So it's the 14th again, eh? Goodness, seems like only last week I was doing my first ever post about St. Valentine's day. Last year Valentine's day began much too early for clear thought and still not early enough, for I seem to recall being late for my admission for surgery. Then came a hipoglicemia induced migraine, because I was told to skip breakfast for blood test (and later told that I needn't have, for as long as I had mentioned that I had eaten and wasn't diabetic). Later on the full fright of being less than a day away from my first ever surgery hit me and I spent the evening trying not to lose it entirely. Much ado about barely anything, really, but how could I know? Still, that was the worst Valentine's day ever with every other being a close second. Do I sound bitter to you? I suppose I am a little bitter...
You know, I really have nothing against St. Valentines or gay couples - let me rephrase that - merry couples, regardless of sexual preference, enjoying the occasion. So do you think there would be enough loving going around that I could have a small share (I'm not greedy) for myself? No such luck... And, for once, I did try. Still no luck.
Pax (et Venus) vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to notify all whom it may concern that the Bachelors Club will be meeting at 22:00 and the Lonely Hearts will gather later. Their schedulles are free today.
I've the right to rant
And rant I shall... briefly.
First and foremost, a recurring topic, spam. I am now the (not very) proud recipient of spam in Arabic. On the down side, I can't read it. On the plus side, I don't think I'd like to, really, seeing as it is spam. Comes with the territory (and an e-mail address startig with "Arabian"). Spam (not the meat product) is, however, on of the matters of greatest laughter in my life. Just days ago I recieved one claiming that the best way to "impress the ladies is with great c0ck". I wasn't aware ladies were esaily impressed with poultry. Is this why they are also sometimes refered to as "chicks"? I'd like an expert opinion, please? As if any were to be found around here...
Today on the telly, while zapping, I caught a bit of an interview with a sexologist reporting, from a book on nymphomania, of a tale of how a nine year old girl was taken by her mother to a gynecologist on suspicion that she masturbated. The gynecologist would have reported somthing along the lines of "as soon as I struck the clitoris, the legs opened and the body contorted with moans of pleasure". The girl was "treated" with excision. I switched channels. On the next channel, Michaela Conlin says "monster". See, telly is educational, after all.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to discurage minors from reading this partcular entry as it discusses adult themes and contains a deliberate and ineffective mispelling of a swear word. But, then again, if minors nowadays are anything like they were when I was a minor, this is hardly anything they haven't been exposed to yet, so knock yourselves out. Really, go on, knock yourselves out. At the very least, it'll amuse me.
First and foremost, a recurring topic, spam. I am now the (not very) proud recipient of spam in Arabic. On the down side, I can't read it. On the plus side, I don't think I'd like to, really, seeing as it is spam. Comes with the territory (and an e-mail address startig with "Arabian"). Spam (not the meat product) is, however, on of the matters of greatest laughter in my life. Just days ago I recieved one claiming that the best way to "impress the ladies is with great c0ck". I wasn't aware ladies were esaily impressed with poultry. Is this why they are also sometimes refered to as "chicks"? I'd like an expert opinion, please? As if any were to be found around here...
Today on the telly, while zapping, I caught a bit of an interview with a sexologist reporting, from a book on nymphomania, of a tale of how a nine year old girl was taken by her mother to a gynecologist on suspicion that she masturbated. The gynecologist would have reported somthing along the lines of "as soon as I struck the clitoris, the legs opened and the body contorted with moans of pleasure". The girl was "treated" with excision. I switched channels. On the next channel, Michaela Conlin says "monster". See, telly is educational, after all.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to discurage minors from reading this partcular entry as it discusses adult themes and contains a deliberate and ineffective mispelling of a swear word. But, then again, if minors nowadays are anything like they were when I was a minor, this is hardly anything they haven't been exposed to yet, so knock yourselves out. Really, go on, knock yourselves out. At the very least, it'll amuse me.
Paper faces on parade!
A cookie to whoever can tell me which work the title of this entry is a line from. A second cookie will be awarded to he or she who can recite the sentence uttered before it in the same work.
So it's that time of the year again. There's no escaping it. McDonald's attendants are in costume. Supermarket tellers are dressed up in silly flashy rags you couldn't associate with a fantasy archetype if your life depended on it (I mean, I was assisted by a young wooman clad in red, with red see-through "flaps", for want of a better word, of fabric dangling from her sleeves and the hem of her dress and with her hair dyed shocking red. So what is she supposed to be, "Period Woman"?). Herds of young children from kindergartens will deambulate in double files, dressed in either their own costumes or readily provided (or rather, improvised) costumes of sorts, brandishing long stick of wood, which become makeshift magic wands, swords, canes, rifles and an all-round good idea, to provide young enfants with tools of scratching, bruising, cutting, poking and eye-gouging. Thumbs up, safety! Unless it's a clever plot to weed out the unrulier ones. Then even I'll condone with that.
Ah, well, here I am, sounding all bitter and sarcastic, when, after all, this is one of the few inescapable silly times I actually rather enjoy. Let's all shed our routinely worries and become our fantasies for a few hours. I'm all for that, really, for as long as it's harmless fun. Even tonight I was surprised to be passed by a fellow running in white hooded overalls, bearing the fearsome yellow and black "radioactivity" insignia on his right breast and a larger version on his back. Remember those t-shirts with the saying "I'm a bomb technician, if you see me running try to keep up" stamped on their back? It felt a bit like that... with the added factor of the tardiness of the hour (nigh on or past 3:00 AM).
Which brings me to a topic I'm really disgruntled about. I got myself in a bit of a mess, with my biological clock all messed up. I find myself unable to sleep at night, but come late morning or early afternoon, I'm out like a light until early evening. So perhaps I'm becoming a vampire, and not for Carnival only. That would be swell, wouldn't it? To shed morality and mortality alike and roam the night everlasting. It bothers me little that I can't sleep at propper hours, I'll shrug it off, somehow. What gets up my nose is some hellish little birds who'll pick whenever I'm trying to get my sleep in order to screech with their shrill chirps at bloody 4:00 AM. What the hell, it's 4:00 AM in the winter, the sun won't be up for hours and already you're chirping like your miserable existences of nary consequence depended on me not getting my timely sleep? Rejoice in that I can't find you or reach you unhelped, for I'd wring your single occipital condrilus necks in a heartbeat without a second thought. The pox on you as well. Now go bother the supermarket people. You'll find you have some in common after all.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has had way too much of a not-very-popular so-called energy drink, the thought behind it being that, If I can stay awake for the night, as I have lately, and the whole day after it, then, come next night, I'll be far too exhausted not to sleep well. However, this energetic beverage seems to be wanting some juice...
So it's that time of the year again. There's no escaping it. McDonald's attendants are in costume. Supermarket tellers are dressed up in silly flashy rags you couldn't associate with a fantasy archetype if your life depended on it (I mean, I was assisted by a young wooman clad in red, with red see-through "flaps", for want of a better word, of fabric dangling from her sleeves and the hem of her dress and with her hair dyed shocking red. So what is she supposed to be, "Period Woman"?). Herds of young children from kindergartens will deambulate in double files, dressed in either their own costumes or readily provided (or rather, improvised) costumes of sorts, brandishing long stick of wood, which become makeshift magic wands, swords, canes, rifles and an all-round good idea, to provide young enfants with tools of scratching, bruising, cutting, poking and eye-gouging. Thumbs up, safety! Unless it's a clever plot to weed out the unrulier ones. Then even I'll condone with that.
Ah, well, here I am, sounding all bitter and sarcastic, when, after all, this is one of the few inescapable silly times I actually rather enjoy. Let's all shed our routinely worries and become our fantasies for a few hours. I'm all for that, really, for as long as it's harmless fun. Even tonight I was surprised to be passed by a fellow running in white hooded overalls, bearing the fearsome yellow and black "radioactivity" insignia on his right breast and a larger version on his back. Remember those t-shirts with the saying "I'm a bomb technician, if you see me running try to keep up" stamped on their back? It felt a bit like that... with the added factor of the tardiness of the hour (nigh on or past 3:00 AM).
Which brings me to a topic I'm really disgruntled about. I got myself in a bit of a mess, with my biological clock all messed up. I find myself unable to sleep at night, but come late morning or early afternoon, I'm out like a light until early evening. So perhaps I'm becoming a vampire, and not for Carnival only. That would be swell, wouldn't it? To shed morality and mortality alike and roam the night everlasting. It bothers me little that I can't sleep at propper hours, I'll shrug it off, somehow. What gets up my nose is some hellish little birds who'll pick whenever I'm trying to get my sleep in order to screech with their shrill chirps at bloody 4:00 AM. What the hell, it's 4:00 AM in the winter, the sun won't be up for hours and already you're chirping like your miserable existences of nary consequence depended on me not getting my timely sleep? Rejoice in that I can't find you or reach you unhelped, for I'd wring your single occipital condrilus necks in a heartbeat without a second thought. The pox on you as well. Now go bother the supermarket people. You'll find you have some in common after all.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has had way too much of a not-very-popular so-called energy drink, the thought behind it being that, If I can stay awake for the night, as I have lately, and the whole day after it, then, come next night, I'll be far too exhausted not to sleep well. However, this energetic beverage seems to be wanting some juice...
The Gun Seller
Let's have a show of hands, shall we? How many of you know of actor Hugh Laurie's novel "The Gun Seller"? OK, and how many know the story that led to it being written? That few, eh? Then let's review, shall we?
According to James Hugh Callum Laurie, OBE (isn't he?) himself, on "Inside the Actor Studio" with James Lipton, at some time in his life he meant to keep a diary. Shortly after, he became bored with his own diary, and began to make up events to make it more appealing, even if only to himself.
