I thought I'd squeeze in one more post this month. Lets get on with it, then, shall we?
Even as I write this, the short-term fix for my lack of internet connectivity is a very precarious would-be broadband... thing, I'm not even sure how to call it. And here to elaborate on the perils of new technologies and their misaplications, we would have Detective John McClane, who wasn't able to provide us with a defenitive answer, yet whom we expect to make an appearence at any time.
This Internet connection thing really has me on edge. I'm working with what calls itself a Z020 Telemodem. It will often disconnect of its own accord, but even worse, even more often it will lose connection with any webserver whilst mantaining some sort of ISP connection, or at least believing as much, meaning it wont provide Internet access, and if you try to disconnect to re-connect, it won't be able to terminate the connection - and well it should not, if there is no connection to terminate... - and should you try to unplug the thing, Windows might crash. I'm not sure what the X factor is here, but it sure is one gargantuan red X.
It's been hot, and it's been about a year since Mr. Bloke made his appearence here to tell us of his dislike of warm weather. Said weather is still just as warm, which, I've just found out, can also give me insomnia. I really ought to invest on a cooling fan for myself, some day... But get this! Just a few days ago, on the news, some reporter made a point of going out and interview people regarding the hot weather. Now is it me or is this a clear sign that 1 hour long news programmes might be a bit more than our networks can handle? At any rate, some norse couple complained about the heat and commented that it made them "feel like doing nothing" and further added that if it was ever this hot in their country "they wouldn't be as productive"! Well, there you have it! Norse insight just excused our lame entropy with the most guilt-free reason - the very weather. What would become of us without norse knowledge...
Detective McClane has yet not arrived, but we expect him to drop by in time for the end of this entry.
Summer time is a poficient time for some things, despite the inexorable truth in the norseman's prespective. Spotting hotties on the beach, for one thing, is rather hard during the Winter. But Summer time is also prolific for movies. Now over here, and contrarily to most of Europe's general practice, we like to subtitle our imported media, be it cinema or TV shows, something which remained from the censorship dodging of the old regime, but lately, dubbing has become more and more of a common practice - which I resent. Just last Thursday I was about to watch The Simpsons Movie ("in glorious 2D") when I'm told it's dubbed over. I see... so we should also probably draft up a letter reading "Your voice acting, superb though it may be, has been deemed unsuitable for our narrow little minds. Thanks for a job well done and subsequently wasted." and send it to Dan Castellanetta, Julie Kavner, Nancy Cartwright, Yeardley Smith, Hank Azaria and Harry Shearer (off the top of my head, I'm not bothering with IMDb links, get them yourself), just to name a few. I wonder how the dubbers would feel if ever they knew of their hard work (which, I hear, in this particular instance, isn't so hard at all...) just being discarded on a whim. I'd dub their whines of protest myself.
Or maybe it's just the heat getting to me. Perhaps I shoulf fly South... Do I hear Australia? It ought to be nice and cool there by now...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to thank Det. John McClane for his contribution to today's edition of Shark Nibbles. Yipee-Ka-Yay, Motherfucker!
We do have contact
So it all worked fine... ish! The test contacts did arrive in the predicted timeframe and I have them. They're comfortable and I see fairly well with them. So now for the sunny side down bit.
Because they're only test contacts, the astigmatism isn't fully corrected which means tha, while I can go on about with them, reading is out of the question. Which isn't too bad, since I wasn't really planning on wearing them to work. The other thing is that the right lens seems to turn around a lot, which really imparts my sight sometimes. Still, not too much, just enough to notice. Also they seem to fit too snugly, which could become hazardous to my eyes, if worn for oo long or too often. For the usage I intend for them, however, they should be fine. The only real issue is that putting them on and taking them off is way more complicated than I originally thought. That and that by the end of my first day (rather, my first few hours, I put them on in the early evening), I had one mean splitting migraine. I couldn't even enjoy the symphony of sensuous screaming from my neighbours (you say voyeur, I say victim. It's not like I'm eavesdropping, she's just... loud. For all I know, they could even get off on making it known that they're having it off. Not that I'm complaining, she has a beautiful voice). And it echoes. A lot.
So today i was just enjoying a lazy Sunday and flipping through the channels when Demolition Man comes up. Now, I had seen it before, quite a few times in fact, but its not like I had annything better to do, so I sat and watched it. Not too long into the movie, much to my surprise, after a quick brush with Wesley Snipes, Nigel Hawthorne invites Sylvester Stallone to dinner at Pizza Hut. I though, "Well, now, If I remember right, wasn't it Taco Bell?". I spent the next few minutes watching intently and listening for any breaks in sound, because I did think I heard somewhat of a dubbing splice when Hawthorne said "Pizza Hut". I searched in vain for a Taco Bell logo not edited out or replaced, tried my best to read the characters lips as they spoke "Pizza Hut" (and I thought I could spot the mismatch every single time, even if the dubing seemed flawless every other time). Not happy, I looked it up on IMDb and found out that, for some countries, they produced a "second version" in which all references to Taco Bell are replaced with Pizza Hut.
So that was the hand we were dealt. A version sophisticated enough to dub the name of a worldwide known franchise over that of a not quite so widespread one (with multiple degrees of proficiency), but not sophisticated enough to have the mention to an alledgedly alive convict fellow actually deceased edited out. I hate living off the tablecraps of the Spanish, I really do.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will give Systems Analysis one last go before shipping off to Summer Vacation. And that's nearly all I can think of right now. Summer Vacation...
Because they're only test contacts, the astigmatism isn't fully corrected which means tha, while I can go on about with them, reading is out of the question. Which isn't too bad, since I wasn't really planning on wearing them to work. The other thing is that the right lens seems to turn around a lot, which really imparts my sight sometimes. Still, not too much, just enough to notice. Also they seem to fit too snugly, which could become hazardous to my eyes, if worn for oo long or too often. For the usage I intend for them, however, they should be fine. The only real issue is that putting them on and taking them off is way more complicated than I originally thought. That and that by the end of my first day (rather, my first few hours, I put them on in the early evening), I had one mean splitting migraine. I couldn't even enjoy the symphony of sensuous screaming from my neighbours (you say voyeur, I say victim. It's not like I'm eavesdropping, she's just... loud. For all I know, they could even get off on making it known that they're having it off. Not that I'm complaining, she has a beautiful voice). And it echoes. A lot.
So today i was just enjoying a lazy Sunday and flipping through the channels when Demolition Man comes up. Now, I had seen it before, quite a few times in fact, but its not like I had annything better to do, so I sat and watched it. Not too long into the movie, much to my surprise, after a quick brush with Wesley Snipes, Nigel Hawthorne invites Sylvester Stallone to dinner at Pizza Hut. I though, "Well, now, If I remember right, wasn't it Taco Bell?". I spent the next few minutes watching intently and listening for any breaks in sound, because I did think I heard somewhat of a dubbing splice when Hawthorne said "Pizza Hut". I searched in vain for a Taco Bell logo not edited out or replaced, tried my best to read the characters lips as they spoke "Pizza Hut" (and I thought I could spot the mismatch every single time, even if the dubing seemed flawless every other time). Not happy, I looked it up on IMDb and found out that, for some countries, they produced a "second version" in which all references to Taco Bell are replaced with Pizza Hut.
So that was the hand we were dealt. A version sophisticated enough to dub the name of a worldwide known franchise over that of a not quite so widespread one (with multiple degrees of proficiency), but not sophisticated enough to have the mention to an alledgedly alive convict fellow actually deceased edited out. I hate living off the tablecraps of the Spanish, I really do.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will give Systems Analysis one last go before shipping off to Summer Vacation. And that's nearly all I can think of right now. Summer Vacation...
We have contact
Or have we?
So as yo might recall, I am severely myopic. I also have quite a bit of astigmatism. As you may know, I rather dislike bright lights... with a passion. So Summer time is often uncomfortable for me. Granted, shades come in to save the day, to some degree, at least. The thing is, when you're so severely myopic as I am, shades don't come in so ample a supply as you may find at an optician's shop. If you'd like a pair of curved sunglasses that still fits your sight impairment, adequate lens must be cut and assembled at the manufacturer. This usually isn't a problem, until your myopia becomes in excess of about 3,5 diopters. You see, if your lens needs to be quite vergent, the edges must become rather thick. If you'd like your lens to be curved, the edge must become much thicker. My flat (as opposed to curved) uncut lenses vaguely resemble throwing weapons, so thick that they are (my miopia is in excess of 7 diopters, further aggravated by the astigmatism). A curved lens befitting me would be unreasonable to assemble. Of course, I have little trouble, if any, arranging for a pair of flat prescription sunglasses. In fact, that's not my point entirely. What really bothers me is that whenever I go out I must carry my regular glasses with me, or be plunged into darkness whenever I go indoors for some reason. And when I do go indoors I have to swap my glasses and again when I leave. Is it worth the trouble, not being blinded by sunlight and not finding myself running for shelter with bloodshot, aching eyes? Defenitely, but isn't there an easier way around the ordeal?
Certainly. Radial keratomy to the rescue!
OK, let's back down a little here, shall we? Forgive me if I'm just a smidgeon reluctant to start cutting up my corneas in order to reduce their curvature. Let's hear alternatives, if you please...
I hear contacts. I like what I hear. So I slap them on in the morning (morning is a relative term... shortly after I'm up, then) and whenever I go out I put on my (stylishly bent around my face) shades. If I happen to pop indoors for a cup of tea or whatnot, I can just hold them for a while. Sounds good? Must be.
And this is how the cookie crumbles.
So what are the steps to salvation? Step one, we need to get an appointment with an oftalmologist. Sure, no sweat. Not so fast, lads. Would you like a timely appointment or an eventual appointment? For the latter, go on, talk to the receptionist, schedule something to about St. Patrick's day. For the former, and this you won't find in the rulebook, approach the receptionist, proceed exactly as per an eventual appointment, and after she tells you "you're not seeing any doctor any time soon", whine a little and - OK, this really is the crucial step, here, listen up - slip her €5,00. Yeah, she's not working for free, here. She gets paid by the boss, she works for the boss. You need to pay her yourself if you want some service. Oh, and if you'd like to have her not squeeze any geezers in front of you just beacuse something or another, well, you're screwed. Let me know if you find a way. I just know what I know the hard way, i.e., skipping the step when I slip her the bill and being told what I should have doon all too late. But don't worry, she'll illuminate you on how to proceed correctly by schedulling several appointments for "tomorrow" as you wait for your appointment.
Bitch...
Step two, we need to find an optician to order a pair of trial contacts. Again, timely v.s. eventual come to play. I haven't found a surefire way around this problem, but stick with me. I might manage. First, find an optician. Any optician. Tell them what you want. They'll put you through yet another full battery of oftalmological exams. Don't worry, it won't hurt a bit. It's just like going to the oftalmologist. In fact, it's exactly like going to the oftalmologist. Yes, I know, we've already done that, we even showed the optician the prescription the good doctor went to college for 5 or 6 years to write. Why can't they trust him, I'll never know. Then thay'll blabber on something you've already know about semi-rigid contacts v.s. disposable contacts and tell you to return in three weeks. Um, news flash, sweethart, in trhee weeks time I expect to be sipping mai-tais under a palm tree in a tropical beach. Well, not really on a beach. And not mai-tais. And the whole idea of going to a tropical spot seems rather unlikely. But you get the point.
