a prank, but I can't possibly understand how on earth does one believe a word of those messages. What on earth posesses people to believe anyone has a means to track where the messsages will end up?
Honorable mention and single exception: the bonsai cat. This is a truly horrific practice, IMO. It consists of locking a kitten in a jar where his bones will take the shape of the container he's stuck in as he grows for decorative purposes. I've recieved mail rallying people to lobby against this practice. Lobbying is one thing, expecting miracles is quite another.
Just today I recieved a PowerPoint presentation attatchement (those are the worse... forward these, people, help viruses spread, please, I beseech you), which I treat with a little special care, i. e., dump into a decaying old would-have-been excuse for a computer which may not be hooked up to any network lest the network becomes haunted by evils unspeakble of and run it. This one claims that some organisation will donate six cents (yes, it's not a typo, six whole cents. A full nickle and a free penny! Lets hear it poor old Uncle Ebeneezer, if you remember him) to a dying baby for each person I forward the potentially dangerous file to. If only I kept the e-mail addresses of people I don't like... Now I can just imagine the company representative talking to the sick baby's parents, going "We might have the money to cure your child and we might even give it to you, but only if some e-mail message featuring our company's name gets sent all over the world. And yes, in case you're wondering, we're all callous, money-driven, insenitive, cruel, petty and evil bastards, looking for a would-be humanitarian publicity campaign. We figure one person knowing how kind we are and that we'll help your child is worth a dime in potential profits, so we'll spare a whopping 60% of that to treat your beloved baby. And don't ask how we'll know just how many people have read the message; it's magic, we've a pact with Satan of which you should not have known. Well, chop chop, mail away." That would have gone nicely.
Let's make the best out of this. I declare a competition. Comment with the most riddiculous pretence you've ever had the displeasure of receiving and we'll have a poll. The winner just might win a free Nokia 5G cellphone, complete with live video call, wireless internet access, bluetooth connectivity, esspresso dispensing function, a 100 free SMS package and a non-retractable blade built into the vibra-call motor that might shred your thigh to minced meat if you have your phone in your pocket when someone calls, but is just so handy to chop onions (mind you, warranty void if removed)... or not.
Spam-free farewells (because there is no processed canned spiced pork meat in them).
ArabianShark wonders if all the hexes he's been cursed with for breaking e-mail chains will eventually cancel each other out. Two wrongs dont make a right, but, given enough wrongs... who knows?
Honorable mention and single exception: the bonsai cat. This is a truly horrific practice, IMO. It consists of locking a kitten in a jar where his bones will take the shape of the container he's stuck in as he grows for decorative purposes. I've recieved mail rallying people to lobby against this practice. Lobbying is one thing, expecting miracles is quite another.
Just today I recieved a PowerPoint presentation attatchement (those are the worse... forward these, people, help viruses spread, please, I beseech you), which I treat with a little special care, i. e., dump into a decaying old would-have-been excuse for a computer which may not be hooked up to any network lest the network becomes haunted by evils unspeakble of and run it. This one claims that some organisation will donate six cents (yes, it's not a typo, six whole cents. A full nickle and a free penny! Lets hear it poor old Uncle Ebeneezer, if you remember him) to a dying baby for each person I forward the potentially dangerous file to. If only I kept the e-mail addresses of people I don't like... Now I can just imagine the company representative talking to the sick baby's parents, going "We might have the money to cure your child and we might even give it to you, but only if some e-mail message featuring our company's name gets sent all over the world. And yes, in case you're wondering, we're all callous, money-driven, insenitive, cruel, petty and evil bastards, looking for a would-be humanitarian publicity campaign. We figure one person knowing how kind we are and that we'll help your child is worth a dime in potential profits, so we'll spare a whopping 60% of that to treat your beloved baby. And don't ask how we'll know just how many people have read the message; it's magic, we've a pact with Satan of which you should not have known. Well, chop chop, mail away." That would have gone nicely.
Let's make the best out of this. I declare a competition. Comment with the most riddiculous pretence you've ever had the displeasure of receiving and we'll have a poll. The winner just might win a free Nokia 5G cellphone, complete with live video call, wireless internet access, bluetooth connectivity, esspresso dispensing function, a 100 free SMS package and a non-retractable blade built into the vibra-call motor that might shred your thigh to minced meat if you have your phone in your pocket when someone calls, but is just so handy to chop onions (mind you, warranty void if removed)... or not.
Spam-free farewells (because there is no processed canned spiced pork meat in them).
ArabianShark wonders if all the hexes he's been cursed with for breaking e-mail chains will eventually cancel each other out. Two wrongs dont make a right, but, given enough wrongs... who knows?