I might thake a page out of Laurie's book. Not "The Gun Seller", of course, but making up some first person fiction here on the blog. When I started in early 2006, i had envisioned some random rambling, not unlike what it came to be, but I expected it all to be far less dull. So perhaps I might begin posting some purely (or not-so-purely) fictinal entries, to liven things up. Don't worry, I'll be sure to let you know when I'm telling an outright fib for the sake of entertainment. Or will I?
So, starting soon, stay tuned for... you know, I haven't thought of neither a title nor a theme to the fiction that might ensue. Stay tuned for that as well. Have a say in it.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark sets out in search of adventure, peril, glory and glamour. Oh, look, there's some...
According to James Hugh Callum Laurie, OBE (isn't he?) himself, on "Inside the Actor Studio" with James Lipton, at some time in his life he meant to keep a diary. Shortly after, he became bored with his own diary, and began to make up events to make it more appealing, even if only to himself.
I might thake a page out of Laurie's book. Not "The Gun Seller", of course, but making up some first person fiction here on the blog. When I started in early 2006, i had envisioned some random rambling, not unlike what it came to be, but I expected it all to be far less dull. So perhaps I might begin posting some purely (or not-so-purely) fictinal entries, to liven things up. Don't worry, I'll be sure to let you know when I'm telling an outright fib for the sake of entertainment. Or will I?
So, starting soon, stay tuned for... you know, I haven't thought of neither a title nor a theme to the fiction that might ensue. Stay tuned for that as well. Have a say in it.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark sets out in search of adventure, peril, glory and glamour. Oh, look, there's some...
Exameanation
Pun or spelling mistake? Take your guess.
Why can't I do good (I mean really good) on examinations?
Take the latest example, Algorithm Analysis and Development. See, I'm on top of my game here. I don't mean to brag (OK, just a little bit), but I can deliver a 2.7 out of 3.0 worthy presentation without the aid of fancy transparencies or a PowerPoint or PDF, just all-talk and some scribbling on the whiteboard (Rapid rotation Algorithm for Raster Grafics). I can submit a 95% worthy program-and-paper assignment (Tiling problem. Neat stuff). Then why can't I scrape more than a just barely pass grade on the exam? And by just barely pass I mean It becomes a pass grade when put next to the dazzling other work, but is an otherwise high fail grade on its own.
See, what did me in here was the multiple choice part. Half of the global marks were on multiple choice questions, and most of them carry this little trick I dread. Suppose option A) is clearly wrong and B) is clearly right, C) could be right and D says "Both B) and C)". Now, this is a tiny nightmare for me. I could say B), because I know it's right, and I won't say C), even if it might be right, but if it is, then only D) is the right answer. And that, my friends, sucks.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark isn't terribly worried about this one, though. He's made the grade, even if one assignment has grade pending. But he's confident that it will wield a nice contribution to the already sufficient grade. It's a recursive backtracking algorithm to find out how a knight chess piece may start at a given position on a variable size chess board and step in eache square exactly once. Neat stuff too.
Why can't I do good (I mean really good) on examinations?
Take the latest example, Algorithm Analysis and Development. See, I'm on top of my game here. I don't mean to brag (OK, just a little bit), but I can deliver a 2.7 out of 3.0 worthy presentation without the aid of fancy transparencies or a PowerPoint or PDF, just all-talk and some scribbling on the whiteboard (Rapid rotation Algorithm for Raster Grafics). I can submit a 95% worthy program-and-paper assignment (Tiling problem. Neat stuff). Then why can't I scrape more than a just barely pass grade on the exam? And by just barely pass I mean It becomes a pass grade when put next to the dazzling other work, but is an otherwise high fail grade on its own.
See, what did me in here was the multiple choice part. Half of the global marks were on multiple choice questions, and most of them carry this little trick I dread. Suppose option A) is clearly wrong and B) is clearly right, C) could be right and D says "Both B) and C)". Now, this is a tiny nightmare for me. I could say B), because I know it's right, and I won't say C), even if it might be right, but if it is, then only D) is the right answer. And that, my friends, sucks.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark isn't terribly worried about this one, though. He's made the grade, even if one assignment has grade pending. But he's confident that it will wield a nice contribution to the already sufficient grade. It's a recursive backtracking algorithm to find out how a knight chess piece may start at a given position on a variable size chess board and step in eache square exactly once. Neat stuff too.
The pox on the supermarket people!
So today I went to the supermarket. I hadn't exactly planned on it, seeing as I had just been there yesterday, but I had gone for dinner in the vicinity, and one member of my dinner party had to shop, so we all tagged along. This is where I usually refrain from shopping altogether or shop on impulse. Today I went with door number two.
So one of the items I impulsively acquired is of a rather intimate nature. Call me overly conservative, but, for some reasons, I'm not entirely at ease shopping for certains things. In that sense, the new-ish do-it-yourself, self-service quick cashiers have been a breath of fresh air. Now, of course, they're far from perfect, but they do well enough, most of the time.
Now this particular item is boxed and then wrapped in celofane. Just as luck would have it, the celofane seam lays right across the barcode, making scanning rather difficult. This leaves me with two choices: either manually input the product code (which I can't really read, the print is too small) or call for assistence (which I'd rather not do). SO I take the creative way out and tear the celofane right then and there, enabling easy scan of the barcode.
Then, on my way out, the detectors beep madly at me, as if I'd shoplifted anything. I resent any such accusation, but, then again, the machine does work kind of funny, and I immediately suspected one of the cookie boxes hadn't registred propperly. I expected security to be called to deal with this matter (and really would have prefered it had been so), but instead, a very petitte attendant in charge of the self-service cashiers steps up. Now, if I had indeed shoplifted, I could all too easily have just lumped her and dashed for it, she would have nary a prayer of stopping me, and I'm not even the strong type. But still she comes to check for my bags, and soon finds out that it is the exact same rather embarasing item that set off the alarm. As it turned out, there's a sort of capacitor circuit sticker (you know what I mean, right? It looks like a silvery square-ish spiral) thingy inside the box which must be de-activated at a pad of sorts. Now, the box, though not really very large, is of a suis-generis shape, and hard as all hell to conceal. Why, ye gods, why should then that be chosen for marking with a device that prevents all discretion? It can't be easily stolen! Trying to embarass shoppers? The pox on you all!
On the brighter side of news, with final marks out today, I just found out I have finally rid myself of a thorn on my side for two well over a year now, and for good. Sadly, this means I might very well never again attend a lecture by master Borges.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes to put great emphasis on that he is by no means sarcastic about regretting not working under master Borges's tutelage again. Wish that more masters would be any measure like him. Honest. And you can't know what embarasing item it was all about.
So one of the items I impulsively acquired is of a rather intimate nature. Call me overly conservative, but, for some reasons, I'm not entirely at ease shopping for certains things. In that sense, the new-ish do-it-yourself, self-service quick cashiers have been a breath of fresh air. Now, of course, they're far from perfect, but they do well enough, most of the time.
Now this particular item is boxed and then wrapped in celofane. Just as luck would have it, the celofane seam lays right across the barcode, making scanning rather difficult. This leaves me with two choices: either manually input the product code (which I can't really read, the print is too small) or call for assistence (which I'd rather not do). SO I take the creative way out and tear the celofane right then and there, enabling easy scan of the barcode.
Then, on my way out, the detectors beep madly at me, as if I'd shoplifted anything. I resent any such accusation, but, then again, the machine does work kind of funny, and I immediately suspected one of the cookie boxes hadn't registred propperly. I expected security to be called to deal with this matter (and really would have prefered it had been so), but instead, a very petitte attendant in charge of the self-service cashiers steps up. Now, if I had indeed shoplifted, I could all too easily have just lumped her and dashed for it, she would have nary a prayer of stopping me, and I'm not even the strong type. But still she comes to check for my bags, and soon finds out that it is the exact same rather embarasing item that set off the alarm. As it turned out, there's a sort of capacitor circuit sticker (you know what I mean, right? It looks like a silvery square-ish spiral) thingy inside the box which must be de-activated at a pad of sorts. Now, the box, though not really very large, is of a suis-generis shape, and hard as all hell to conceal. Why, ye gods, why should then that be chosen for marking with a device that prevents all discretion? It can't be easily stolen! Trying to embarass shoppers? The pox on you all!
On the brighter side of news, with final marks out today, I just found out I have finally rid myself of a thorn on my side for two well over a year now, and for good. Sadly, this means I might very well never again attend a lecture by master Borges.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes to put great emphasis on that he is by no means sarcastic about regretting not working under master Borges's tutelage again. Wish that more masters would be any measure like him. Honest. And you can't know what embarasing item it was all about.
Keeping on
So today, on Shark Nibbles, "The Year In Review", 2007 edition.
2007 started in utter agony, as, likely for the penultime time, I found myself greeting the new year standing on dearly sore feet, crushed amidst a mass of complete strangers for really no better reason than to appease dear ol' mom. At the stroke of midnight, were I not a soulless heathen, I'd let out a prayer that 2007 would see the end of the excruciating pain from my yet-to-be-diagnosed hernia, as well as the distrophy on my left leg it induced. I relly hoped it would be, however. And it did, but not before a whole one-and-a-half months of excruciating pain, which meant the January exam season was pretty much shot to hell (not that it needed that much help, after the hellish "pick in early october" system they had devised). Then, come second semester, between surgery and post-op, I missed on what I considered to be the most important of classes in the new subjects. With that and my unparalell skill to procrastinate, second semester was an all-round cock-up.
March would see me move to my first ever all-mine flat. After a rocky first weeks, just about everything turned out just peachy.