Onwards to...
Step three, we need to find an optician who can really come through for us. So flounder about for a bit until you find one. A standard battery of tests ensues, suck it up. Don't moan about how it's the thrid time you've had it in two days, don't flinch at the burning light they all but jam up your eyes to check your retina, just go through it. If you're lucky enough, they might do a full cornea topography. This might mean you're on the right track. It doesn't hurt, but it does make you see concentric white circles for a while after you've done it, rather like a bullseye. Resist the urge to utter "Headshot!". Just listen through the brief lecture and they just might annonouce that your otherwise 3 to 4 weeks long awaiting time just might be cut down to about six working days.
Step four, we need to remember this is still only a pair of trial lenses we're getting, and there is no guarantee that the contacts will suit you perfectly or at all... but, hey, chin up, they just might!
So now I'm almost all set up. I've got the really nice shades (which I just couldn't fully strip of the manufacturer's brand. You know, they don't pay me to advertise for them. At least I removed the name from the lenses themselves), I'm waiting for the trial contacts, and I'm hoping - hoping! - everything will turn out great. This Summer, with any luck, I'll be done fumbling with two pairs of glasses and a gigantic bulge on my pocket. "Yes, it's a rocket, I'm not that happy to see you."
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes Good Luck upon all who must still labour for those courses that didn't make the grade along the last two semesters and those who will labour for the courses that didn't make enough of a grade to suit you. Carry on, fellows!
So as yo might recall, I am severely myopic. I also have quite a bit of astigmatism. As you may know, I rather dislike bright lights... with a passion. So Summer time is often uncomfortable for me. Granted, shades come in to save the day, to some degree, at least. The thing is, when you're so severely myopic as I am, shades don't come in so ample a supply as you may find at an optician's shop. If you'd like a pair of curved sunglasses that still fits your sight impairment, adequate lens must be cut and assembled at the manufacturer. This usually isn't a problem, until your myopia becomes in excess of about 3,5 diopters. You see, if your lens needs to be quite vergent, the edges must become rather thick. If you'd like your lens to be curved, the edge must become much thicker. My flat (as opposed to curved) uncut lenses vaguely resemble throwing weapons, so thick that they are (my miopia is in excess of 7 diopters, further aggravated by the astigmatism). A curved lens befitting me would be unreasonable to assemble. Of course, I have little trouble, if any, arranging for a pair of flat prescription sunglasses. In fact, that's not my point entirely. What really bothers me is that whenever I go out I must carry my regular glasses with me, or be plunged into darkness whenever I go indoors for some reason. And when I do go indoors I have to swap my glasses and again when I leave. Is it worth the trouble, not being blinded by sunlight and not finding myself running for shelter with bloodshot, aching eyes? Defenitely, but isn't there an easier way around the ordeal?
Certainly. Radial keratomy to the rescue!
OK, let's back down a little here, shall we? Forgive me if I'm just a smidgeon reluctant to start cutting up my corneas in order to reduce their curvature. Let's hear alternatives, if you please...
I hear contacts. I like what I hear. So I slap them on in the morning (morning is a relative term... shortly after I'm up, then) and whenever I go out I put on my (stylishly bent around my face) shades. If I happen to pop indoors for a cup of tea or whatnot, I can just hold them for a while. Sounds good? Must be.
And this is how the cookie crumbles.
So what are the steps to salvation? Step one, we need to get an appointment with an oftalmologist. Sure, no sweat. Not so fast, lads. Would you like a timely appointment or an eventual appointment? For the latter, go on, talk to the receptionist, schedule something to about St. Patrick's day. For the former, and this you won't find in the rulebook, approach the receptionist, proceed exactly as per an eventual appointment, and after she tells you "you're not seeing any doctor any time soon", whine a little and - OK, this really is the crucial step, here, listen up - slip her €5,00. Yeah, she's not working for free, here. She gets paid by the boss, she works for the boss. You need to pay her yourself if you want some service. Oh, and if you'd like to have her not squeeze any geezers in front of you just beacuse something or another, well, you're screwed. Let me know if you find a way. I just know what I know the hard way, i.e., skipping the step when I slip her the bill and being told what I should have doon all too late. But don't worry, she'll illuminate you on how to proceed correctly by schedulling several appointments for "tomorrow" as you wait for your appointment.
Bitch...
Step two, we need to find an optician to order a pair of trial contacts. Again, timely v.s. eventual come to play. I haven't found a surefire way around this problem, but stick with me. I might manage. First, find an optician. Any optician. Tell them what you want. They'll put you through yet another full battery of oftalmological exams. Don't worry, it won't hurt a bit. It's just like going to the oftalmologist. In fact, it's exactly like going to the oftalmologist. Yes, I know, we've already done that, we even showed the optician the prescription the good doctor went to college for 5 or 6 years to write. Why can't they trust him, I'll never know. Then thay'll blabber on something you've already know about semi-rigid contacts v.s. disposable contacts and tell you to return in three weeks. Um, news flash, sweethart, in trhee weeks time I expect to be sipping mai-tais under a palm tree in a tropical beach. Well, not really on a beach. And not mai-tais. And the whole idea of going to a tropical spot seems rather unlikely. But you get the point.
Onwards to...
Step three, we need to find an optician who can really come through for us. So flounder about for a bit until you find one. A standard battery of tests ensues, suck it up. Don't moan about how it's the thrid time you've had it in two days, don't flinch at the burning light they all but jam up your eyes to check your retina, just go through it. If you're lucky enough, they might do a full cornea topography. This might mean you're on the right track. It doesn't hurt, but it does make you see concentric white circles for a while after you've done it, rather like a bullseye. Resist the urge to utter "Headshot!". Just listen through the brief lecture and they just might annonouce that your otherwise 3 to 4 weeks long awaiting time just might be cut down to about six working days.
Step four, we need to remember this is still only a pair of trial lenses we're getting, and there is no guarantee that the contacts will suit you perfectly or at all... but, hey, chin up, they just might!
So now I'm almost all set up. I've got the really nice shades (which I just couldn't fully strip of the manufacturer's brand. You know, they don't pay me to advertise for them. At least I removed the name from the lenses themselves), I'm waiting for the trial contacts, and I'm hoping - hoping! - everything will turn out great. This Summer, with any luck, I'll be done fumbling with two pairs of glasses and a gigantic bulge on my pocket. "Yes, it's a rocket, I'm not that happy to see you."
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes Good Luck upon all who must still labour for those courses that didn't make the grade along the last two semesters and those who will labour for the courses that didn't make enough of a grade to suit you. Carry on, fellows!
Long ago...
Today I took a stroll down a route I hadn't taken since mid 2002, some five years ago. Those who know the place (Oh, so many of you...), come, take my tour.
Our trip goes under the scorching early afternoon sun, but the path of my memories runs through chilly bleak dark mornings.
Early morning, soles meet concrete flooring outside. It's chilly. It's a bleak morning. The sun isn't so high yet. Onwards...
Along the concrete we go, and out of the familiar hiding of the tall building blocks and out into the sloping street. A little climb to wake up. Good for your legs. A little work out. Up to the corner and across the street, and up some more to the parking lot in front of the old Hospital, now darkened and abandones, a shadowy repository of unwanted beds and stretchers, with those cold stony archways and religious statues high atop the roof. On clear winter mornings, about January or February, often the low sun would shine brightly on aluminium window frames just beyond the hill, a little spark in the glummy morning. Across the tarmac and down the small sloped street between the old diner and the tiny mall that never really lived up to its expectations, and out into the rather broad and busy street. The first real whif of activity. Time to pick up our pace.
Again, across the street and up to the corner. Time there was when just nearby the old, perhaps the oldest supermarket in town overlooked that intersection, but not anymore. The old landmark-ish supermarket has been remodeled so far it's no longer where it once was anymore, and a mere shadow of itself, fond memories along with it. Then around the corner and down to another intersection. Here the traffic lights, quite haywire in nature, make for a prickly spot for drivers, and it's been so since 2001, but pedestrians can usually go by just fine. I remember when the road lanes weren't quite so wide. I remember they becoming this wide. In the end, it doesn't really matter.
Just a few more steps along the bushy fence around the park and across the street to our destination, good old High School. The sight brings back memories. The two wings, which, on the fascist days, served boys and girls separately, show only two thirds of the whole building, for, you see, the terrain slopes towards the back, so the ground floor would look like a basement from the front, but easily accessible from the back. But we get ahead of ourselves.
Alves Martins was a most revered bishop from Viseu.
Notice the outer wall, the fence and the gate, how the wall curves inwards around the gate. Just right of the gates, by the fire hydrant, that's where the mates and I would meet before class, before we'd break up into cliques and such. There we'd just talk. We'd always have something to talk about, for we knew, should we run out of talk, we'd have to go inside for class. We didn't dread class, at least I didn't, but never were we in any hurry. So we talked. About classes, and GPAs, and "what did you get for number three of math homework", and the likes. And then, by first bell, we'd go inside.
You know, those chilly dark bleak morings... I miss them.
Pax vobiscum atque vale
ArabianShark cherishes dearly the memoirs of three years in High School. Would that those days would ever come back some time.
Our trip goes under the scorching early afternoon sun, but the path of my memories runs through chilly bleak dark mornings.
Early morning, soles meet concrete flooring outside. It's chilly. It's a bleak morning. The sun isn't so high yet. Onwards...
Along the concrete we go, and out of the familiar hiding of the tall building blocks and out into the sloping street. A little climb to wake up. Good for your legs. A little work out. Up to the corner and across the street, and up some more to the parking lot in front of the old Hospital, now darkened and abandones, a shadowy repository of unwanted beds and stretchers, with those cold stony archways and religious statues high atop the roof. On clear winter mornings, about January or February, often the low sun would shine brightly on aluminium window frames just beyond the hill, a little spark in the glummy morning. Across the tarmac and down the small sloped street between the old diner and the tiny mall that never really lived up to its expectations, and out into the rather broad and busy street. The first real whif of activity. Time to pick up our pace.
Again, across the street and up to the corner. Time there was when just nearby the old, perhaps the oldest supermarket in town overlooked that intersection, but not anymore. The old landmark-ish supermarket has been remodeled so far it's no longer where it once was anymore, and a mere shadow of itself, fond memories along with it. Then around the corner and down to another intersection. Here the traffic lights, quite haywire in nature, make for a prickly spot for drivers, and it's been so since 2001, but pedestrians can usually go by just fine. I remember when the road lanes weren't quite so wide. I remember they becoming this wide. In the end, it doesn't really matter.
Just a few more steps along the bushy fence around the park and across the street to our destination, good old High School. The sight brings back memories. The two wings, which, on the fascist days, served boys and girls separately, show only two thirds of the whole building, for, you see, the terrain slopes towards the back, so the ground floor would look like a basement from the front, but easily accessible from the back. But we get ahead of ourselves.