I'm still not a comedian...
... so if you've com here in search for a laugh, you should know better. It would appear, however, that you don't. I could try to be funny; that would make sure you'd never come here for a laugh ever again. Or I could send you on your way to something funnier. And since I'm such a big nice softie (that could change. Keep on your toes), I'll just do it. I'll give you only one word... well, ok, make that two words... I'm too kind:
Comedy, Inc.
What can I say, it presses my buttons. I could come to like Aussie comedy as much as I like British humour. Or maybe that's just the best (as far as I'm concerned) example os Aussie comedy. Or perhaps I just caught one of the best episodes. Or it could be that Aussie comedy really is that good.
If you're unfamiliar with the show, there's nothing to be ashamed about it; I was once in your shoes, not that long ago, really. I can lend a hand. If you are, however, familiar with it, skip the paragraph. And thus, let the healing begin. Comedy, Inc. is made of short (and I mean short, for the most part) sketches, not unlike "Smack the Pony" or "Big Train" (as opposed to "Black Adder" or "'Allo, 'Allo", which tell a long story by comparison), but, unlike, say, "The Office", the said sketches aren't bound to a single theme, although recuring themes abound, especially with shorter sketches. Also unlike "Saturday Night Live" (how does that rate in the funny scale? Mild? Moderate? Doesn't really work for me...), there are no musical guests, no musical interludes every two sketches (or at all) and no monologue bits, at least not in the Jay Leno or Conan O'Brien sense of the word "monologue". Also no lengthy opening credits to make you wonder why don't they call the show "Sunday Dawn (barely a-) Live".
It just presses my buttons. As a rule of thumb, whatever mocks the Spice Girls is alright. Having a go at Las Ketchup is really just icing, but who doesn't like icing? Or maybe it's the general australian accent that makes everyting sound so great (doesn't it?).
Comedy, Inc., Stingers and House, M.D. (Jesse Spencer is in it. It counts as Australian Television. It does! No? Well, ok, but it's still alright) really make me want to flog myself to the bone for missing Neighbours all those years ago, when I had the chance to watch it. Really, I could just punch myself, if only I knew how to do it propperly (that's me, do it right or not at all... except when it matters). On the other hand, I just recently discovered I can put my hands in a reversal praying stance with minimal effort. Think of the implications! This could come so handy if only I weren't an atheist...
Until we meet again.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really should have remembered that parting sentence for his previous update. Try to make a double entendre out of that.
Comedy, Inc.
What can I say, it presses my buttons. I could come to like Aussie comedy as much as I like British humour. Or maybe that's just the best (as far as I'm concerned) example os Aussie comedy. Or perhaps I just caught one of the best episodes. Or it could be that Aussie comedy really is that good.
If you're unfamiliar with the show, there's nothing to be ashamed about it; I was once in your shoes, not that long ago, really. I can lend a hand. If you are, however, familiar with it, skip the paragraph. And thus, let the healing begin. Comedy, Inc. is made of short (and I mean short, for the most part) sketches, not unlike "Smack the Pony" or "Big Train" (as opposed to "Black Adder" or "'Allo, 'Allo", which tell a long story by comparison), but, unlike, say, "The Office", the said sketches aren't bound to a single theme, although recuring themes abound, especially with shorter sketches. Also unlike "Saturday Night Live" (how does that rate in the funny scale? Mild? Moderate? Doesn't really work for me...), there are no musical guests, no musical interludes every two sketches (or at all) and no monologue bits, at least not in the Jay Leno or Conan O'Brien sense of the word "monologue". Also no lengthy opening credits to make you wonder why don't they call the show "Sunday Dawn (barely a-) Live".
It just presses my buttons. As a rule of thumb, whatever mocks the Spice Girls is alright. Having a go at Las Ketchup is really just icing, but who doesn't like icing? Or maybe it's the general australian accent that makes everyting sound so great (doesn't it?).
Comedy, Inc., Stingers and House, M.D. (Jesse Spencer is in it. It counts as Australian Television. It does! No? Well, ok, but it's still alright) really make me want to flog myself to the bone for missing Neighbours all those years ago, when I had the chance to watch it. Really, I could just punch myself, if only I knew how to do it propperly (that's me, do it right or not at all... except when it matters). On the other hand, I just recently discovered I can put my hands in a reversal praying stance with minimal effort. Think of the implications! This could come so handy if only I weren't an atheist...
Until we meet again.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really should have remembered that parting sentence for his previous update. Try to make a double entendre out of that.
Mockba!