Come Summer 2007, after I had completely fallen out of shape, which I had acquired with much dedication and self-sacrifice, from the long inactivity following my hernia and recovery from surgery, I found myself still not sufficientely healed to re-take on my calistenics routine. On the other hand, my brief experience with contact lenses and cool, curvy shades goes on the "good things" plate of the scales. Nevertheless, even though my vacation, cut short though it turned out to be, was pretty awesome, with most of every afternoon and even night outtings with my best mate, I left with a sense of unfulfilment I cannot explain. Perhaps I should have gone out more. Or less. I don't know.
First semester in 2007/2008 started up smoothly enough, with some ugly business in one course turning out mitigated well enough (though my faith in certain sorts of people has been irreparably struck), some other ugly business in another course only came up as a realisation of my not-unexpected fears and yet a third mishap took me completely by surprise, and I have only myself to blame for it. But, hey, comes with the territory. On the plus side, a colleague of mine who I barely knew and I became far closer, and I couldn't be happier about it.
Late 2007 saw me grappling with Chrismas Season Anxiety for the first time (and all the wrong reasons). Then London (London!) and some untimely epiphanies, not the least of which, in the final moments of 2007, that I was (for the last time, let me assure you) ready to welcome the new year standing on extremely sore feet in the middle of a sea of the flesh of complete strangers for no more benefit than I could have by watching BBC One, except for the joys of fooling a rude spainyard (redundant?) into believing I can't speak a wod of English after his nth attempt to shove me out of my hard earned spot.
All in all, 2007 sucked. It's pointless to wonder if I'd erase all its memory and its events from history if given the power because it's plainly not going to happen. Let's just take the good with the bad and be done with it.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will now return to getting settlet to welcome in the weekend, after an exhausting week of procrastination and dealing with it's consequences. Oh, like you've never done it!
2007 started in utter agony, as, likely for the penultime time, I found myself greeting the new year standing on dearly sore feet, crushed amidst a mass of complete strangers for really no better reason than to appease dear ol' mom. At the stroke of midnight, were I not a soulless heathen, I'd let out a prayer that 2007 would see the end of the excruciating pain from my yet-to-be-diagnosed hernia, as well as the distrophy on my left leg it induced. I relly hoped it would be, however. And it did, but not before a whole one-and-a-half months of excruciating pain, which meant the January exam season was pretty much shot to hell (not that it needed that much help, after the hellish "pick in early october" system they had devised). Then, come second semester, between surgery and post-op, I missed on what I considered to be the most important of classes in the new subjects. With that and my unparalell skill to procrastinate, second semester was an all-round cock-up.
March would see me move to my first ever all-mine flat. After a rocky first weeks, just about everything turned out just peachy.
Come Summer 2007, after I had completely fallen out of shape, which I had acquired with much dedication and self-sacrifice, from the long inactivity following my hernia and recovery from surgery, I found myself still not sufficientely healed to re-take on my calistenics routine. On the other hand, my brief experience with contact lenses and cool, curvy shades goes on the "good things" plate of the scales. Nevertheless, even though my vacation, cut short though it turned out to be, was pretty awesome, with most of every afternoon and even night outtings with my best mate, I left with a sense of unfulfilment I cannot explain. Perhaps I should have gone out more. Or less. I don't know.
First semester in 2007/2008 started up smoothly enough, with some ugly business in one course turning out mitigated well enough (though my faith in certain sorts of people has been irreparably struck), some other ugly business in another course only came up as a realisation of my not-unexpected fears and yet a third mishap took me completely by surprise, and I have only myself to blame for it. But, hey, comes with the territory. On the plus side, a colleague of mine who I barely knew and I became far closer, and I couldn't be happier about it.
Late 2007 saw me grappling with Chrismas Season Anxiety for the first time (and all the wrong reasons). Then London (London!) and some untimely epiphanies, not the least of which, in the final moments of 2007, that I was (for the last time, let me assure you) ready to welcome the new year standing on extremely sore feet in the middle of a sea of the flesh of complete strangers for no more benefit than I could have by watching BBC One, except for the joys of fooling a rude spainyard (redundant?) into believing I can't speak a wod of English after his nth attempt to shove me out of my hard earned spot.
All in all, 2007 sucked. It's pointless to wonder if I'd erase all its memory and its events from history if given the power because it's plainly not going to happen. Let's just take the good with the bad and be done with it.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will now return to getting settlet to welcome in the weekend, after an exhausting week of procrastination and dealing with it's consequences. Oh, like you've never done it!
Lady London
Well, I seem to have collected quite a bit of a backlog since I last posted, last year. Don't worry, I'll let it out slowly... one post at a time...
First and foremost: London!
What can I say that hasn't been said or that you don't yet know? It's London! European capital of eccleticism, elegance and sophistication (among other things hardly worth mention). This time ranks up there as very likely the best trip yet. Of course I can most vividly compare with last time, when I was twisted in pain from my hernia, and, as such, this time around was incomparably better. However...
Of course, the down side. First off, airports. I don't mind flying, mind you, but airports kind of annoy me. Lines at the gates and check in counters and the mind-numbing wait for the luggage not withstanding, it's airport security I complain about. So I'm about to pass security on the trip there and I completely forget about the iPod strapped to my arm, beneath my shirt and jumper. So I empty out my pockets and go through the metal detector, which beeps. So I take off my mechanical all-steel watch (which might have some small measure of metal in it...) and give it another go. It still beeps. So security comes in and starts to frisk me. Oh sure, the guy doesn't like this any more than I do, but still goes down my legs, along my arms, over the iPod, which could just as easily be way over 28 grams of C4 (remember the bomb shoe nut?), over my shoulders and chest, the headphones in protective casing which could just as easily be a trigger device and lets me go without further inquiries. Sure thing, guv'nor. Now I know how things are in this country, so, I figure he thinks it might be more trouble than it's worth to pick on these potentially dangerous little things.
Then, on the way back, they make us take off our shoes before going through security. I knew the folks at Heathrow get a little paranoid this way, but, hey, no big deal. At the metal detector, I figure I might get away with the iPod, so I go through with the iPod and the heavy watch and (go figure) the thing goes off. Cue in security officer. This fellow is more into the frisking business, I think. I'm not entirely sure what he did doesn't count as foreplay. DIdn't do much for me, though. Yet again he went straight over my personal audio gear without a second thought. Then he brought out the handheld metal detector, and I thought he'd sure pick up on the thing on my arm. Turns out he was only interested in waving the thing in front of my crotch and my rear. Come to think of it... wierd...
So let's get this straight: The aluminium replica of a shark's tooth I used to have as a keychain ornament which they confiscated back in 2002 or 2003 - bad; perfume and nail polish, as some friends of mine report having been made to dispose of - bad; small to medium lumps of unidentified substances and wiring of undisclosed nature - now that's all good. Riiiiiiiight...
But then Picadilly Circus and Leicester Square come up into view and make it all better.
Another thing: I stayed at the Hilton. And no, I didn't come to any situation suitable to a Paris joke, but they managed to botch up a simple reservation. We had booked a twin executive room, not a double executive room. I don't much fancy the thought of sharing my bed with my mother, if that's alright with you. But, really, for all they advertised, such as spacious rooms and marble bathrooms, save your money. The rooms are as cramped as the rest, and marble bathrooms means you get as marble countertop around the basin in the bathroom. And the room layout is so bleeding boring. It feels as though in all my trips I've stayed in three different rooms, only one of them was in several different hotels. The honorous mentions go to myHotel in Bloomsbury and the very expensive (but worth every last penny) Sanderson Hotel, in Berners Street.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to take this opportunity to remind you that everyone's favourite blog (i.e., this one) celebrated its second anniverary just days ago. You'd have been invited, if only you'd answer the polls more often.
First and foremost: London!
What can I say that hasn't been said or that you don't yet know? It's London! European capital of eccleticism, elegance and sophistication (among other things hardly worth mention). This time ranks up there as very likely the best trip yet. Of course I can most vividly compare with last time, when I was twisted in pain from my hernia, and, as such, this time around was incomparably better. However...
Of course, the down side. First off, airports. I don't mind flying, mind you, but airports kind of annoy me. Lines at the gates and check in counters and the mind-numbing wait for the luggage not withstanding, it's airport security I complain about. So I'm about to pass security on the trip there and I completely forget about the iPod strapped to my arm, beneath my shirt and jumper. So I empty out my pockets and go through the metal detector, which beeps. So I take off my mechanical all-steel watch (which might have some small measure of metal in it...) and give it another go. It still beeps. So security comes in and starts to frisk me. Oh sure, the guy doesn't like this any more than I do, but still goes down my legs, along my arms, over the iPod, which could just as easily be way over 28 grams of C4 (remember the bomb shoe nut?), over my shoulders and chest, the headphones in protective casing which could just as easily be a trigger device and lets me go without further inquiries. Sure thing, guv'nor. Now I know how things are in this country, so, I figure he thinks it might be more trouble than it's worth to pick on these potentially dangerous little things.
Then, on the way back, they make us take off our shoes before going through security. I knew the folks at Heathrow get a little paranoid this way, but, hey, no big deal. At the metal detector, I figure I might get away with the iPod, so I go through with the iPod and the heavy watch and (go figure) the thing goes off. Cue in security officer. This fellow is more into the frisking business, I think. I'm not entirely sure what he did doesn't count as foreplay. DIdn't do much for me, though. Yet again he went straight over my personal audio gear without a second thought. Then he brought out the handheld metal detector, and I thought he'd sure pick up on the thing on my arm. Turns out he was only interested in waving the thing in front of my crotch and my rear. Come to think of it... wierd...
So let's get this straight: The aluminium replica of a shark's tooth I used to have as a keychain ornament which they confiscated back in 2002 or 2003 - bad; perfume and nail polish, as some friends of mine report having been made to dispose of - bad; small to medium lumps of unidentified substances and wiring of undisclosed nature - now that's all good. Riiiiiiiight...