Alves Martins was a most revered bishop from Viseu.
Notice the outer wall, the fence and the gate, how the wall curves inwards around the gate. Just right of the gates, by the fire hydrant, that's where the mates and I would meet before class, before we'd break up into cliques and such. There we'd just talk. We'd always have something to talk about, for we knew, should we run out of talk, we'd have to go inside for class. We didn't dread class, at least I didn't, but never were we in any hurry. So we talked. About classes, and GPAs, and "what did you get for number three of math homework", and the likes. And then, by first bell, we'd go inside.
You know, those chilly dark bleak morings... I miss them.
Pax vobiscum atque vale
ArabianShark cherishes dearly the memoirs of three years in High School. Would that those days would ever come back some time.
It's been a while
So, yet another bullet point oriented long(ish) post, comming right up. Brace yourselves.
Stage one of exam season is now over (at it has been for a few days...). This year was the first and only to have a very silly system wherein we pick which exam to attend (only too) early in the semester, often only to find we've mqade rather poor choices. Next year, however, only one exam will be available, no re-taking and no early choosing. On the (other) upside, last chance season will follow both semesters, rahter than a last chance season held after the second semester serving both semesters. And for this year only, a special exam season will be held in September. I'm not so sure how useful that is going to be, but I'm glad nonetheless.
Summer's up, and we all know what that usually means, with warm sunny weather and all. This year I'll be trying to add something new: contacts! Yep, this year I've decided that I've had it with my severe myopia preventing me from ever wearing curvy, mirrored shades. This year I might even see clearly unnder water, in the unlikely event that I go swimming. That should prevent another embarassing event, such as the one which happened circa July 1998...
Cue special effects...
Dissolve to white, cut to flashback.
It was Summer in the late nineties. Some unduly assinged duty (like that, unduly assinged duty? Me, I love it) held me in the very bleak capital and away from the Summer activities I did enjoy back in the day, which, believe it or not, invloved beaches and outdoor pools. So, to lightnen up my frstration, I had (limited) access to a work only PC (remember when that phrase used to make some sense?), where I had just managed to run the luscious, although highly pixelated figure of Ms. Lara Croft (way before Angelina Jolie and the very shoddy Tomb Raider pictures corrupted her image and her memory) in 640 x 480 with no 3D acceleration and absolutely no sound but the humming of a 2GB hard drive and a very meek PC fan, fit for a Pentium 166... MMX! Where were we? Ah, yes, my comodities. They also included a very poor community pool, i.e., tiny, crowded and no comodities beyond water closets, which didn't get much use anyway. Crowded, however, is quite the keyword. So picture this: I'm just splashing around in a very clumsy dog stroke (ten years ago, fellows, I wasn't much of a swimmer... I'm still not, but I've come a long way since... which only says how poor a swimmer I was then), and there was a diving board there, so a good quarter of the pool was basically a no-swim area, because you could just as easily be struck with a diver, so both halves adjacent to it were pretty crowded... even more so. So I'm doing laps, and I'm trying hard to shimmy sideways so I don't catch a diver to the head, and other swimmers are going alongside me, others comming the other way and evenothers going across... daredevils that they were. So between the sea of flesh and chlorinated bubbles, I misjudged how close some of the other swimmers were. Next thing I know, my stroke just struck (wow, another play on words... I'm on fire... sarcastic fire) something... something soft. So I try to withraw my hand, but it's tangled on some very thin wires. And some sheet of elastic fabric is preventing my full freedom, so I pop my head out to see where in blazes have I just plunged my hand... and it's some quite buxom swimmer's suit.
So there, a somewhat entertaining little tale of how shortsightedness can influence our bland mundane little lives. Next week I'll do an exposé on the other side of the coin, where you'll learn how incapacitating myopia can be, despite the funny accidents it might lead to.
On the other hand, I don't think I really need to. Come to really think of it, it's a pretty silly idea. Scratch that. Let's all go to Spamalot instead.
So We've had a little handful of points... two and a half of them, to be axact... so it's a toddler's handful. Good enough, right? And I suppose this post's ran long enough. I'll wrap up as per my usual fashion with
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark reminesces about the very first Tomb Raider games, when dear Ms. Croft turned teens' and preteens' minds alike with her simple low poligon beauty, Power Ranger syndrome and yet, back in 1996, Shelley Blond's voice made up for most of her aesthetical shortcomings, which, given the panorama at that time, weren't really that many. In fact, the pretty voice complaining about the crates in the main hall was quite the boon for an otherwise near action/platform game which even today evokes dear memories.
Stage one of exam season is now over (at it has been for a few days...). This year was the first and only to have a very silly system wherein we pick which exam to attend (only too) early in the semester, often only to find we've mqade rather poor choices. Next year, however, only one exam will be available, no re-taking and no early choosing. On the (other) upside, last chance season will follow both semesters, rahter than a last chance season held after the second semester serving both semesters. And for this year only, a special exam season will be held in September. I'm not so sure how useful that is going to be, but I'm glad nonetheless.
Summer's up, and we all know what that usually means, with warm sunny weather and all. This year I'll be trying to add something new: contacts! Yep, this year I've decided that I've had it with my severe myopia preventing me from ever wearing curvy, mirrored shades. This year I might even see clearly unnder water, in the unlikely event that I go swimming. That should prevent another embarassing event, such as the one which happened circa July 1998...
Cue special effects...
Dissolve to white, cut to flashback.
It was Summer in the late nineties. Some unduly assinged duty (like that, unduly assinged duty? Me, I love it) held me in the very bleak capital and away from the Summer activities I did enjoy back in the day, which, believe it or not, invloved beaches and outdoor pools. So, to lightnen up my frstration, I had (limited) access to a work only PC (remember when that phrase used to make some sense?), where I had just managed to run the luscious, although highly pixelated figure of Ms. Lara Croft (way before Angelina Jolie and the very shoddy Tomb Raider pictures corrupted her image and her memory) in 640 x 480 with no 3D acceleration and absolutely no sound but the humming of a 2GB hard drive and a very meek PC fan, fit for a Pentium 166... MMX! Where were we? Ah, yes, my comodities. They also included a very poor community pool, i.e., tiny, crowded and no comodities beyond water closets, which didn't get much use anyway. Crowded, however, is quite the keyword. So picture this: I'm just splashing around in a very clumsy dog stroke (ten years ago, fellows, I wasn't much of a swimmer... I'm still not, but I've come a long way since... which only says how poor a swimmer I was then), and there was a diving board there, so a good quarter of the pool was basically a no-swim area, because you could just as easily be struck with a diver, so both halves adjacent to it were pretty crowded... even more so. So I'm doing laps, and I'm trying hard to shimmy sideways so I don't catch a diver to the head, and other swimmers are going alongside me, others comming the other way and evenothers going across... daredevils that they were. So between the sea of flesh and chlorinated bubbles, I misjudged how close some of the other swimmers were. Next thing I know, my stroke just struck (wow, another play on words... I'm on fire... sarcastic fire) something... something soft. So I try to withraw my hand, but it's tangled on some very thin wires. And some sheet of elastic fabric is preventing my full freedom, so I pop my head out to see where in blazes have I just plunged my hand... and it's some quite buxom swimmer's suit.
So there, a somewhat entertaining little tale of how shortsightedness can influence our bland mundane little lives. Next week I'll do an exposé on the other side of the coin, where you'll learn how incapacitating myopia can be, despite the funny accidents it might lead to.
On the other hand, I don't think I really need to. Come to really think of it, it's a pretty silly idea. Scratch that. Let's all go to Spamalot instead.
So We've had a little handful of points... two and a half of them, to be axact... so it's a toddler's handful. Good enough, right? And I suppose this post's ran long enough. I'll wrap up as per my usual fashion with
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark reminesces about the very first Tomb Raider games, when dear Ms. Croft turned teens' and preteens' minds alike with her simple low poligon beauty, Power Ranger syndrome and yet, back in 1996, Shelley Blond's voice made up for most of her aesthetical shortcomings, which, given the panorama at that time, weren't really that many. In fact, the pretty voice complaining about the crates in the main hall was quite the boon for an otherwise near action/platform game which even today evokes dear memories.
What else is new?
It's not like I pay much heed to these quick and dirty personality tests you can get out of some 5 - 10 questions, especially not since I thought of combining the results of several tests, which, some years ago, had me arrive at the conclusion that I would be, simultaneously, Dracula's cousin, Bataman, Gambit(from X-Men. As if! Frog...), Hephesto (yes, the Greek god), a velociraptor and a wooden cube. But this, for a change, actually makes some sense:
So there. So long, chaps, I'm off to live my dream, which, appearently, seems to suit reality a lot. Just give me a couple more years.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would also remind you that some other test from Blogthings revealed that my "power animal" is the shark. Who would have thought? What, no irony tag either?
| You Belong in the UK |
 Blimey! A little proper, a little saucy. You're so witty and charming... No one notices your curry breath |
So there. So long, chaps, I'm off to live my dream, which, appearently, seems to suit reality a lot. Just give me a couple more years.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would also remind you that some other test from Blogthings revealed that my "power animal" is the shark. Who would have thought? What, no irony tag either?
It's one of those times of the year again
Yep, Exam Season. This means it is now legal to shoot Exams in the wild. Or does that defenition of season only applies to game season (e.g., rabbit season, duck season, Elmer Fudd season, etc.)? I wonder if we could possibly make an Examiner Season, break out our "elephant guns" and be vewy vewy quiet, we're hunting Examiners. Not all examiners, of course (we need to leave some alive so there'll be more to hunt in January), but I can name a few I'd like to tie to the hood of a pickup I don't plan to own. Can I borrow a pickup truck, anyone?
In other news, I was watching some talk show (don't aske which, I wasn't watching that hard) and someone refered to what American Soldiers are doing in Iraq as "Defending their Country". Against what, I'd like to ask? I'm not saying there isn't actual combat to be had there or that American soldiers don't get injured or killed out there, but what are they defending against? "Loose Change" (look it up, don't expect links to every last word, this isn't Wikipedia) made it quite clear that the matter of 9/11 is quite unclear at best. "Farenheit 911" raised some good questions I'm yet to see answered as well. What I am fairly certain of is that even if the American Armed Forces would fully retreat from the middle east no bombers or the like would cross half a world to deliver their payload onto the Land of the Free and even if they don't retreat, I fail to see how it would prevent events the likes of what is reported of 9/11. So how exactly is it that American soldiers being woulded and killed in Iraq is Defending their Country?
You might wonder why this troubles me. First, let's clarify something: the phrase "Defending my Country" wasn't spoken by some top brass military chief or otherwise some politician who'd quite comfortably sip his liquor and puff oh his fine cigar while the pawns fell half a world away; it had been spoken by a soldier even before she had become a soldier, which means this mediatically powerful position that American soldier serving in Iraq are defending their country is mantained by hte people, who have, the way I see it, little to gain in perpetuating this idea, yet quite a lot to lose. This is symptomatic of a highly powerful propaganda machine, steered by those who do stand to gain from conflict. Who those would be, I'm yet to be sure, but, rest assured, whenever people are dying for no appearent reason, some douchebag is pretty sure he/she's turning a profit.