The above should be pronounced "Moskva".
Not only is Moscow a lovely vacation spot (I hear. I've never been there, much as I'd like to someday), but also the inspiration for two distinct German bands more than two decades apart. If we're going to talk (notice how I slip the words "we" and "talk" inconspicuously int the same sentence, creating the illusion that there's an actual dialogue in the making) about music, we (meaning I) should make sure we (for once, meaning we) both know the tunes being discussed. Hello, copyright laws. We wouldn't steal a song. I suppose I could direct you to the lyrics, but that's hardly any substitute, so I'll allow myself to be unburdened with a couple of links for your pleasure and Google Video can handle all the copyright fuss for me, with the added bonus of coloured, moving image.
Enough ado about only too little. Onwards then.
First, by alphabetic preference and chronological precedence, "Moskau", by the 1979 Disco Band Dschinghis Khan.
For those of you who don't speak German, I've taken the liberty of translating the first verse. It conveys the tone of the tune well enough:
Moscow
Beautiful and mysterious
Towers of red and gold
Cold as ice
Moscow
Who does really know you
A white fire burns
In you so warm
For those of you who do speak German and agree with my translation... uh, great.
For those of you who do speak German but do not agree with my translation, well, give me a break, people, I don't speak German myself, I'm using Babelfish, and we know how trustworthy that little gadget is.
Fast forward twenty something years and voilà, "Moskau", this time by the well known Metal (is it?) Band Rammstein.
Before we go into lyrics, do notice that the Google Video title mentions Tatu. Although it was rumored that they'd lend their voices to this theme, the female voice heard in Russian is actually of Viktoria Fersh, who, to the best of my knowledge, is not a member of t.A.T.u..
And onto the translated lyrics:
This city is a prostitute
It has red spots on her forehead
Her teeth are made of gold
She is fat and yet so lovely
Her mouth falls to my valley
When I pay her for it
She takes off her clothes but only for money
The city has me in suspense
And so on and so forth... it doesn't change much as the tune goes on.
Now picture this: Talking to a Russian person who very much loves his/her country and, specifically, the city of Moscow and who happens to have somewhat conservative moral values (just enough to take offense in hearing their Capital being compared to an old tart, how conservative would that have to be?), you casually drop into the conversation how much you like that "Moskau" song by some German band, can't quite remember the name off the top of your head... and neglect to mention the fact they sang at the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow... and, as luck would have it, your Russian acquaintance figures you're too young to remember the Disco Age... or perhaps they're too young to remember the Disco Age. Where does this leave us? With a very angry Russian, I trust. And all you wanted to evoke was that light-hearted, joyful tune about love tasting like kaviar and merrily dancing on tabletops under the (less than) slight influence of cold and pure Vodka. Makes you think, huh? That's why I've been trying to find words such as "joyful" and "light-hearted", because "gay" might have misled you.
And now that that's come up (Oy vey! At least I didn't say "come out"...), a question: has homophobia stripped us of gaiety? More importantly, why am I rambling about double entendres when I should be revising for my last exam of the season (Human-Computer Interfaces... doesn't sound like much? You should try it!)?
Mellow Farewells... as in relaxed and unhurried, easygoing farewells... as in kind farewells... as in... Oh, just peace out!
ArabianShark is polishing his favourite buzz-saw for the ritualistic June Deforestation of the Chin, also know as, the removal of the Exams Stubble. I never seem to find five minutes to shave in January or June...
Not only is Moscow a lovely vacation spot (I hear. I've never been there, much as I'd like to someday), but also the inspiration for two distinct German bands more than two decades apart. If we're going to talk (notice how I slip the words "we" and "talk" inconspicuously int the same sentence, creating the illusion that there's an actual dialogue in the making) about music, we (meaning I) should make sure we (for once, meaning we) both know the tunes being discussed. Hello, copyright laws. We wouldn't steal a song. I suppose I could direct you to the lyrics, but that's hardly any substitute, so I'll allow myself to be unburdened with a couple of links for your pleasure and Google Video can handle all the copyright fuss for me, with the added bonus of coloured, moving image.
Enough ado about only too little. Onwards then.
First, by alphabetic preference and chronological precedence, "Moskau", by the 1979 Disco Band Dschinghis Khan.
For those of you who don't speak German, I've taken the liberty of translating the first verse. It conveys the tone of the tune well enough:
Moscow
Beautiful and mysterious
Towers of red and gold
Cold as ice
Moscow
Who does really know you
A white fire burns
In you so warm
For those of you who do speak German and agree with my translation... uh, great.