But then Picadilly Circus and Leicester Square come up into view and make it all better.
Another thing: I stayed at the Hilton. And no, I didn't come to any situation suitable to a Paris joke, but they managed to botch up a simple reservation. We had booked a twin executive room, not a double executive room. I don't much fancy the thought of sharing my bed with my mother, if that's alright with you. But, really, for all they advertised, such as spacious rooms and marble bathrooms, save your money. The rooms are as cramped as the rest, and marble bathrooms means you get as marble countertop around the basin in the bathroom. And the room layout is so bleeding boring. It feels as though in all my trips I've stayed in three different rooms, only one of them was in several different hotels. The honorous mentions go to myHotel in Bloomsbury and the very expensive (but worth every last penny) Sanderson Hotel, in Berners Street.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to take this opportunity to remind you that everyone's favourite blog (i.e., this one) celebrated its second anniverary just days ago. You'd have been invited, if only you'd answer the polls more often.
Done with
I used to love Christmas. No, wait, that's not right. I used to LOVE Christmas. Back then, it seemed it was all about getting Christmas gifts, and in those days, it usualy meant toys (and, naturally, the never-wanting underwear). Then, for a few weeks, until the novelty wore off, those toys would be my world. It hasn't been so for nigh on a decade.
Then after that, Christmas began being about family. Or rather, I began to understand that Christmas wasn't all about toys or even gifts. It was about spending quality ime with one's relatives, and the gifts were mere accessories or tools for the deep communion. Of course, it's still nice to exchange gifts and unrap them and all, but it's really not what Christmas is all about, not even what it's mostly about.
In the latter years, after having moved out to college, comming home for Christmas took yet another meaning. I beagn to appreciate my relatives even more once I found myself only meeting them on weekends, should I be so lucky. It also meant that I'd start paying for some of the gifts I'd gie out, instead of having them all bought by others and given on my behalf. Certainly I can't yet afford to buy out all the gifts I "give", but I certainly do buy some of them, even if I'm not really expected to. I insist on it; it feels much different than the alternative. Much better, too.
The last couple of years, though, have been quite strange around this time. For near twenty years I had Chrismas Dinner with my mother's side of the family, and each year I'd collect the gifts the "other side" would have for me beforehand and unrap them with the rest of them, with the "same side". For near twenty I endured the scrutiny over said gifts, being forced to acknowledge that they were far inferior to all others, lest I offend present company. It hurt, standing there and often taking insult and slander in silence.
As an aside, I never really managed to graps the zest of this one-sided rivalry. The way it seems to me, my father's side of the family never really instigated, nourished or even held a rivalry. So my father's parents didn't get to see much of their (for quite some time) only grandson. So they could feel I wasn't quite as at ease with them as I was with their maternal counterparts. So they didn't get to spoil me as much as they would have liked. Tey quite understood it came with the teritory of divorce, and instead counted their blessings and enjoied what time they did get to spend with me. My mother's mother, on the other side, always had a consuming need to be acknowledged as trhe superior grandparent. She would have me state that I liked her gifts and her faimily's side's gifts better than theirs as well as other petty things. Now my mother's father, he was good friends with my father's father, and never really felt the need for any such silly acknowledgements, but his devotion of his wife would compel him to play into said scheemes. My mother's sister too wouldn't willingly play into such futile feuds, but, again, under her mother's influence (quite another complicated case of extreme need for approval. For another time, maybe), would (half) jokingly refer to my father's sister (insn't it interesting, this duality?) as "her rival", even if there was no rivalry at all. I'm quite certain all my readers understand that there really was no contest, as there is still no contest, and thus, nothing to be gained. My father's brother not only didn't have a maternal counterpart but also was still in college by the time I was born, being the youngest of thee brothers. This meant that he knew beforehand that he wouldn't ge to see me grow up even as much as his parents or siblings, certainly not as much as he liked, and even now resides and works far away from his hometown. However, this did not, by any means, make us estranged in any way. Draw your conclusions.
Back on track, now. A couple of years ago, while spending the late afternoon on Christmas Eve with my father and his side of the family, he invited me to have Christmas Dinner with him. I would have very much liked to, but, alas, I couldn't, for I had made plans with "the other side" (again, this struggle of sides, it just tore me up, but, for the life of me, it was neither my fault or my call) for dinner. However, and because that was by no means a moot invitation, I made a point of making plans for a year from that day for dinner with them.
And, guess what, I stuck to them.
Surprisingly, this was a Christmas dinner the likes I had never had before. You see, my grandparents were all somewhat of war children. They cowered in fear as infants as war aircraft scraped the skies above, and knew first hand the rigors of food rationing and all disgraces I pray I must never know any more closely than reading about them. As war children, they have an aura os seriousness about them, for, as you may imagine, their youths had little in the way of laughing. Furthermore, they're all deeply catholic, and we all know how catholicism regards the very concept of "fun". I mean, not meaning to offend any faiths, merely having one off the wrist is a deadly sin, lest you forget. My mother's parents, though not presbiterian, do seem to affect a very presbiterian posture regarding fun and enjoyment. So I gre up with the notion that a Christmas Dinner is something to be enjoyed amidst a very sternly serious silence. But that year, I found out you can have Christmas Dinner and fun at the same time. It nearly shocked me to discover you can bond as a family and laugh.
For years, that was all I really wanted for Christmas, that we could laugh as a family. That we could be enjoying a casual, light chat over dinner and then have someone say something extremely funny and have us all set down our silverware and maybe clutch our tummys as we laugh away. Or maybe get up in between course, prance a little around the dinner table, set ourselves up for a snapshot, then, in the brink of the moment, strike a most hilarious pose, or maybe one that ridicules (in a tasteful manner, of course) one of the people in the snapshot, then laugh about it and just fall into each other's arms from it. And that year, I got it. I finally got it. Big surprise I went back next year for more. So I had a hernia. So I was struck with excruciating pain the whole evening. So I had to stand in between every two courses, sometimes even mid-course to relieve the sciatic pain. It was the best Christmas Dinner ever.
Then, just after dinner, and contrary to most families tradition of waiting until midnight or even the next morning, we exchanged gifts, I packed mine and parted, for I had still to exchange gifts with the "other side". And when I get to my mother's parent's, what should I find? That my mother, just as affected by the boorish ambience I complained before, has fallen asleep on a couch (for the recors, we're talking about an insomniac who'll regularly and gladly not sleep before 3:00 am, dozing off at about 10:30 pm), my grandmother resents me for having Christmas Dinner without them two years in a row, my grandfather (oh, shock) supports her, and my aunt, much as she'd like to have no part in such petty matters, wouldn't resist under the gaze of her mother, and puts together some lame effort of a reprimand for my "insensitive bohemian behaviour".
Well, I suppose the Father Chrismas cap with the blinking stars on the white fur lining was too much. I mean, a Father Christmas cap at Christmas!? I must have been out of my mind.
So this year is back to Christmas Dinner with the Banishers of Laughing, but not before a perfectly timely falling out with my mother over the pettiest matter. You know what? I'm done with this two bit place I'm forced to call my home town. If ever I come for the weekend, I leave feeling depressed and physically sick. I dread the bus ride, and I see less and less reward each time. My father chooses to spend his weekends at his summer house (and I don't blame him the slightest), to which he often enough invites me, his mother often enough is found either touring abroad or visiting her youngest child, his father is long not among us, rest his soul. My mother insists on these petty quarrels. Her parents are welcome to visit me whenever they'd like. Let those form the outskirts waste whatever (quite finite, let me assure you) vitality they posess finding this twisted parody of a city a better place to spend their weekends, let them have it, for all I care. I'm done with it. Done!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is now feeling quite free form the obligation of returning home regularly. And now that I'm free to take up other responsabilities, I'm off to pursue a dream I have nourished for quite some time. I'm getting a cat. A presian, too. You'll see, a lovely silver coloured persian. I'll be better off spending my weekends with him, too.
Then after that, Christmas began being about family. Or rather, I began to understand that Christmas wasn't all about toys or even gifts. It was about spending quality ime with one's relatives, and the gifts were mere accessories or tools for the deep communion. Of course, it's still nice to exchange gifts and unrap them and all, but it's really not what Christmas is all about, not even what it's mostly about.
In the latter years, after having moved out to college, comming home for Christmas took yet another meaning. I beagn to appreciate my relatives even more once I found myself only meeting them on weekends, should I be so lucky. It also meant that I'd start paying for some of the gifts I'd gie out, instead of having them all bought by others and given on my behalf. Certainly I can't yet afford to buy out all the gifts I "give", but I certainly do buy some of them, even if I'm not really expected to. I insist on it; it feels much different than the alternative. Much better, too.
The last couple of years, though, have been quite strange around this time. For near twenty years I had Chrismas Dinner with my mother's side of the family, and each year I'd collect the gifts the "other side" would have for me beforehand and unrap them with the rest of them, with the "same side". For near twenty I endured the scrutiny over said gifts, being forced to acknowledge that they were far inferior to all others, lest I offend present company. It hurt, standing there and often taking insult and slander in silence.