Besides, when has there been a clear (don't answer this until you've seen at least "Loose Change") attack on American soil? I can't recall a single armed conflict opposing the United States to another country that actually took place in the United States. The closest I can think of is Vietnam, and last I checked (on GoogleEarth, too) it was still pretty far away from America. What concerns me is that if there is such a powerful Propaganda Engine in America, there might be no stopping the driver of this infernal device from turning the American people's efforts against some other nation. While I'm not really afraid that Mr. Bush and his ilk might turn their attention to my little slice of heaven (Oh, right, there is no sarcasm tag in HTML...), there are other nations I care about (you'd never guess, from some of my previous posts, but, really, they're there. Look hard enough).
Then you might think, "But, Sharky, ol' bean, doesn't it bother you that some other country might do the same? Some other country with even more man power? Say, China?" My answer to that is, "Not really". First and foremost, if China was to strike here, where would the Chinese immigrants go? On a serious note, here, have a link, courtesy of an American Army Brat, ergo, presumably someone who has at least a smidgeon of a clue of the matter at hand. And by that I mean "Listen up and listen up good, the lady knows what she's saying".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to make perfectly clear that despite the quip about Chinese immigrants, he holds no prejudice or otherwise ill will against them. Loveable chaps, every last one of those I've had the pleasure of meeting.
In other news, I was watching some talk show (don't aske which, I wasn't watching that hard) and someone refered to what American Soldiers are doing in Iraq as "Defending their Country". Against what, I'd like to ask? I'm not saying there isn't actual combat to be had there or that American soldiers don't get injured or killed out there, but what are they defending against? "Loose Change" (look it up, don't expect links to every last word, this isn't Wikipedia) made it quite clear that the matter of 9/11 is quite unclear at best. "Farenheit 911" raised some good questions I'm yet to see answered as well. What I am fairly certain of is that even if the American Armed Forces would fully retreat from the middle east no bombers or the like would cross half a world to deliver their payload onto the Land of the Free and even if they don't retreat, I fail to see how it would prevent events the likes of what is reported of 9/11. So how exactly is it that American soldiers being woulded and killed in Iraq is Defending their Country?
You might wonder why this troubles me. First, let's clarify something: the phrase "Defending my Country" wasn't spoken by some top brass military chief or otherwise some politician who'd quite comfortably sip his liquor and puff oh his fine cigar while the pawns fell half a world away; it had been spoken by a soldier even before she had become a soldier, which means this mediatically powerful position that American soldier serving in Iraq are defending their country is mantained by hte people, who have, the way I see it, little to gain in perpetuating this idea, yet quite a lot to lose. This is symptomatic of a highly powerful propaganda machine, steered by those who do stand to gain from conflict. Who those would be, I'm yet to be sure, but, rest assured, whenever people are dying for no appearent reason, some douchebag is pretty sure he/she's turning a profit.
Besides, when has there been a clear (don't answer this until you've seen at least "Loose Change") attack on American soil? I can't recall a single armed conflict opposing the United States to another country that actually took place in the United States. The closest I can think of is Vietnam, and last I checked (on GoogleEarth, too) it was still pretty far away from America. What concerns me is that if there is such a powerful Propaganda Engine in America, there might be no stopping the driver of this infernal device from turning the American people's efforts against some other nation. While I'm not really afraid that Mr. Bush and his ilk might turn their attention to my little slice of heaven (Oh, right, there is no sarcasm tag in HTML...), there are other nations I care about (you'd never guess, from some of my previous posts, but, really, they're there. Look hard enough).
Then you might think, "But, Sharky, ol' bean, doesn't it bother you that some other country might do the same? Some other country with even more man power? Say, China?" My answer to that is, "Not really". First and foremost, if China was to strike here, where would the Chinese immigrants go? On a serious note, here, have a link, courtesy of an American Army Brat, ergo, presumably someone who has at least a smidgeon of a clue of the matter at hand. And by that I mean "Listen up and listen up good, the lady knows what she's saying".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to make perfectly clear that despite the quip about Chinese immigrants, he holds no prejudice or otherwise ill will against them. Loveable chaps, every last one of those I've had the pleasure of meeting.
Spamincidences
"Spamincidence" is, to the best of my knowledge, not a word, but when you combine "spam" (notice the small s, just so you know I'm not talking about pork products) with "coincidence", "spamincidence" pops to mind. Right?
Now I, just like most people I know on "The Internets", recieve some amount of spam in my e-mail, along with the odd - and quite clumsy, may I add - attempt of phishing. Some of this spam comes from the future, oddly enough. Indeed, I do recieve e-mails from people whom I've never heard of with Arabic sounding names (that's what you get for having an alias such as ArabianShark) with the subject composed of some Egyptian city and a date, usually a week after the date of delivery. Most of the spam i get, however, is of pharmaceutical nature.
Every single day I get some five or so e-mails advertising cheap online stores for Viagra, Scialis and other products I've never heard of, which I can only assume serve similar purposes. It's mildly amusing how the advertisers attempt to get past the spam filter (which is the default filter, I haven't deigned to mess with it) with invariant degrees of failure, spelling Viagra like "\/|agra" and Scilais like "$cia|is" and such. Makes me wonder what happened to good old "1337" spelling, like Vi46r4 or 5ci41i5. I don't think it would have fooled the spam filter, but at least it would have been a smidgeon more amusing.
Just as frequent are e-mails advertising all herbal or not so herbal remedies to lengthen the male genitalia. Since these don't have fancy well known names, the subject line on these is often quite straight forward, and just as uselessly alternatively spelled. Some of these treatments even allegedly combine both effects, increasing penile size and compensating for erectile disfunction. These don't mention recognised names or use words the filters are set to look for (such as "dick". This might mean that if you ever decide to send me an offensive e-mail with "You're a dick!" on the subject line, the spam filter will get it first... unless you don't spell dick like "D|CK"), so they might have propper spelling on catch phrases which they use for subject, such as "Want to be a hero in bed?". Well, aren't they spoiling business for other advertisers? What if someone wants to sell me Superman pajamas? Their efforst will be foiled by overzealous spam filters. That's just not right!
So is this the impression advertisers have of me? Just some bloke with a small limp dick? Look, people, I'm perfectly happy with the hand I've been dealt. It might not be a Royal Flush, but it beats a pair of Jacks (I mean Queens... er... Kings... er... oh, there's just no talking out of that one, is there? Well, it is a Straight, at any rate, rest assured) any day.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would, however, like to recieve an apology from the aforementioned advertisers followed by an immediate cessation of their futile efforts, but that might just as well be caught by the spam filter.
The things we do to procrastinate...
Now I, just like most people I know on "The Internets", recieve some amount of spam in my e-mail, along with the odd - and quite clumsy, may I add - attempt of phishing. Some of this spam comes from the future, oddly enough. Indeed, I do recieve e-mails from people whom I've never heard of with Arabic sounding names (that's what you get for having an alias such as ArabianShark) with the subject composed of some Egyptian city and a date, usually a week after the date of delivery. Most of the spam i get, however, is of pharmaceutical nature.
Every single day I get some five or so e-mails advertising cheap online stores for Viagra, Scialis and other products I've never heard of, which I can only assume serve similar purposes. It's mildly amusing how the advertisers attempt to get past the spam filter (which is the default filter, I haven't deigned to mess with it) with invariant degrees of failure, spelling Viagra like "\/|agra" and Scilais like "$cia|is" and such. Makes me wonder what happened to good old "1337" spelling, like Vi46r4 or 5ci41i5. I don't think it would have fooled the spam filter, but at least it would have been a smidgeon more amusing.
Just as frequent are e-mails advertising all herbal or not so herbal remedies to lengthen the male genitalia. Since these don't have fancy well known names, the subject line on these is often quite straight forward, and just as uselessly alternatively spelled. Some of these treatments even allegedly combine both effects, increasing penile size and compensating for erectile disfunction. These don't mention recognised names or use words the filters are set to look for (such as "dick". This might mean that if you ever decide to send me an offensive e-mail with "You're a dick!" on the subject line, the spam filter will get it first... unless you don't spell dick like "D|CK"), so they might have propper spelling on catch phrases which they use for subject, such as "Want to be a hero in bed?". Well, aren't they spoiling business for other advertisers? What if someone wants to sell me Superman pajamas? Their efforst will be foiled by overzealous spam filters. That's just not right!
So is this the impression advertisers have of me? Just some bloke with a small limp dick? Look, people, I'm perfectly happy with the hand I've been dealt. It might not be a Royal Flush, but it beats a pair of Jacks (I mean Queens... er... Kings... er... oh, there's just no talking out of that one, is there? Well, it is a Straight, at any rate, rest assured) any day.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would, however, like to recieve an apology from the aforementioned advertisers followed by an immediate cessation of their futile efforts, but that might just as well be caught by the spam filter.
The things we do to procrastinate...
Addendum
Naturally, that delightful idea of the Kandy Kanes represents a party, which, like any other party, does not stand unopposed. Therefore, it's only fair that Kandy Kanes have a counterpart, preferably a potential equal.
Then again, it's only candy! The only aspect a GDI oriented product would have to match is the aesthetical aspect.
Consider this, then. From my experience, the vast majority of the target market share happens to be of the male persuasion. And lo, the geek aspect probably discarded by making a GDI product may so very easily be offset (again) by the aesthetical side of
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces ! *
An easy recipe for (yet another) success. From the Kandy Kane template, replace the red stripes with gold stripes (not only because it's more attuned to the Original C&C colour scheme but also because blue stripes would conflict with the Blue Tiberium version), the Scorpion Tail icon by the Swooping Eagle icon and the likeness of Joe Kucan by the likeness of Jennifer Morrison. (Captain Kirce James, in Command & Conquer 3, if you're wondering... which you shouldn't be!)
You know you want it.
Naturally, the Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces would be an even greater aesthetical success. Gold and Blue are a perfect match. Deluxe candy with that sort of colour scheme is guaranteed to sell.
Subliminal message #2.
The greatest issue here is finding some small piece of GDI memorabilia to match the very cool NOD rings. So... Perhaps...
I'd still get some.
You know what, I'm fresh out of ideas here. Unless you can figure out a way of squeezing a Mammoth Tank into a small package of Kandy Kirces, I'm going to leave it up to the Marketing types to figure this one out.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how these delicious candy products would actually fare in the real market. Would Westwood still be with us, I'd give a shot. Subliminal messaging works, right?.
Then again, it's only candy! The only aspect a GDI oriented product would have to match is the aesthetical aspect.
Consider this, then. From my experience, the vast majority of the target market share happens to be of the male persuasion. And lo, the geek aspect probably discarded by making a GDI product may so very easily be offset (again) by the aesthetical side of
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces ! *
An easy recipe for (yet another) success. From the Kandy Kane template, replace the red stripes with gold stripes (not only because it's more attuned to the Original C&C colour scheme but also because blue stripes would conflict with the Blue Tiberium version), the Scorpion Tail icon by the Swooping Eagle icon and the likeness of Joe Kucan by the likeness of Jennifer Morrison. (Captain Kirce James, in Command & Conquer 3, if you're wondering... which you shouldn't be!)