For those of you who do speak German but do not agree with my translation, well, give me a break, people, I don't speak German myself, I'm using Babelfish, and we know how trustworthy that little gadget is.
Fast forward twenty something years and voilà, "Moskau", this time by the well known Metal (is it?) Band Rammstein.
Before we go into lyrics, do notice that the Google Video title mentions Tatu. Although it was rumored that they'd lend their voices to this theme, the female voice heard in Russian is actually of Viktoria Fersh, who, to the best of my knowledge, is not a member of t.A.T.u..
And onto the translated lyrics:
This city is a prostitute
It has red spots on her forehead
Her teeth are made of gold
She is fat and yet so lovely
Her mouth falls to my valley
When I pay her for it
She takes off her clothes but only for money
The city has me in suspense
And so on and so forth... it doesn't change much as the tune goes on.
Now picture this: Talking to a Russian person who very much loves his/her country and, specifically, the city of Moscow and who happens to have somewhat conservative moral values (just enough to take offense in hearing their Capital being compared to an old tart, how conservative would that have to be?), you casually drop into the conversation how much you like that "Moskau" song by some German band, can't quite remember the name off the top of your head... and neglect to mention the fact they sang at the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow... and, as luck would have it, your Russian acquaintance figures you're too young to remember the Disco Age... or perhaps they're too young to remember the Disco Age. Where does this leave us? With a very angry Russian, I trust. And all you wanted to evoke was that light-hearted, joyful tune about love tasting like kaviar and merrily dancing on tabletops under the (less than) slight influence of cold and pure Vodka. Makes you think, huh? That's why I've been trying to find words such as "joyful" and "light-hearted", because "gay" might have misled you.
And now that that's come up (Oy vey! At least I didn't say "come out"...), a question: has homophobia stripped us of gaiety? More importantly, why am I rambling about double entendres when I should be revising for my last exam of the season (Human-Computer Interfaces... doesn't sound like much? You should try it!)?
Mellow Farewells... as in relaxed and unhurried, easygoing farewells... as in kind farewells... as in... Oh, just peace out!
ArabianShark is polishing his favourite buzz-saw for the ritualistic June Deforestation of the Chin, also know as, the removal of the Exams Stubble. I never seem to find five minutes to shave in January or June...
Re-Runs
TV can have very odd efects on you, if you stare at it for long enough.
Just yesterday I thought it was yestersay, thus today, yet, sa I watched the very same shows I had wathcehs the day before, i.e, yesteday, I came to realise it was the day before yeaterday, that is, yesterday, since yesterday is actually today and today can only be tomorrow, when I'll undoubtedly write this post. Making sense? No? It's OK, it's no supposed to.
Still, what is it with re-runs? Fox channel has re-runs boiled down to a science. I know there's a pattern somewhere in there, and I just know I'll crack it as soon as I can be bothered to see a programming guide. Until then, I have other things in my mind. Things like Networking Fundaments II.
Meanwhile, there's no reason why you shouldn't have a bit of fun and games. How about 10 different puzzles? The rules are simple and half of the puzzle is figuring them out. Go on, give it a try.
Until I find another wacky reason to write a weired paragraph.
Senseless, but by no means nonsense farewells.
ArabianShark is swimming in circles. Whales often do that as a menas of rounding up prey in a cylinder of air bubbles, yet sharks have no means of producing such an effect. Why on earth and sea is lil' shark over there going about round and round beats the crap out of me, but there he goes again.
Round and round and round and round and...
Just yesterday I thought it was yestersay, thus today, yet, sa I watched the very same shows I had wathcehs the day before, i.e, yesteday, I came to realise it was the day before yeaterday, that is, yesterday, since yesterday is actually today and today can only be tomorrow, when I'll undoubtedly write this post. Making sense? No? It's OK, it's no supposed to.
Still, what is it with re-runs? Fox channel has re-runs boiled down to a science. I know there's a pattern somewhere in there, and I just know I'll crack it as soon as I can be bothered to see a programming guide. Until then, I have other things in my mind. Things like Networking Fundaments II.
Meanwhile, there's no reason why you shouldn't have a bit of fun and games. How about 10 different puzzles? The rules are simple and half of the puzzle is figuring them out. Go on, give it a try.
Until I find another wacky reason to write a weired paragraph.
Senseless, but by no means nonsense farewells.
ArabianShark is swimming in circles. Whales often do that as a menas of rounding up prey in a cylinder of air bubbles, yet sharks have no means of producing such an effect. Why on earth and sea is lil' shark over there going about round and round beats the crap out of me, but there he goes again.
Round and round and round and round and...
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