As an aside, I never really managed to graps the zest of this one-sided rivalry. The way it seems to me, my father's side of the family never really instigated, nourished or even held a rivalry. So my father's parents didn't get to see much of their (for quite some time) only grandson. So they could feel I wasn't quite as at ease with them as I was with their maternal counterparts. So they didn't get to spoil me as much as they would have liked. Tey quite understood it came with the teritory of divorce, and instead counted their blessings and enjoied what time they did get to spend with me. My mother's mother, on the other side, always had a consuming need to be acknowledged as trhe superior grandparent. She would have me state that I liked her gifts and her faimily's side's gifts better than theirs as well as other petty things. Now my mother's father, he was good friends with my father's father, and never really felt the need for any such silly acknowledgements, but his devotion of his wife would compel him to play into said scheemes. My mother's sister too wouldn't willingly play into such futile feuds, but, again, under her mother's influence (quite another complicated case of extreme need for approval. For another time, maybe), would (half) jokingly refer to my father's sister (insn't it interesting, this duality?) as "her rival", even if there was no rivalry at all. I'm quite certain all my readers understand that there really was no contest, as there is still no contest, and thus, nothing to be gained. My father's brother not only didn't have a maternal counterpart but also was still in college by the time I was born, being the youngest of thee brothers. This meant that he knew beforehand that he wouldn't ge to see me grow up even as much as his parents or siblings, certainly not as much as he liked, and even now resides and works far away from his hometown. However, this did not, by any means, make us estranged in any way. Draw your conclusions.
Back on track, now. A couple of years ago, while spending the late afternoon on Christmas Eve with my father and his side of the family, he invited me to have Christmas Dinner with him. I would have very much liked to, but, alas, I couldn't, for I had made plans with "the other side" (again, this struggle of sides, it just tore me up, but, for the life of me, it was neither my fault or my call) for dinner. However, and because that was by no means a moot invitation, I made a point of making plans for a year from that day for dinner with them.
And, guess what, I stuck to them.
Surprisingly, this was a Christmas dinner the likes I had never had before. You see, my grandparents were all somewhat of war children. They cowered in fear as infants as war aircraft scraped the skies above, and knew first hand the rigors of food rationing and all disgraces I pray I must never know any more closely than reading about them. As war children, they have an aura os seriousness about them, for, as you may imagine, their youths had little in the way of laughing. Furthermore, they're all deeply catholic, and we all know how catholicism regards the very concept of "fun". I mean, not meaning to offend any faiths, merely having one off the wrist is a deadly sin, lest you forget. My mother's parents, though not presbiterian, do seem to affect a very presbiterian posture regarding fun and enjoyment. So I gre up with the notion that a Christmas Dinner is something to be enjoyed amidst a very sternly serious silence. But that year, I found out you can have Christmas Dinner and fun at the same time. It nearly shocked me to discover you can bond as a family and laugh.
For years, that was all I really wanted for Christmas, that we could laugh as a family. That we could be enjoying a casual, light chat over dinner and then have someone say something extremely funny and have us all set down our silverware and maybe clutch our tummys as we laugh away. Or maybe get up in between course, prance a little around the dinner table, set ourselves up for a snapshot, then, in the brink of the moment, strike a most hilarious pose, or maybe one that ridicules (in a tasteful manner, of course) one of the people in the snapshot, then laugh about it and just fall into each other's arms from it. And that year, I got it. I finally got it. Big surprise I went back next year for more. So I had a hernia. So I was struck with excruciating pain the whole evening. So I had to stand in between every two courses, sometimes even mid-course to relieve the sciatic pain. It was the best Christmas Dinner ever.
Then, just after dinner, and contrary to most families tradition of waiting until midnight or even the next morning, we exchanged gifts, I packed mine and parted, for I had still to exchange gifts with the "other side". And when I get to my mother's parent's, what should I find? That my mother, just as affected by the boorish ambience I complained before, has fallen asleep on a couch (for the recors, we're talking about an insomniac who'll regularly and gladly not sleep before 3:00 am, dozing off at about 10:30 pm), my grandmother resents me for having Christmas Dinner without them two years in a row, my grandfather (oh, shock) supports her, and my aunt, much as she'd like to have no part in such petty matters, wouldn't resist under the gaze of her mother, and puts together some lame effort of a reprimand for my "insensitive bohemian behaviour".
Well, I suppose the Father Chrismas cap with the blinking stars on the white fur lining was too much. I mean, a Father Christmas cap at Christmas!? I must have been out of my mind.
So this year is back to Christmas Dinner with the Banishers of Laughing, but not before a perfectly timely falling out with my mother over the pettiest matter. You know what? I'm done with this two bit place I'm forced to call my home town. If ever I come for the weekend, I leave feeling depressed and physically sick. I dread the bus ride, and I see less and less reward each time. My father chooses to spend his weekends at his summer house (and I don't blame him the slightest), to which he often enough invites me, his mother often enough is found either touring abroad or visiting her youngest child, his father is long not among us, rest his soul. My mother insists on these petty quarrels. Her parents are welcome to visit me whenever they'd like. Let those form the outskirts waste whatever (quite finite, let me assure you) vitality they posess finding this twisted parody of a city a better place to spend their weekends, let them have it, for all I care. I'm done with it. Done!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is now feeling quite free form the obligation of returning home regularly. And now that I'm free to take up other responsabilities, I'm off to pursue a dream I have nourished for quite some time. I'm getting a cat. A presian, too. You'll see, a lovely silver coloured persian. I'll be better off spending my weekends with him, too.
My kingdom for 50p
I suppose this makes my loyal subjects glad I'm not really king of anything I'd wholesale for half a pound. And yet...
I'm a sucker for some iconoclasty. Really, some small symbols just make me all warm and fuzzy inside and even somewhat mushy eyed, at times. Of course I expect we all to feel something at the sight of powerful symbols, such as the Hakken Kreuz, but I'm talking about lesser, somtimes ignored or overlooked things. For example, just the mention of the word "Odeon" sends shivers down my spine. Why? Well, for starters, it has quite a deep and powerful sownd to it, doesn't it? Secondly, it's a very prominent theater in Leicester Square, which, despite what some will say about it being "the Armpit of London", is one of the places I hold dearest to me, along with Picadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square.
At this point, I'd like to mention that despite being as much of a Star Wars enthusiast, even the likeness of Darth Vader doesn't make me feel anything even comparable to the delightful thrill of the word "Odeon". And he's a Sith Lord!
But Odeon isn't what I'd like to mention today, especially because there's very little you can do with 50p around the whole Odeon theme. You could give it to a busker, if one can be found, though. What I'd like to say is that just out of the blue I got this huge craving for a 50p coin. Monetary facevalue or the represantation by means of currency of the United Kingdom not withstanding, the real reason for this is that, on the back of just about every 50p coin circulating today, you can find what I believe to be the most beautiful depiction of Britannia. And guess what, that'a another of those icons.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark often wonders if his fixations are all healthy, but I won't let that become a fixation. I've enough of them already.
I'm a sucker for some iconoclasty. Really, some small symbols just make me all warm and fuzzy inside and even somewhat mushy eyed, at times. Of course I expect we all to feel something at the sight of powerful symbols, such as the Hakken Kreuz, but I'm talking about lesser, somtimes ignored or overlooked things. For example, just the mention of the word "Odeon" sends shivers down my spine. Why? Well, for starters, it has quite a deep and powerful sownd to it, doesn't it? Secondly, it's a very prominent theater in Leicester Square, which, despite what some will say about it being "the Armpit of London", is one of the places I hold dearest to me, along with Picadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square.
At this point, I'd like to mention that despite being as much of a Star Wars enthusiast, even the likeness of Darth Vader doesn't make me feel anything even comparable to the delightful thrill of the word "Odeon". And he's a Sith Lord!
But Odeon isn't what I'd like to mention today, especially because there's very little you can do with 50p around the whole Odeon theme. You could give it to a busker, if one can be found, though. What I'd like to say is that just out of the blue I got this huge craving for a 50p coin. Monetary facevalue or the represantation by means of currency of the United Kingdom not withstanding, the real reason for this is that, on the back of just about every 50p coin circulating today, you can find what I believe to be the most beautiful depiction of Britannia. And guess what, that'a another of those icons.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark often wonders if his fixations are all healthy, but I won't let that become a fixation. I've enough of them already.
How about that?
I guess this means it's time to stop taking INternet Personality tests.
Actually, That's what I said when my aura came back not having a colour, but still...
Not only that, but
So... beware!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark ponders the effects on history as we know it of replacing either Don Corleone with Albert Einstein or the other way around... Amusing...
Actually, That's what I said when my aura came back not having a colour, but still...
Not only that, but
So... beware!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark ponders the effects on history as we know it of replacing either Don Corleone with Albert Einstein or the other way around... Amusing...
The pen is mightier than the sword
Sure enough, but how do the needle and thread compare?
Let me take you back in time. Should we visit the Third Crusade, circa 1190? Well, consider the travel fares for such a trip... We're traveling on a budget, so let's go to some five years ago...
Cue in special time travel effects. And a DeLorean.
The year is 2002. The world has yet to recover from the events of 9/11 2001. George W. Bush is on his first term, prior to his election. Most importantly, in some two bit nigh highlandish town, I've just graduated from high school. Yay!
Yay! indeed. Where should we begin to count the reasons for me to rejoice? Is it the impending freedom from leaving the nest? Is it the fact that I'm about to take the fisrt few steps along the path to whatever I'll ultimately end up doing as a profession? How about the sheer antecipation of the joys of college environment? Sort of, really. What I was the GLaDest about was leaving the sowing circles.
Long introduction to the sowing circles: Just watch Pulp Fiction.
Short introduction to the sowing circles: in Pulp Fiction, discussing the matter of whether some never shown henchman was killed for performing some act of a sexual or erotic nature on the cheif gangster's wife, Uma Thurman dismisses said rumor as false and proceedes to accuse John Travolta and his kind of "being worse than a sowing circle", i.e., a group of people who'll join for some excuse with the ulterior motive of exchanging gossip.
So what do I refer to as "sowing circles"? Small (or not so small), hermetic groups of people gathering around to spew venom upon each other and especially upon those who won't, either because of inability or repulse, join one such group.