You know you want it.
Naturally, the Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kirces would be an even greater aesthetical success. Gold and Blue are a perfect match. Deluxe candy with that sort of colour scheme is guaranteed to sell.
Subliminal message #2.
The greatest issue here is finding some small piece of GDI memorabilia to match the very cool NOD rings. So... Perhaps...
I'd still get some.
You know what, I'm fresh out of ideas here. Unless you can figure out a way of squeezing a Mammoth Tank into a small package of Kandy Kirces, I'm going to leave it up to the Marketing types to figure this one out.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how these delicious candy products would actually fare in the real market. Would Westwood still be with us, I'd give a shot. Subliminal messaging works, right?.
The New Season Candy of choice
Marketing didn't figure this out yet. Here's my pitch.
Sure, it's not a broad spectrum product, you don't expect nice old ladies to dish these out on Halloween, and you don't expect little kids to appreciate them either (nor should you want them to...). It's meant for the geek masses.
Without further ado...
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! *
Think about it. Straight sugary rods, green with bright red stripes spiraling down the length of the shaft with Joe Kucan's likeness sculpted at the top and the age-old scorpion tail NOD icon embossed at regular intervals. And since nobody has tasted actual Tiberium (and lived to tell... for long), they can just make up any palatable flavour and say that's what the Green crystal tastes like.
But wait! There's more! For those who want only the very best, Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! Just make them blue instead of green, add some mint flavour and nasal decongestant to the mix and jack up the price about 25%. Deluxe edition candy!
Add some gimmick like one free replica of the NOD ring Joe Kucan did not steal put in every fifth pack of the regular Kandy Kanes or every fourth pack of the Deluxe Kandy Kanes and you've got a sugary hit.
And that's not all. Have a sugar free version of each type handy for the geeks who reject the stereotype of the ever snacking couch potato types and you've just broadened your market share. Bimbos who might want to look smart will resort to these as well. Geeks who actually might want to lose weight will swiftly substitute their snack of choice with these in a heartbeat. Supermodels will want to look FAB, licking these high-tech candy sticks in every fashion mag... OK, perhaps the supermodels won't be so attracted to these... but who needs them, anyway? Geeks are Legion! Legion, I tell you! Legion!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how come the folks in engineering figured this out before the marketing types. Or is it that we don't really need cool candy? I'd still buy it.
Sure, it's not a broad spectrum product, you don't expect nice old ladies to dish these out on Halloween, and you don't expect little kids to appreciate them either (nor should you want them to...). It's meant for the geek masses.
Without further ado...
* Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! *
Think about it. Straight sugary rods, green with bright red stripes spiraling down the length of the shaft with Joe Kucan's likeness sculpted at the top and the age-old scorpion tail NOD icon embossed at regular intervals. And since nobody has tasted actual Tiberium (and lived to tell... for long), they can just make up any palatable flavour and say that's what the Green crystal tastes like.
But wait! There's more! For those who want only the very best, Blue Tiberium Flavoured Kandy Kanes! Just make them blue instead of green, add some mint flavour and nasal decongestant to the mix and jack up the price about 25%. Deluxe edition candy!
Add some gimmick like one free replica of the NOD ring Joe Kucan did not steal put in every fifth pack of the regular Kandy Kanes or every fourth pack of the Deluxe Kandy Kanes and you've got a sugary hit.
And that's not all. Have a sugar free version of each type handy for the geeks who reject the stereotype of the ever snacking couch potato types and you've just broadened your market share. Bimbos who might want to look smart will resort to these as well. Geeks who actually might want to lose weight will swiftly substitute their snack of choice with these in a heartbeat. Supermodels will want to look FAB, licking these high-tech candy sticks in every fashion mag... OK, perhaps the supermodels won't be so attracted to these... but who needs them, anyway? Geeks are Legion! Legion, I tell you! Legion!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how come the folks in engineering figured this out before the marketing types. Or is it that we don't really need cool candy? I'd still buy it.
Catch up
It feels like a long time since our lsat update. Quite a bit of catching up to do. Where, oh where to begin...
Movies: My most recent theater trips include Sunshine, Spider-Man 3 and Mr. Bean's Holiday. Neither is particularly brilliant. In fact, Sunshine and Spider-Man 3 are downright pretty bad. Spider-Man 3, like its prequels, displays poor portraits of age-old and suitably well known characters, besides Tobey Maguire's voice being all wrong for Spidey and who writes this day and age's Spidey wit? The character of Venom, included for all the right reasons, is, again, poorly portrayed, both script wise and graphical wise. Same applies to Eddie Brock. Mr. Bean's Holiday wasn't all bad, but after the previous Bean movie and ages of the TV Show, the concept (unlike Mr. Atkinson's talent) begins to wear thin. It's still a good movie for hardcore fans of Bean, though. Sunshine... Well, just scratch that off your list.
Marketing: The definition of Marketing has changed. It no longer is "The Art of Telling Consumers Why They Need What They Can't Afford" or "The Art of Explaining Why You Need Everything in Triplicate but in Different Colours". It is now "The Art of Discovering Consumers' Needs Which They Themselves Didn't Know Of". Don't ask why, it just is. I'm serious.
Savings: I wonder if I can save up € 1600.00 by the end of July. € 500.00 down, € 1100.00 to go. I might luck out, if I add my birthday into the math.
Tech Support: This Acer "check on your repair status" isn't so great after all. All it says is whether they have recieved the package (which they'll text when they do), whether they're waiting for it (which I'd assume they are until they text me upon arrival) or whether they've sent it back (whaich, again, they'll text). Hey, how about saying how long you estimate reapirs will take? Is that too much to ask?
Overheard: I'm fairly sure I've mentioned Overheard in New York here before. Well, now there's a couple of new sites to join that particular family, Overheard at the Beach, Overheard Everywhere and Celebrity Wit. Some of these feature overhearings in Canadia. Not a typo, Canadia. This has, indeed, generated some uproar within the readers, who have submited their opinions (which range from irate "Fix that, you fools" to coy "Umm, I think you made a mistake" to amused and confused "Why?") in e-mail form, which have been compiled for entertainment, along with a very adept speller, who quite irately warned them that the correct spelling of the country in question was "Canada" (notice, no 'i'). The same reader proceded to clarify the misspelling of "Australia", versus the correct spelling, "Australa". Now I'm no whiz with a map, but I can't find "Australa" anywhere. I suppose that's where "Vegemte" (however you pronounce that) comes from. Still, do check out the sister sites (and, why not, the original site, it gets updated all the time). They're a larf or two.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark spins the globe away, combing both hemispheres for this promised land of "Australa". Hey, it sounds like a fair vacaton spot. Not a typo, just a lame pun.
Movies: My most recent theater trips include Sunshine, Spider-Man 3 and Mr. Bean's Holiday. Neither is particularly brilliant. In fact, Sunshine and Spider-Man 3 are downright pretty bad. Spider-Man 3, like its prequels, displays poor portraits of age-old and suitably well known characters, besides Tobey Maguire's voice being all wrong for Spidey and who writes this day and age's Spidey wit? The character of Venom, included for all the right reasons, is, again, poorly portrayed, both script wise and graphical wise. Same applies to Eddie Brock. Mr. Bean's Holiday wasn't all bad, but after the previous Bean movie and ages of the TV Show, the concept (unlike Mr. Atkinson's talent) begins to wear thin. It's still a good movie for hardcore fans of Bean, though. Sunshine... Well, just scratch that off your list.
Marketing: The definition of Marketing has changed. It no longer is "The Art of Telling Consumers Why They Need What They Can't Afford" or "The Art of Explaining Why You Need Everything in Triplicate but in Different Colours". It is now "The Art of Discovering Consumers' Needs Which They Themselves Didn't Know Of". Don't ask why, it just is. I'm serious.
Savings: I wonder if I can save up € 1600.00 by the end of July. € 500.00 down, € 1100.00 to go. I might luck out, if I add my birthday into the math.
Tech Support: This Acer "check on your repair status" isn't so great after all. All it says is whether they have recieved the package (which they'll text when they do), whether they're waiting for it (which I'd assume they are until they text me upon arrival) or whether they've sent it back (whaich, again, they'll text). Hey, how about saying how long you estimate reapirs will take? Is that too much to ask?
Overheard: I'm fairly sure I've mentioned Overheard in New York here before. Well, now there's a couple of new sites to join that particular family, Overheard at the Beach, Overheard Everywhere and Celebrity Wit. Some of these feature overhearings in Canadia. Not a typo, Canadia. This has, indeed, generated some uproar within the readers, who have submited their opinions (which range from irate "Fix that, you fools" to coy "Umm, I think you made a mistake" to amused and confused "Why?") in e-mail form, which have been compiled for entertainment, along with a very adept speller, who quite irately warned them that the correct spelling of the country in question was "Canada" (notice, no 'i'). The same reader proceded to clarify the misspelling of "Australia", versus the correct spelling, "Australa". Now I'm no whiz with a map, but I can't find "Australa" anywhere. I suppose that's where "Vegemte" (however you pronounce that) comes from. Still, do check out the sister sites (and, why not, the original site, it gets updated all the time). They're a larf or two.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark spins the globe away, combing both hemispheres for this promised land of "Australa". Hey, it sounds like a fair vacaton spot. Not a typo, just a lame pun.
Tales from Tech Support
I should really start this post by re-stating that I am not a xenophobe. Granted, my pet peeve doesn't do much in the way of confirming it, nor will this entry, but I am not a xenophobe. Onwards.
A few weeks ago my laptop took a small bump whick caused the power jack to burrow dep into the laptop body. So deep in fact that the charger jack no longer makes contact, making battery charging and battery-less operation impossible. It is my understanding that the jack is directly welded into the motherboard, so replacing it should probably be left to the professionals. As it happend, however, said professionals happen to be extremely rare, and I don't mean undercooked. My only way out was to resort to the brand tech support.
Where matters of warranty and sending back products are concerned, I'm always a bit weary. This is swampy grounds for me. Usually this just means my stuff will be "at the shop" for months only to return partially repaired or deemed unsuitable for warranty repair. Still, never would I imagine this.
My first call to tech support was awkward enough. Even though it was a business day and not 17:00 yet, I got no more response than a recording commanding (not politely asking, brutally commanding) that I called Monday to Friday, from 9:00 to 17:00, with a very thick accent (Italian, I guess), and hung up. How wierd is it when a machine hangs up on you? Still I tried again the next day. Making myself clear before the operator (whose accent wasn't quite as thick as the on on the record) took most of the call. After some wasted half hour struggling to make myself understood, she tells me the system is down and she cannot process my request.
So let me get this straight, fellows. You make computers, but your computer isn't working? Oh, yeah, that's guaranteed to impress even the most skeptic consumer.
I called later that day with the same results. I called the other day, and the operator had the nerve to hang up on me. I called again, and finally my request was granted. I was assigned an RMA and told to ship my computer over to their tech support labs... in Spain. At least DHL would do it free of charge for me. Still, packing and padding were my responsability, which I'm thinking it shouldn't be. Nonetheless.
At least the good people at DHL gave me no grief of any sort. The operator, bless her heart, was more than helpful with packaging guidelines, arrangements for pickup, etc. She was even polite. How often does that come around these days?
So sure enough they pick up my laptop at the arranged date, and a few days ago I got a text (in Spanish) telling me my laptop was ready and being shipped back (or at least that's what I figured). Indeed, just yesterday the good people at DHL delivered it straight to my door. However, the contents of their delivery couldn't be more ghastly.
The repair report was written in some melange of languages I could barely make out. My name was mispelled and not even capitalised. Even the problem wasn't propperly stated. It was "battery can't charge." While this is true, it's but a result of the problem, not the cause. And sure enough, the geniuses at the repair labs shipped it back with a new battery (which I have no intention of giving back. For my greivancve). They didn't even bother turning the damned thing on, even though they claim to have updated my BIOS from v.0.3.1.22 to v0.3.1.22, a major change.
So come Monday I'll be going through the motions to send it back again. Only this time I'm sticking some post-it notes around the little power hole, with pointing arrows stating "look here" and "reapir this".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders why the hell there isn't a better solution. What happened to those Knights of the Soldering Iron who'd clearly state that your warranty will be void, but the job will get done? Because these wops aren't pulling through, you know...
A few weeks ago my laptop took a small bump whick caused the power jack to burrow dep into the laptop body. So deep in fact that the charger jack no longer makes contact, making battery charging and battery-less operation impossible. It is my understanding that the jack is directly welded into the motherboard, so replacing it should probably be left to the professionals. As it happend, however, said professionals happen to be extremely rare, and I don't mean undercooked. My only way out was to resort to the brand tech support.
Where matters of warranty and sending back products are concerned, I'm always a bit weary. This is swampy grounds for me. Usually this just means my stuff will be "at the shop" for months only to return partially repaired or deemed unsuitable for warranty repair. Still, never would I imagine this.
My first call to tech support was awkward enough. Even though it was a business day and not 17:00 yet, I got no more response than a recording commanding (not politely asking, brutally commanding) that I called Monday to Friday, from 9:00 to 17:00, with a very thick accent (Italian, I guess), and hung up. How wierd is it when a machine hangs up on you? Still I tried again the next day. Making myself clear before the operator (whose accent wasn't quite as thick as the on on the record) took most of the call. After some wasted half hour struggling to make myself understood, she tells me the system is down and she cannot process my request.
So let me get this straight, fellows. You make computers, but your computer isn't working? Oh, yeah, that's guaranteed to impress even the most skeptic consumer.
I called later that day with the same results. I called the other day, and the operator had the nerve to hang up on me. I called again, and finally my request was granted. I was assigned an RMA and told to ship my computer over to their tech support labs... in Spain. At least DHL would do it free of charge for me. Still, packing and padding were my responsability, which I'm thinking it shouldn't be. Nonetheless.
At least the good people at DHL gave me no grief of any sort. The operator, bless her heart, was more than helpful with packaging guidelines, arrangements for pickup, etc. She was even polite. How often does that come around these days?
So sure enough they pick up my laptop at the arranged date, and a few days ago I got a text (in Spanish) telling me my laptop was ready and being shipped back (or at least that's what I figured). Indeed, just yesterday the good people at DHL delivered it straight to my door. However, the contents of their delivery couldn't be more ghastly.
The repair report was written in some melange of languages I could barely make out. My name was mispelled and not even capitalised. Even the problem wasn't propperly stated. It was "battery can't charge." While this is true, it's but a result of the problem, not the cause. And sure enough, the geniuses at the repair labs shipped it back with a new battery (which I have no intention of giving back. For my greivancve). They didn't even bother turning the damned thing on, even though they claim to have updated my BIOS from v.0.3.1.22 to v0.3.1.22, a major change.
So come Monday I'll be going through the motions to send it back again. Only this time I'm sticking some post-it notes around the little power hole, with pointing arrows stating "look here" and "reapir this".
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders why the hell there isn't a better solution. What happened to those Knights of the Soldering Iron who'd clearly state that your warranty will be void, but the job will get done? Because these wops aren't pulling through, you know...
Now paging Dr. Phill
Actually, I think the good doctor might be acquainted with the case at hand. He did host it on his show, so hold the page. Onwards.
So this couple comes up on Dr. Phill, during a segment called Conception Deception (and no, I won't make a segment out of that here. I should think I have enough segments as is). The wife complains that the husband has tricked her into pregnancy. Four times.
The first time she got pregnant as a result of a misconducted coitus interruptus, which her husband had no idea of conducting properly in the first place. Well, can't really say that I sympathise with her on this point, she ought to know better. I mean, I must have been 9 when I was told not to rely on "the pull out method". I hardly knew enough not to ask "pull what out of what". That they didn't use adequate contraceptives at that peculiar time is as much her fault as it is his, IMO. Sure, he might have complained about condoms (so many men do... too many men do. Get real fellows), and, as it turns out, he would have complained about birth control pills or a diaphram and foam, but at least then she'd know what to expect.
As it turns out, this fellow is so insecure about his relationship that he needs the children to trap his wife in their marriage. I'm wagering she wouldn't have married him (or at least she might not have had his child) in the first place if she knew, and thus I sympathise with her. But wait, it gets worse.
At least one of her pregnancies (if I recall, they had some four children, although I'm not sure that's with or without the one on the way) was a result of him having unprotectes sex with her while she was asleep. I mean, how is that possible? Without the help of Rohypnol, gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, ketamine or any other such treats of the pharmaceutical industry, that is. Actually, now I wonder if he did use any such "daddy little helpers", in which case the word would plainly and blatanty be "rape". In fact, I see no reason why the word shouldn't plainly and blatantly be "rape" even if he didn't drug her up, other than she stated she didn't feel raped. I suppose that would have been because, either way, she didn't feel it at all.
Shocked yet? Here's the kicker: The couple is introduced by Dr. Phill McGraw and his story is summarised in a brief clip, after which the host asks the couple the ever-the-first question along the lines "How does this make you feel", to which this creep of a husband replies "It came out rather harsh". He actually tried to make himself look like the victim. Sure, tell me that I'm taking sides too soon and that I haven't heard his side of the story (actually, I have, and, for the most part, it was awkward silence, whining and distasteful puns to try to steer the conversation off course), but I dare you to come up with a likely scenario that actually makes a man who will impregnate his wife in her sleep against her will look like a good husband. I'm not questioning his motives; he stated that he loves his wife, and seeing as he'd go that far just to make sure she'd stay with him and not just take off, I just might believe him, but still...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is slightly disturbed that, keeping with the theme of today's entry, he managed to guess Oprah Winfrey's bra size seconds before she'd state it on her own talk show. Does anyone else think it's wierd?
So this couple comes up on Dr. Phill, during a segment called Conception Deception (and no, I won't make a segment out of that here. I should think I have enough segments as is). The wife complains that the husband has tricked her into pregnancy. Four times.
The first time she got pregnant as a result of a misconducted coitus interruptus, which her husband had no idea of conducting properly in the first place. Well, can't really say that I sympathise with her on this point, she ought to know better. I mean, I must have been 9 when I was told not to rely on "the pull out method". I hardly knew enough not to ask "pull what out of what". That they didn't use adequate contraceptives at that peculiar time is as much her fault as it is his, IMO. Sure, he might have complained about condoms (so many men do... too many men do. Get real fellows), and, as it turns out, he would have complained about birth control pills or a diaphram and foam, but at least then she'd know what to expect.
As it turns out, this fellow is so insecure about his relationship that he needs the children to trap his wife in their marriage. I'm wagering she wouldn't have married him (or at least she might not have had his child) in the first place if she knew, and thus I sympathise with her. But wait, it gets worse.
At least one of her pregnancies (if I recall, they had some four children, although I'm not sure that's with or without the one on the way) was a result of him having unprotectes sex with her while she was asleep. I mean, how is that possible? Without the help of Rohypnol, gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, ketamine or any other such treats of the pharmaceutical industry, that is. Actually, now I wonder if he did use any such "daddy little helpers", in which case the word would plainly and blatanty be "rape". In fact, I see no reason why the word shouldn't plainly and blatantly be "rape" even if he didn't drug her up, other than she stated she didn't feel raped. I suppose that would have been because, either way, she didn't feel it at all.
Shocked yet? Here's the kicker: The couple is introduced by Dr. Phill McGraw and his story is summarised in a brief clip, after which the host asks the couple the ever-the-first question along the lines "How does this make you feel", to which this creep of a husband replies "It came out rather harsh". He actually tried to make himself look like the victim. Sure, tell me that I'm taking sides too soon and that I haven't heard his side of the story (actually, I have, and, for the most part, it was awkward silence, whining and distasteful puns to try to steer the conversation off course), but I dare you to come up with a likely scenario that actually makes a man who will impregnate his wife in her sleep against her will look like a good husband. I'm not questioning his motives; he stated that he loves his wife, and seeing as he'd go that far just to make sure she'd stay with him and not just take off, I just might believe him, but still...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is slightly disturbed that, keeping with the theme of today's entry, he managed to guess Oprah Winfrey's bra size seconds before she'd state it on her own talk show. Does anyone else think it's wierd?
Harlot
–noun
a prostitute; whore.
The word harlot nowadays refers to a particular kind of woman, but interestingly it used to refer to a particular kind of man. The word is first recorded in English in a work written around the beginning of the 13th century, meaning "a man of no fixed occupation, vagabond, beggar," and soon afterwards meant "male lecher." Already in the 14th century it appears as a deprecatory word for a woman, though exactly how this meaning developed from the male sense is not clear. For a time the word could also refer to a juggler or jester of either sex, but by the close of the 17th century its usage referring to males had disappeared.
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless, of course, the above applies, in which case Pax would be wasted vobiscum and you're quite incapable of vale.
ArabianShark just needed to get that off his chest. Thanks for listening. Cheers, mates.
a prostitute; whore.
The word harlot nowadays refers to a particular kind of woman, but interestingly it used to refer to a particular kind of man. The word is first recorded in English in a work written around the beginning of the 13th century, meaning "a man of no fixed occupation, vagabond, beggar," and soon afterwards meant "male lecher." Already in the 14th century it appears as a deprecatory word for a woman, though exactly how this meaning developed from the male sense is not clear. For a time the word could also refer to a juggler or jester of either sex, but by the close of the 17th century its usage referring to males had disappeared.
Pax vobiscum atque vale. Unless, of course, the above applies, in which case Pax would be wasted vobiscum and you're quite incapable of vale.
ArabianShark just needed to get that off his chest. Thanks for listening. Cheers, mates.
Just noticed...
On my wall, above my flatscreen, hangs a calendar, a Star Wars calendar (go figure, a geek like me), the third of its lineage, this one celebrating 30 of Star Wars (a very heart felt Congratulations and Thank You for Mr. Lucas, in the immensely odd chance he might be reading this). For April, the main picture is a frame from Episode II: Attack of the Clones, from the scene in the Naboo Lake district when Padmé and Anakin kiss. This particular frame pertains to just before the kiss, when the charactres' lips are barely an inch apart. What could be more romantic?