Well, doesn't time just fly by when you're having fun? It's 2007 all over again! A whole month of it yet to come and all. And here I stand (well, sit, really), remembering how I didn't expect to find sowing circles here, spinning their webs of hurtful rumors and weaving their cloth of rumor and intrigue. Silly me. I'd find them, alright, and none the kinder.
Really, I expected most of my peers to grow out of such a puerile stage in five years, and I'm glad to see many did, but looking upon the social landscape, what do I see?
Mesas. Not one of them Black, but plenty thereof, nonetheless. Mesas of groups cackling about lies told about others. And across a great chasm from them, a small plains of lush meadows where trees of thick branches provide ample shade and streams of fresh, crystaline water sliver, the shared land of Trekkies and Warsies.
Granted, not all inhabitants of this little locus amoenus are either fans of Star Trek or of Star Wars, but, rest assured, none of them are in a sowing circle, or do they even relate to that ilk.
As a trivia factoid, how to recognise them at a glance? Not such an easy task, but here's a tested and true method: Simply ask either "What's your favourite episode?" or "Who's the better captain, Kirk or Piccard?". I trust I need not explain which question appeals to which group, but lets go over the possible answers:
- Episode I, Episode VI: Could be a Warsie. Odds are, however, it's a Trekkie posing as a Warsie for whatever reason. Could be neither a Trekkie nor a Warsie nor a Snowflake.
- Episode V, Episode II: Most likely a Warsie. Possibly a well informed Trekkie or Snowflake posing as a Warsie for whatever reason.
- Episode III, Episode IV: Could be one of the very rare Warsies who honestly feel either of these two is the best, or, just as likely, a reasonably informed Trekkie or Snowflake posing as a Warsie for whatever reason.
- I don't really like Star Wars...: Not a Warsie, that's a given. Certainly either a Trekkie or a Snowflake. Definitely, however, not a Seamstress (i.e., a member of a sowing circle).
- Kirk, Piccard: Again, not a Seamstress. Most likely a Trekkie, although this could just as well be a Warsie or a Snowflake posing as a Trekkie for whatever reason. If, however, the response refers to any other spin-off of the original Star Trek show, it could hardly not be a Trekkie.
- I'm not really into Star Trek: Most usually a Warsie. Often enough a Snowflake. Not a Trekkie. Again, not a Seamstress.
And now the answer you've been waiting for, the one which plainly lays it out, fair and square, that you've just come face to face with a Seamstress...
To fully understand the relation, however, you need to comprehend how a Seamstress regards these matters. To a Seamstress, this hardly important matter denotes one's belonging in a group, and, thus, entirely defines an individual. No previous answer is acceptable to a Seamstress; to side with eiter side, the so-called "sci-fi geeks", is worse than none bar not siding with anyone, which constitutes a status-threatening, and, thus, life-threatening situation. The only way a Seamstress can concieve to rid him/herself of said imbroglio is, unchangingly, to mock their interloper, scorn their preferences and utter some veiled insult, with a very much unveiled insult chaser, thus (in their needle-and-thread minds) saving face and themselves. So, without further ado, for your comfort and enjoyment, here's a sample answer from a Seamstress:
"What? What are you talking about? That's rubbish! lol! Only lonely pathetic fat blokes with no life watch that sort of crap! You Geek! Haha!"
Interesting enough, some Seamstresses will pronounce "lol" as any other word. I can only suppose it gives them some sort of status boost the likes of "I use trendy thechy terms in everyday life, thus, I'm trendy and techy-savy. I must be cool."
This is more than bound to happen to you in some way or another, if it hasn't already. Know always that those whose tongue is as sharp as the needles they could very well wield will never know the peaceful joys of our little haven.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark should probably explain the use of the word Snowflake as a fourth group, and third among the Peaceful Plains. Remember always that snowflakes are sure to be found in a Blizzard.
Let me take you back in time. Should we visit the Third Crusade, circa 1190? Well, consider the travel fares for such a trip... We're traveling on a budget, so let's go to some five years ago...
Cue in special time travel effects. And a DeLorean.
The year is 2002. The world has yet to recover from the events of 9/11 2001. George W. Bush is on his first term, prior to his election. Most importantly, in some two bit nigh highlandish town, I've just graduated from high school. Yay!
Yay! indeed. Where should we begin to count the reasons for me to rejoice? Is it the impending freedom from leaving the nest? Is it the fact that I'm about to take the fisrt few steps along the path to whatever I'll ultimately end up doing as a profession? How about the sheer antecipation of the joys of college environment? Sort of, really. What I was the GLaDest about was leaving the sowing circles.
Long introduction to the sowing circles: Just watch Pulp Fiction.
Short introduction to the sowing circles: in Pulp Fiction, discussing the matter of whether some never shown henchman was killed for performing some act of a sexual or erotic nature on the cheif gangster's wife, Uma Thurman dismisses said rumor as false and proceedes to accuse John Travolta and his kind of "being worse than a sowing circle", i.e., a group of people who'll join for some excuse with the ulterior motive of exchanging gossip.
So what do I refer to as "sowing circles"? Small (or not so small), hermetic groups of people gathering around to spew venom upon each other and especially upon those who won't, either because of inability or repulse, join one such group.
Well, doesn't time just fly by when you're having fun? It's 2007 all over again! A whole month of it yet to come and all. And here I stand (well, sit, really), remembering how I didn't expect to find sowing circles here, spinning their webs of hurtful rumors and weaving their cloth of rumor and intrigue. Silly me. I'd find them, alright, and none the kinder.
Really, I expected most of my peers to grow out of such a puerile stage in five years, and I'm glad to see many did, but looking upon the social landscape, what do I see?
Mesas. Not one of them Black, but plenty thereof, nonetheless. Mesas of groups cackling about lies told about others. And across a great chasm from them, a small plains of lush meadows where trees of thick branches provide ample shade and streams of fresh, crystaline water sliver, the shared land of Trekkies and Warsies.
Granted, not all inhabitants of this little locus amoenus are either fans of Star Trek or of Star Wars, but, rest assured, none of them are in a sowing circle, or do they even relate to that ilk.
As a trivia factoid, how to recognise them at a glance? Not such an easy task, but here's a tested and true method: Simply ask either "What's your favourite episode?" or "Who's the better captain, Kirk or Piccard?". I trust I need not explain which question appeals to which group, but lets go over the possible answers:
- Episode I, Episode VI: Could be a Warsie. Odds are, however, it's a Trekkie posing as a Warsie for whatever reason. Could be neither a Trekkie nor a Warsie nor a Snowflake.
- Episode V, Episode II: Most likely a Warsie. Possibly a well informed Trekkie or Snowflake posing as a Warsie for whatever reason.
- Episode III, Episode IV: Could be one of the very rare Warsies who honestly feel either of these two is the best, or, just as likely, a reasonably informed Trekkie or Snowflake posing as a Warsie for whatever reason.
- I don't really like Star Wars...: Not a Warsie, that's a given. Certainly either a Trekkie or a Snowflake. Definitely, however, not a Seamstress (i.e., a member of a sowing circle).
- Kirk, Piccard: Again, not a Seamstress. Most likely a Trekkie, although this could just as well be a Warsie or a Snowflake posing as a Trekkie for whatever reason. If, however, the response refers to any other spin-off of the original Star Trek show, it could hardly not be a Trekkie.
- I'm not really into Star Trek: Most usually a Warsie. Often enough a Snowflake. Not a Trekkie. Again, not a Seamstress.
And now the answer you've been waiting for, the one which plainly lays it out, fair and square, that you've just come face to face with a Seamstress...
To fully understand the relation, however, you need to comprehend how a Seamstress regards these matters. To a Seamstress, this hardly important matter denotes one's belonging in a group, and, thus, entirely defines an individual. No previous answer is acceptable to a Seamstress; to side with eiter side, the so-called "sci-fi geeks", is worse than none bar not siding with anyone, which constitutes a status-threatening, and, thus, life-threatening situation. The only way a Seamstress can concieve to rid him/herself of said imbroglio is, unchangingly, to mock their interloper, scorn their preferences and utter some veiled insult, with a very much unveiled insult chaser, thus (in their needle-and-thread minds) saving face and themselves. So, without further ado, for your comfort and enjoyment, here's a sample answer from a Seamstress:
"What? What are you talking about? That's rubbish! lol! Only lonely pathetic fat blokes with no life watch that sort of crap! You Geek! Haha!"
Interesting enough, some Seamstresses will pronounce "lol" as any other word. I can only suppose it gives them some sort of status boost the likes of "I use trendy thechy terms in everyday life, thus, I'm trendy and techy-savy. I must be cool."
This is more than bound to happen to you in some way or another, if it hasn't already. Know always that those whose tongue is as sharp as the needles they could very well wield will never know the peaceful joys of our little haven.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark should probably explain the use of the word Snowflake as a fourth group, and third among the Peaceful Plains. Remember always that snowflakes are sure to be found in a Blizzard.
Remember!
Remember, remember, the fifth of November
The gunpowder treason and plot
I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
'Twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parliament
Poor old England to overthrow
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!
A penny loaf to feed ol' Pope,
A farthing cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down,
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head,
Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!
Well I couldn't very well leave the day when we celebrate the defining influence to my (second) favourite movie ever go by unnoticed, could I? And, in an unprecedented event, both the Pope and God were mentioned in this ateistic blog
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark counts the days. 52 remain. And a very merry Guy Fawkes day to you all. Except Acer Care. They sent me a motherboard with a dead CMOS chip battery. Will they ever learn?
The gunpowder treason and plot
I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
'Twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parliament
Poor old England to overthrow
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!
A penny loaf to feed ol' Pope,
A farthing cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down,
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head,
Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!