How about if Hayden Christensen hadn't that look of (what is that? Revolt? I'll go with) repulse about him. Really, watch the movie again (of course you have watched it once), get it on DVD (now watch me do the mind trick: You will get it on DVD), just get a load of the frickin' frame and tell me if there's not something wrong there. What, does the Jedi Council warp Padawans' minds so that they'll find attractive women repulsive? Or is against Christensen's religion to kiss Natalie Portman without looking like you're only doing this for the cash? Take a leaf from Hugo Weaving's book, you didn't see him grimacing when Ms. Portman kissed the lips of his Guy Fawkes mask in V for Vendetta. Well, actually, for all I know, he could have been choking in disgust behind the mask, provided that he didn't move... but, come on, Weaving? Not likely! Not at all! No! Silly 'Shark, even suggesting such a thing.
Come to think of it, there could have been nobody behind the mask at that particular time. Even more reason to think Mr. Weaving would not be grimacing at that time.
OK, then, on to a better example: Goya's Ghosts. Alas, I am yet to see that one. Oh well.
So what's left? How about senseless movie connctions? I'll attempt to prove, by means of connecting actors and actreses to each other, possibly in ridiculous ways, that Weaving hasn't or wouldn't have grimaced. So:
Hugo Weaving is know to be greatly attatched both to England and Australia, where he currently resides, or so I'm told; actor Hugh Jackman is widely known to be Australian as well; Mr. Jackman had kissing scenes with actress Scarlett Johansson in the movie Scoop, without ever grimacing; Scarlett Johansson has absolutely nothing whatsoever to connect her to Natalie Portman, except for the fact that Johansson stared in Lost in Translation, directed by Sofia Coppola, who also stared with Portman in The Phantom Menace. This should be irrefutable evidence that Hugo Weaving has not/would not/will not grimace in a kissing scene with Natalie Portman unless so specified by the script.
OK, that was plenty strange. I'll just wrap up here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would just remind you all that the once (though I think no more) centre of the Hollywood universe is Christopher Lee, know for roles as Sorcerer, Frankanstein, Sith Lord, Bond Villain and time and again Dracula. Surely you can see the cleverly hidden mystery in this. I know I can.
How about if Hayden Christensen hadn't that look of (what is that? Revolt? I'll go with) repulse about him. Really, watch the movie again (of course you have watched it once), get it on DVD (now watch me do the mind trick: You will get it on DVD), just get a load of the frickin' frame and tell me if there's not something wrong there. What, does the Jedi Council warp Padawans' minds so that they'll find attractive women repulsive? Or is against Christensen's religion to kiss Natalie Portman without looking like you're only doing this for the cash? Take a leaf from Hugo Weaving's book, you didn't see him grimacing when Ms. Portman kissed the lips of his Guy Fawkes mask in V for Vendetta. Well, actually, for all I know, he could have been choking in disgust behind the mask, provided that he didn't move... but, come on, Weaving? Not likely! Not at all! No! Silly 'Shark, even suggesting such a thing.
Come to think of it, there could have been nobody behind the mask at that particular time. Even more reason to think Mr. Weaving would not be grimacing at that time.
OK, then, on to a better example: Goya's Ghosts. Alas, I am yet to see that one. Oh well.
So what's left? How about senseless movie connctions? I'll attempt to prove, by means of connecting actors and actreses to each other, possibly in ridiculous ways, that Weaving hasn't or wouldn't have grimaced. So:
Hugo Weaving is know to be greatly attatched both to England and Australia, where he currently resides, or so I'm told; actor Hugh Jackman is widely known to be Australian as well; Mr. Jackman had kissing scenes with actress Scarlett Johansson in the movie Scoop, without ever grimacing; Scarlett Johansson has absolutely nothing whatsoever to connect her to Natalie Portman, except for the fact that Johansson stared in Lost in Translation, directed by Sofia Coppola, who also stared with Portman in The Phantom Menace. This should be irrefutable evidence that Hugo Weaving has not/would not/will not grimace in a kissing scene with Natalie Portman unless so specified by the script.
OK, that was plenty strange. I'll just wrap up here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would just remind you all that the once (though I think no more) centre of the Hollywood universe is Christopher Lee, know for roles as Sorcerer, Frankanstein, Sith Lord, Bond Villain and time and again Dracula. Surely you can see the cleverly hidden mystery in this. I know I can.
Finally...
At long last, the last piece is set. All is in it's place, and about time, too.
Nearly a month after moving in, today I got my long desired Queen sized bed. That's right - livin' large, sleepin' large and maybe even watchin' DVDs large, because, you know, in a bedsit, there's only so many places you can fit a bed and a screen, and neither would go well in the loo or the kitchen. So there, a busy Friday, with all the delivering, the assembling, the removing of both old small beds and the thorough cleaning of the house (that was overdue, really, but I knew the delivery and assembly would be messy, so I just kept waiting), but it was worth it. I just wished I could have left less of the tasks above for others (all I really did was clean up after them), but it's going to be six more weeks until I'm allowed to make efforts, courtesy of my not missed at all hernia - good riddance to that!
And now to enjoy my just-the-way-I-want-it flat - I even gave myself a purple and pink lava lamp, it goes nicely with my plasma lamp.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark now qualifies as a bachelor, seeing as he now has his very own bachelor pad. That's right, ladies, he's single and available. Come get him! One at a time, please.
Nearly a month after moving in, today I got my long desired Queen sized bed. That's right - livin' large, sleepin' large and maybe even watchin' DVDs large, because, you know, in a bedsit, there's only so many places you can fit a bed and a screen, and neither would go well in the loo or the kitchen. So there, a busy Friday, with all the delivering, the assembling, the removing of both old small beds and the thorough cleaning of the house (that was overdue, really, but I knew the delivery and assembly would be messy, so I just kept waiting), but it was worth it. I just wished I could have left less of the tasks above for others (all I really did was clean up after them), but it's going to be six more weeks until I'm allowed to make efforts, courtesy of my not missed at all hernia - good riddance to that!
And now to enjoy my just-the-way-I-want-it flat - I even gave myself a purple and pink lava lamp, it goes nicely with my plasma lamp.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark now qualifies as a bachelor, seeing as he now has his very own bachelor pad. That's right, ladies, he's single and available. Come get him! One at a time, please.
And the award goes to...
It's a bit early to say. In fact, I don't even know who the nomenees are. And, most importantly, I wonder if we're all clear on what the award is for anyway. So let's address those questions, shall we?
Seeing as this is MY blog, you don't have much of a choice.
This is the "Try a Little Softer" award for 2007. I suppose you all know the history behind this award. If you don't, here's the skinny. The Great (see, not great, but Great) radio host Nuno Markl, in one of his books inspired by his radio segment "The Man Who Bit The Dog", established this award for feats of great (and greatly misused) strenght. The first winner ever for this award was a man from Sydney, whose tale I will summarise in a brand new segment here at Shark Nibbles called:
Tales from Down Under:
This devious man from Sydney was a theif, but no common theif. He thought big. His heist would be to rob an ATM machine from a suburban building. And how would he choose to do that? By battering said building with a mobile crane. To no avail, that was, other than wrecking the building itself. Had it not been night, the building wouldn't have been empty, and casualties would have ensued, but, as luck would have it... The ATM, however, even after the building's collapse, stood adamant (remind me to get me some Aussie ATMs. I see potential), and forced the wrongdoer into a hasty retreat. Now, a hasty retreat whilst comandeering a mobile crane is somewhat less than a trivial matter. In his haste, he knocked down a power post, plunging the whole suburb into darkness. Police officers would soon find him weeping at the wheel of his parked vehicle, bangign his head against said wheel.
Crikey, mate, try a little softer.
And so, it's time for an early nomination for the 2007 award. The nomenee is none than my fridge. that's right, my fridge. Get this: I like to keep sody pop around the house. A little fizz every now and then is good for you. Unfortunately, I can't always get my favourde brand in handy two liter bottles, or bottles at all, and I'm forced to resort to tin cans. Now, I don't much care for tin cans, because I like a swig every now and then, and tin can's aren't that flexible. So I open up this can, have my swig and put it back in the fridge (not the freezer, the fridge). Next time I go for a swig, there are icicles floating around the soda. Lime flavoured, not plain moisture icicles. The fridge (again, fridge, not freezer) froze my soda. Wow.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how exposing the very resilient ATM from Sydney to his freezer would have worked out. I know: cool Austrailian Dollars.
Seeing as this is MY blog, you don't have much of a choice.
This is the "Try a Little Softer" award for 2007. I suppose you all know the history behind this award. If you don't, here's the skinny. The Great (see, not great, but Great) radio host Nuno Markl, in one of his books inspired by his radio segment "The Man Who Bit The Dog", established this award for feats of great (and greatly misused) strenght. The first winner ever for this award was a man from Sydney, whose tale I will summarise in a brand new segment here at Shark Nibbles called:
Tales from Down Under:
This devious man from Sydney was a theif, but no common theif. He thought big. His heist would be to rob an ATM machine from a suburban building. And how would he choose to do that? By battering said building with a mobile crane. To no avail, that was, other than wrecking the building itself. Had it not been night, the building wouldn't have been empty, and casualties would have ensued, but, as luck would have it... The ATM, however, even after the building's collapse, stood adamant (remind me to get me some Aussie ATMs. I see potential), and forced the wrongdoer into a hasty retreat. Now, a hasty retreat whilst comandeering a mobile crane is somewhat less than a trivial matter. In his haste, he knocked down a power post, plunging the whole suburb into darkness. Police officers would soon find him weeping at the wheel of his parked vehicle, bangign his head against said wheel.
Crikey, mate, try a little softer.
And so, it's time for an early nomination for the 2007 award. The nomenee is none than my fridge. that's right, my fridge. Get this: I like to keep sody pop around the house. A little fizz every now and then is good for you. Unfortunately, I can't always get my favourde brand in handy two liter bottles, or bottles at all, and I'm forced to resort to tin cans. Now, I don't much care for tin cans, because I like a swig every now and then, and tin can's aren't that flexible. So I open up this can, have my swig and put it back in the fridge (not the freezer, the fridge). Next time I go for a swig, there are icicles floating around the soda. Lime flavoured, not plain moisture icicles. The fridge (again, fridge, not freezer) froze my soda. Wow.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders how exposing the very resilient ATM from Sydney to his freezer would have worked out. I know: cool Austrailian Dollars.
Video time
Embedded, too. So, first things first - copyright issues. Before we start posting (and thus freely distributing) copyrighted material obtained from acquaintances who assure you they hold copyright of whatever they're allowing you to use freely for as long as you credit them, setting you ripe for theyir rightful owner to righteously sue, this is already freely distributed by the prefered means of Times magazine person of the year (2006), i.e., YouTube. And, in case you're wondering about the above little tail of copyright and other legal travails, yes, I'm one of the people to whom that never happened. Onwards, then.
Right off the bat:
How about that? Readily avilable to anyone who can afford it (or acquire it any other way). And since it's classified as a sports weapon, you need only a run of the mill permit for it. (I'm not positive on this point. Could someone elaborate?) Even Homer Simpson could own up to three of them. But wait, let's watch some more:
Wicked awesome, eh?
Sure, you would need some crazy marksmanship skills to shoot eight randomly thrown clay birds in as many shots holding the gun upside down above your head with minimal if any bracing at all, but I invite you to imagine what some disgruntled common mortal could do with one of those things in a crowded place. It doesn't take years of practice to wreak some serious havoc with a gun that can shoot 12 shells in less than 2 seconds. Even I reckon I could poke someone's eye out with one of those things - and I systematically make a fool - nay, a noob - out of myself everytime I dabble in Counter Strike or Unreal Tournment. I mean, you can easily conceal one of those things under a trench coat (suppose you strap it to your back, off to one side. It might not be very comfortable, but it could work) and smuggle it to a myriad of places. Heck, in most banks I've ever been to, you could smuggle it in, no problem.
I'm sure that any argument along the lines of "We make the gun for sporting ends only and it's not our fault someone ends up using it the wrong way" lets the good folks at Beretta sleep comfortaby at night, knowing that they've spent quite the considerable ammount developing a likely implement of death and suffering whereas there is still no cure for cancer, and likely recieved their investment back tenfold - and cancer research might still be underfunded. Good job, lads.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really has nothing against Beretta or professional sports marksmen or marksmen of any sort per se, but isn't it a fair point that where weapons are concerned we've done quite enough and perhaps it would be best to focus our energies in towards less destructive ends?
This post goes out with a
Right off the bat:
How about that? Readily avilable to anyone who can afford it (or acquire it any other way). And since it's classified as a sports weapon, you need only a run of the mill permit for it. (I'm not positive on this point. Could someone elaborate?) Even Homer Simpson could own up to three of them. But wait, let's watch some more:
Wicked awesome, eh?
Sure, you would need some crazy marksmanship skills to shoot eight randomly thrown clay birds in as many shots holding the gun upside down above your head with minimal if any bracing at all, but I invite you to imagine what some disgruntled common mortal could do with one of those things in a crowded place. It doesn't take years of practice to wreak some serious havoc with a gun that can shoot 12 shells in less than 2 seconds. Even I reckon I could poke someone's eye out with one of those things - and I systematically make a fool - nay, a noob - out of myself everytime I dabble in Counter Strike or Unreal Tournment. I mean, you can easily conceal one of those things under a trench coat (suppose you strap it to your back, off to one side. It might not be very comfortable, but it could work) and smuggle it to a myriad of places. Heck, in most banks I've ever been to, you could smuggle it in, no problem.
I'm sure that any argument along the lines of "We make the gun for sporting ends only and it's not our fault someone ends up using it the wrong way" lets the good folks at Beretta sleep comfortaby at night, knowing that they've spent quite the considerable ammount developing a likely implement of death and suffering whereas there is still no cure for cancer, and likely recieved their investment back tenfold - and cancer research might still be underfunded. Good job, lads.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really has nothing against Beretta or professional sports marksmen or marksmen of any sort per se, but isn't it a fair point that where weapons are concerned we've done quite enough and perhaps it would be best to focus our energies in towards less destructive ends?
This post goes out with a
The Exile alone knows...
Let's begin with a show of hands, shall we? Who here is familiar with the Star Wars universe? And how many of those know of the D&D based RPG Knights of the Old Republic? How about the sequel, Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords? That few... Well, then, for all the others, here's the skinny:
The game puts the player in the role of The Exile an ordinary (cannonically) woman, though you can play as a male character (for a different game experience), with no recollection of her past - or her name, for that matter. AS the game begins, she comes to her senses in a kolto (go look it up) tank, and soon after discovers she has the innate ability to use the Force.
As the game progresses, she discovers she is a former Jedi whose connection to the Force has been severed following a trial for her deeds in times of war, and, depending on your choices, will take revenge from a scattered Jedi Council or redeem herself and unite the fleeing Jedi Masters into a new Council.
Menwhile, by way of the many in-game conversations with party members and NPCs, having one's connection to the force severed is described as alike to losing all of one's senses at once. I think I know how that would feel...
You should know of my travails with moving to a house with no utilities. Those were short-lived (thankfully). I moved in on a Sunday, got my accounts on the following Monday and, by Tuesday, all utilities had been connected. All but one... Well, two, if you consider natural gas (I'm still using a Butane canister), but still, all but an all-important one: Cable!
I can live without Cable TV, sure. Without Cable Internet, not so sure. I requested a service migration on Monday, to be effective no sooner than Thursday (I didn't make that rule...), and then, by Thursday, at about 8 p.m., after a delayed instalation and only 4 hours of service, my connection to the Force, I mean, the Internet became severed. Only yesterday did it come up again. So, if you take out the weekend (going home, to an inferior, but active Internet connection), it was still 6 days without Web access and that felt like losing a lot of senses at once... phew!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark recalls some ominous chance that, should the exile ever regain his connection to the Force, echoes in the force would be created so that every single Force sensitive creature in the universe would perish. Lock up your children.
The game puts the player in the role of The Exile an ordinary (cannonically) woman, though you can play as a male character (for a different game experience), with no recollection of her past - or her name, for that matter. AS the game begins, she comes to her senses in a kolto (go look it up) tank, and soon after discovers she has the innate ability to use the Force.
As the game progresses, she discovers she is a former Jedi whose connection to the Force has been severed following a trial for her deeds in times of war, and, depending on your choices, will take revenge from a scattered Jedi Council or redeem herself and unite the fleeing Jedi Masters into a new Council.
Menwhile, by way of the many in-game conversations with party members and NPCs, having one's connection to the force severed is described as alike to losing all of one's senses at once. I think I know how that would feel...
You should know of my travails with moving to a house with no utilities. Those were short-lived (thankfully). I moved in on a Sunday, got my accounts on the following Monday and, by Tuesday, all utilities had been connected. All but one... Well, two, if you consider natural gas (I'm still using a Butane canister), but still, all but an all-important one: Cable!
I can live without Cable TV, sure. Without Cable Internet, not so sure. I requested a service migration on Monday, to be effective no sooner than Thursday (I didn't make that rule...), and then, by Thursday, at about 8 p.m., after a delayed instalation and only 4 hours of service, my connection to the Force, I mean, the Internet became severed. Only yesterday did it come up again. So, if you take out the weekend (going home, to an inferior, but active Internet connection), it was still 6 days without Web access and that felt like losing a lot of senses at once... phew!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark recalls some ominous chance that, should the exile ever regain his connection to the Force, echoes in the force would be created so that every single Force sensitive creature in the universe would perish. Lock up your children.
Boots and Bureaucracy
Does this title remind you the slightest of such Jane Austen novels as "Pride and Prejudice" or "Sense and Sensibility" in the way "Duel and Duality" or "Amy and Amiability" are supposed to? No? Tough!
First and foremost, I should clarify that boots and bureaucracy should be kept well apart and taken care of separately. So:
Boots: I'm finaly able to wear boots again. For quite some time (some six weeks, I think) I couldn't put on my boots because I couldn't stand the pain of bending over long enough to do the long laces and had to wear some lighter footwear. Boots really are my thing, when it comes down to footwear, so those had not been a happy six weaks, though that might have been because of the pain, mobility impediment and overall tiredness and discomfort as well.
Bureaucracy: I'm in the process of moving. For five years (since I moved out) I have been living in rented rooms in houses where just about anyone can rent a room. Now, that's never really been a problem: The first house I moved out into (eh...?) had been rented out to students just like myself, and frshmen as well, for the most part, and even though most of them already knew each other well before moving in together, we hit it off well and became friends. Sure, many people choose to get together in groups and rent a whole flat(and split the rent) instead of renting only one room in a house where it's owner doesn't live (like I did), but fate hadn't that in mind for me. I later moved out and into a room closer to campus with a lower rent (gotta mind that rent...) and with a colleague I already knew quite well. In time, a spare room has been rented out to someone neither of us knew and later to someoene we both knew. And now, I've left to live on my own. How does this relate to bureaucracy? Well, so far, I had had nothing but verbal agreements with my landlords, wherein periodically (moe or less so, for my former landlord) he'd come by the house to collect rent money and payment for whatever services not included in the agreement but under his responsability. This time, I have a full lease, complete with a deed and all. Now, the house has all the utilities (water, power, etc.) ready to use, but the company(ies) should refuse to let them be used without whatever ton of triple stamped paperwork and whatnot, signed by both the landlord and myself. Now, I can always find a litle time to swing by the imobiliary to sign something or another, and such seems to be the case with the landlord, but all the officialising and the stamping and the technicalities have bogged down the process to the stage where I'll be moving into a house with NO utilities. Really, WTF!? Couldn't we just call the company and say "OK, we're going to spend some of your water and power and whatnot, just bill me" and be done with it?
Perhaps the boots would be best suited to deal with the bureaucracy after all...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to challenge the pencil pushers into his own territorial waters: let's see you stamp your precious forms underwater...
First and foremost, I should clarify that boots and bureaucracy should be kept well apart and taken care of separately. So:
Boots: I'm finaly able to wear boots again. For quite some time (some six weeks, I think) I couldn't put on my boots because I couldn't stand the pain of bending over long enough to do the long laces and had to wear some lighter footwear. Boots really are my thing, when it comes down to footwear, so those had not been a happy six weaks, though that might have been because of the pain, mobility impediment and overall tiredness and discomfort as well.
Bureaucracy: I'm in the process of moving. For five years (since I moved out) I have been living in rented rooms in houses where just about anyone can rent a room. Now, that's never really been a problem: The first house I moved out into (eh...?) had been rented out to students just like myself, and frshmen as well, for the most part, and even though most of them already knew each other well before moving in together, we hit it off well and became friends. Sure, many people choose to get together in groups and rent a whole flat(and split the rent) instead of renting only one room in a house where it's owner doesn't live (like I did), but fate hadn't that in mind for me. I later moved out and into a room closer to campus with a lower rent (gotta mind that rent...) and with a colleague I already knew quite well. In time, a spare room has been rented out to someone neither of us knew and later to someoene we both knew. And now, I've left to live on my own. How does this relate to bureaucracy? Well, so far, I had had nothing but verbal agreements with my landlords, wherein periodically (moe or less so, for my former landlord) he'd come by the house to collect rent money and payment for whatever services not included in the agreement but under his responsability. This time, I have a full lease, complete with a deed and all. Now, the house has all the utilities (water, power, etc.) ready to use, but the company(ies) should refuse to let them be used without whatever ton of triple stamped paperwork and whatnot, signed by both the landlord and myself. Now, I can always find a litle time to swing by the imobiliary to sign something or another, and such seems to be the case with the landlord, but all the officialising and the stamping and the technicalities have bogged down the process to the stage where I'll be moving into a house with NO utilities. Really, WTF!? Couldn't we just call the company and say "OK, we're going to spend some of your water and power and whatnot, just bill me" and be done with it?
Perhaps the boots would be best suited to deal with the bureaucracy after all...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to challenge the pencil pushers into his own territorial waters: let's see you stamp your precious forms underwater...
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