Well I couldn't very well leave the day when we celebrate the defining influence to my (second) favourite movie ever go by unnoticed, could I? And, in an unprecedented event, both the Pope and God were mentioned in this ateistic blog
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark counts the days. 52 remain. And a very merry Guy Fawkes day to you all. Except Acer Care. They sent me a motherboard with a dead CMOS chip battery. Will they ever learn?
Google Goodness
First of all, this is not an ad for Google or even a praise. Well, a tiny bit of a praise, in a way, I suppose... but that's it!
So I, like just about everyone else, have a Gmail account. Most of the time, the default spam filter does a pretty good job (and sometimes, it doesn't), sending nearly all of my spam to an aptly named spam folder. Mails in said folder are even automatically deleted after some time, just so I don't have to bother with that chore. Ripper! I still like to go there and delete them manually, at any rate. One of them, however, I've been saving up for this entry.
I didn't dare to open it, but the snippet (and thus I disclose what makes Gmail so good) is plentiful enough for material for this entry. It reads, and I quote, "hey darling arabianshark bad news buddy, you got a small dickie!(...)". The sender identifies herself as Chasity Subbert. Now I'd like to take a close look at the snippet, step by step. Join me, if you will.
"hey darling..."
Don't call me darling.
"... arabianshark..."
That's "Lord ArabianShark" to you.
"... bad news buddy,... "
a) What on earth is a "bad news buddy"?
b) I'm not your buddy.
"... you got a small dickie!"
a) No, I don't.
b) How would you know?
c) You, on the other hand...
So, on the whole, learn to punctuate, mind your manners, capitalise, think your words through and bugger off, "Chastiy Subbert". And get yourself some of your own remedy.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes you all a very merry All Hallows' Eve. And please don't come round my door in your most wierd costumes stammering for a "trick or treat". It's the wrong side of the Atlantic for that.
So I, like just about everyone else, have a Gmail account. Most of the time, the default spam filter does a pretty good job (and sometimes, it doesn't), sending nearly all of my spam to an aptly named spam folder. Mails in said folder are even automatically deleted after some time, just so I don't have to bother with that chore. Ripper! I still like to go there and delete them manually, at any rate. One of them, however, I've been saving up for this entry.
I didn't dare to open it, but the snippet (and thus I disclose what makes Gmail so good) is plentiful enough for material for this entry. It reads, and I quote, "hey darling arabianshark bad news buddy, you got a small dickie!(...)". The sender identifies herself as Chasity Subbert. Now I'd like to take a close look at the snippet, step by step. Join me, if you will.
"hey darling..."
Don't call me darling.
"... arabianshark..."
That's "Lord ArabianShark" to you.
"... bad news buddy,... "
a) What on earth is a "bad news buddy"?
b) I'm not your buddy.
"... you got a small dickie!"
a) No, I don't.
b) How would you know?
c) You, on the other hand...
So, on the whole, learn to punctuate, mind your manners, capitalise, think your words through and bugger off, "Chastiy Subbert". And get yourself some of your own remedy.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wishes you all a very merry All Hallows' Eve. And please don't come round my door in your most wierd costumes stammering for a "trick or treat". It's the wrong side of the Atlantic for that.
How sad...
I've been meaning to post this for some time now. Now's a good a time as any other.
A week or so ago I was having dinner at the usual place, by myself, as usual (turns out not many people like the place where I usually go for dinner). A young woman caught my sight.
Nothing much was so remarkable about her. Plain clothes. Plain bluish sweater. Jeans. Red high heels, which she dangled from one foot as she kept her legs crossed at the knees. A shopping bag from some well known designer label. So what's to say?
She hardly touched her salad. So I hear the most caloric salad at this place has as many calories as a hamburger (mind you, there's no way it has as much fat, though, so it's probably far better calories, if such thing exists, and the portions are well beyond a single hamburger), but dieting didn't seem a factor. Ever so often she'd reach for her mobile, check for messages or calls, then rest it on her chin and stare off into the distance, as though expecting a message or a call that wouldn't come.
She left before I did. All the time she just looked so sad... she just had "Lonely Heart" plastered all over her. How sad is it, that I, the lonliest heart I know (likely ex aequo with several others, but still), take pitty on someone for this same reason?
I had never seen her before, haven't since, and if I do, chances are I won't recognise her, but, for her especially (and all of you as well)
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would have thought Snow White would have caught at least one voter's fancy. Time for a new poll, I see...
A week or so ago I was having dinner at the usual place, by myself, as usual (turns out not many people like the place where I usually go for dinner). A young woman caught my sight.
Nothing much was so remarkable about her. Plain clothes. Plain bluish sweater. Jeans. Red high heels, which she dangled from one foot as she kept her legs crossed at the knees. A shopping bag from some well known designer label. So what's to say?
She hardly touched her salad. So I hear the most caloric salad at this place has as many calories as a hamburger (mind you, there's no way it has as much fat, though, so it's probably far better calories, if such thing exists, and the portions are well beyond a single hamburger), but dieting didn't seem a factor. Ever so often she'd reach for her mobile, check for messages or calls, then rest it on her chin and stare off into the distance, as though expecting a message or a call that wouldn't come.
She left before I did. All the time she just looked so sad... she just had "Lonely Heart" plastered all over her. How sad is it, that I, the lonliest heart I know (likely ex aequo with several others, but still), take pitty on someone for this same reason?
I had never seen her before, haven't since, and if I do, chances are I won't recognise her, but, for her especially (and all of you as well)
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would have thought Snow White would have caught at least one voter's fancy. Time for a new poll, I see...
Now Paging Dr. Freud
Today we're going to take a trip into the deepest corners of my psique. OK, some deep corners of my psique. Deep-ish. We're going there. Pack light.
So last night I had the strangest dream. Right off the bat, has it ever happend to you to see something or someone in a dream and even though it looks little or nothing like someone or something that actually exists in real life, you just know it's a depiction of that? Hold on to that thought, it'll become significant soon.
So I'm at this house, which looks familiar, terribly familiar, like I know every corner of it, yet I don't recall ever living or even being to any house like the one in the dream. I'm at this large hall with dark orange tile flooring (you think it's relevant?), and I know some friends I'm working with are in a nearby room. Suddently, red tinted watery drops (not blood, not by a long shot) dribble onto the floor. The drops turn to lines, and I can see quite the intricate pattern. It's quite pretty, really, until there's just so much of the stuff it's covering the entire floor. That's about when I realise it's red gelatin, before it solidifies. It just keeps coming and coming until I'm standing in a good inch or two of red goo. That's when I realise another mate of mine lives there, and I knock on his door to tell him what's going on. So he says, "Do you think I have a leaky pipe?". OK, who on Earth has gelatin pipelines running through their walls? Certainly not that friend of mine.
Later, I find myself in a somewhat post-coital moment with... how to put it? Do you know when there's someone you really lust after in an unrealistic way, because there's really no way your lustful fantasies, whatever they may be, would come to fruition? I'm talking about fantasising about some really hot actress or model or maybe your extremely attractive next door neighbour who's happily married - at any rate, the (potential and) unattainable object of your lust. So there's she is, pressing her lovely nude body against mine under the sheets, only she doesn't really look like her, yet I know who she's supposed to be.
And why did my very unused first name sound so right when she said it?
Which brings me to a though I had a while ago. Often that which we desire the most is, ultimately, unattainable. Not only would the fruitless pursuit of such goals result in nothing but frustration but also devotion to such purpose would invariably bring about distraction from all which we might not really desire, for we had never lacked, yet does indeed bring us great joy. But what about dreams and ambition? I say this as someone whose ambition does seem rather daunting, yet I've seen others succed at what I desire the most. It seems doable, even if it might not be easy, but in this light, I wonder if I'm not setting myself up for disgrace here. Where does one draw the line?
Also, today, and I definitely did NOT dream this up, but when I was walking to class, at a road cross, this car comes up slowly and stops at the (yellow) traffic light. Then the light goes red, then my light goes green, I step onto the tarmac and the driver takes aim and drives off - and at me. Is there a hit on my head I should know of?
Tonight I was asked why I write about vampires. I had really never thought much about it, but now that I do, I realise that the myth of the human being turned into a vampire is a magnificent, although easy and unlikely, as esoterism usually presents itself at first glance, means to stave off pretty much everything that I fear: ageing, death, weakness, mediocrity, failure... never you mind that it comes at the (said to be terrible) price of never again be let into sunlight or that of needing a constant supply of human blood; I really don't regard that as much of a punishment.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to draw your attention to the fact that this is the 101st entry of my little blog that could. Thank you all for sticking with me through 101 rants of joy, rage and other silly stuff. You've been a wonderful crowd. Let's make it to 1001 together.
So last night I had the strangest dream. Right off the bat, has it ever happend to you to see something or someone in a dream and even though it looks little or nothing like someone or something that actually exists in real life, you just know it's a depiction of that? Hold on to that thought, it'll become significant soon.
So I'm at this house, which looks familiar, terribly familiar, like I know every corner of it, yet I don't recall ever living or even being to any house like the one in the dream. I'm at this large hall with dark orange tile flooring (you think it's relevant?), and I know some friends I'm working with are in a nearby room. Suddently, red tinted watery drops (not blood, not by a long shot) dribble onto the floor. The drops turn to lines, and I can see quite the intricate pattern. It's quite pretty, really, until there's just so much of the stuff it's covering the entire floor. That's about when I realise it's red gelatin, before it solidifies. It just keeps coming and coming until I'm standing in a good inch or two of red goo. That's when I realise another mate of mine lives there, and I knock on his door to tell him what's going on. So he says, "Do you think I have a leaky pipe?". OK, who on Earth has gelatin pipelines running through their walls? Certainly not that friend of mine.
Later, I find myself in a somewhat post-coital moment with... how to put it? Do you know when there's someone you really lust after in an unrealistic way, because there's really no way your lustful fantasies, whatever they may be, would come to fruition? I'm talking about fantasising about some really hot actress or model or maybe your extremely attractive next door neighbour who's happily married - at any rate, the (potential and) unattainable object of your lust. So there's she is, pressing her lovely nude body against mine under the sheets, only she doesn't really look like her, yet I know who she's supposed to be.
And why did my very unused first name sound so right when she said it?
Which brings me to a though I had a while ago. Often that which we desire the most is, ultimately, unattainable. Not only would the fruitless pursuit of such goals result in nothing but frustration but also devotion to such purpose would invariably bring about distraction from all which we might not really desire, for we had never lacked, yet does indeed bring us great joy. But what about dreams and ambition? I say this as someone whose ambition does seem rather daunting, yet I've seen others succed at what I desire the most. It seems doable, even if it might not be easy, but in this light, I wonder if I'm not setting myself up for disgrace here. Where does one draw the line?
Also, today, and I definitely did NOT dream this up, but when I was walking to class, at a road cross, this car comes up slowly and stops at the (yellow) traffic light. Then the light goes red, then my light goes green, I step onto the tarmac and the driver takes aim and drives off - and at me. Is there a hit on my head I should know of?
Tonight I was asked why I write about vampires. I had really never thought much about it, but now that I do, I realise that the myth of the human being turned into a vampire is a magnificent, although easy and unlikely, as esoterism usually presents itself at first glance, means to stave off pretty much everything that I fear: ageing, death, weakness, mediocrity, failure... never you mind that it comes at the (said to be terrible) price of never again be let into sunlight or that of needing a constant supply of human blood; I really don't regard that as much of a punishment.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to draw your attention to the fact that this is the 101st entry of my little blog that could. Thank you all for sticking with me through 101 rants of joy, rage and other silly stuff. You've been a wonderful crowd. Let's make it to 1001 together.
DHL Argh
Last time I posted I was a bit angry. Come to think of it, just as I am now.
So you might remember my tale of a laptop of mine which has had quite the colourful tale of trips to the warranty repair shop. A couple of weeks ago I thought of sending it for yet another run.
DHL picked it up as schedulled, no worried there. Repairs took as long as I expected, and since my complints were exacly as the previous time, I expect repairs were adequate and successful. Delivery by DHL, however, hasn't gone quite as smoothly.
Last Monday they tried to deliver it, but, alas, I wasn't home. So they left a notification slip in my mailbox, telling me to call their customer support line so that a delivery could be schedulled. I didn't read it until after 7:00 p.m., when I arrived from class, and, sure enough, it was far too late to schedulle a delivery for that day. The young lady on the other end of the line (whose name, even though she told me, I can't, for the life of me, recall. Let's call her Tania, which I'm fairly sure wasn't her name, but is a pretty name nonetheless) offered to schedulle a delivery for the next day, which I declined, for I wouldn't be able to take it either, so I asked her to schedulle it for Thursday morning, as I had some free time.
Come Thrursday morning, I was quite eager to get the delivery business over with swiftly, for the previous Wednesday had been far busier than I had antecipated, and some items of my "to do" list had found their way to that very same Thursday morning. But come 1:00 p.m. DHL people were nowhere to be seen. As I returned home that evening, late at 8:00 p.m., I checked my mailbox for more notification slips, from Tuesday and Wednesday. So they tried to deliver Monday, when I couldn't be there, Tuesday and Wednesday, when I told them I wouldn't be able to be there, but come Thursday, when I had schedulled it, they skip it? Sure enough, I called them.
The gentleman who ansewred (whose name, again, I didn't memorise. Let him become, for now, known as Paul) apologised profusely (not really... briefly is more like it) and stated that the package hadn't been delivered "by mistake", and promptly schedulled delivery for the folowing day, i. e., yesterday morning. Now, Friday is usually when I make a very dreary trip back to my hometown for the weekend, and much as I detest the trip itself, I just want to make it early so it can be over with as quickly as I can, yet I had to wait again until the early afternoon for it. When at 12:30 p.m. I had heard nary a peep from DHL I called them (for the third time that morning), and after two empty promises that they'd call me as soon as they had more information (or, in reality, any information at all), they tell me the package hasn't been dispatched. I demanded to speak to someone who might be able to dispatch it, or at least tell me why, for the second time in as many days, they're missing their schedulle. So this young lady (whose name I do recall, for a change) explains to me that Tania did schedulle a delivery for the 11th... of November! And Paul made no attempt to rectify this mistake. The result: two days wasted for me, plus a whole weekend of not working on that laptop and a promise (really, how much weight do DHL promises carry right now?) that my laptop will be delivered Monday morning.
Really, November 11th? I get it, 10 and 11 are similar numbers. After all, we can't all be so fortunate to have such a huge difference in the numbers of our fingers and our brain cells. And what, do you suppose, will become of Tania and Paul? A slap on the wrist? Not literally, I trust. Their salaries docked? Unlikely. A permanent pay cut? Even more unlikely. To be strapped naked by the wrists and ankles to a St. Andrew's cross and flogged with a coarse leather flogger while jumper cables are attached to their nipples and fiery hot coals smoulder just inches from their bottoms? Tremendously more so.
And don't let me catch Tania and Paul uttering a peep of complaint about how stressful it is to deal with irate customers on the phone; they wouldn't know irate if it stabbed them in the genitals with a red hot poker.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark just got his hands on a recording of Mozart's Requiem in D minor by the Munich Choir with organ, his very latest fetish...
So you might remember my tale of a laptop of mine which has had quite the colourful tale of trips to the warranty repair shop. A couple of weeks ago I thought of sending it for yet another run.
DHL picked it up as schedulled, no worried there. Repairs took as long as I expected, and since my complints were exacly as the previous time, I expect repairs were adequate and successful. Delivery by DHL, however, hasn't gone quite as smoothly.
Last Monday they tried to deliver it, but, alas, I wasn't home. So they left a notification slip in my mailbox, telling me to call their customer support line so that a delivery could be schedulled. I didn't read it until after 7:00 p.m., when I arrived from class, and, sure enough, it was far too late to schedulle a delivery for that day. The young lady on the other end of the line (whose name, even though she told me, I can't, for the life of me, recall. Let's call her Tania, which I'm fairly sure wasn't her name, but is a pretty name nonetheless) offered to schedulle a delivery for the next day, which I declined, for I wouldn't be able to take it either, so I asked her to schedulle it for Thursday morning, as I had some free time.
Come Thrursday morning, I was quite eager to get the delivery business over with swiftly, for the previous Wednesday had been far busier than I had antecipated, and some items of my "to do" list had found their way to that very same Thursday morning. But come 1:00 p.m. DHL people were nowhere to be seen. As I returned home that evening, late at 8:00 p.m., I checked my mailbox for more notification slips, from Tuesday and Wednesday. So they tried to deliver Monday, when I couldn't be there, Tuesday and Wednesday, when I told them I wouldn't be able to be there, but come Thursday, when I had schedulled it, they skip it? Sure enough, I called them.
The gentleman who ansewred (whose name, again, I didn't memorise. Let him become, for now, known as Paul) apologised profusely (not really... briefly is more like it) and stated that the package hadn't been delivered "by mistake", and promptly schedulled delivery for the folowing day, i. e., yesterday morning. Now, Friday is usually when I make a very dreary trip back to my hometown for the weekend, and much as I detest the trip itself, I just want to make it early so it can be over with as quickly as I can, yet I had to wait again until the early afternoon for it. When at 12:30 p.m. I had heard nary a peep from DHL I called them (for the third time that morning), and after two empty promises that they'd call me as soon as they had more information (or, in reality, any information at all), they tell me the package hasn't been dispatched. I demanded to speak to someone who might be able to dispatch it, or at least tell me why, for the second time in as many days, they're missing their schedulle. So this young lady (whose name I do recall, for a change) explains to me that Tania did schedulle a delivery for the 11th... of November! And Paul made no attempt to rectify this mistake. The result: two days wasted for me, plus a whole weekend of not working on that laptop and a promise (really, how much weight do DHL promises carry right now?) that my laptop will be delivered Monday morning.
Really, November 11th? I get it, 10 and 11 are similar numbers. After all, we can't all be so fortunate to have such a huge difference in the numbers of our fingers and our brain cells. And what, do you suppose, will become of Tania and Paul? A slap on the wrist? Not literally, I trust. Their salaries docked? Unlikely. A permanent pay cut? Even more unlikely. To be strapped naked by the wrists and ankles to a St. Andrew's cross and flogged with a coarse leather flogger while jumper cables are attached to their nipples and fiery hot coals smoulder just inches from their bottoms? Tremendously more so.
And don't let me catch Tania and Paul uttering a peep of complaint about how stressful it is to deal with irate customers on the phone; they wouldn't know irate if it stabbed them in the genitals with a red hot poker.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark just got his hands on a recording of Mozart's Requiem in D minor by the Munich Choir with organ, his very latest fetish...
Eleanor Rigby
... is a song by 1960's famous Fab 4, The Beatles. Sad, although beautiful, and accompanied by a most fabulous combination of only violins and cellos. Oh, and look, it's time for a blog entry.
I can't help to wonder why is it that the day our Republic was born is marked by a day off to just about everyone. What does this imply? That our Republic is borne of sloth and mediocrity? That the archetypal attitude of our regime is inaction? Or is it something a little more intricate, such as "Republic says: Up yours, citizen!"? How so? read on... I have you hooked now... or have I?
So I need a new pair of trousers. The one I had since before the summer finally became worn off to the point of tearing (and it's always the same spot...), and I think it's safe to assume that we all agree that I should wear trousers. Think of the implications of the contrary... So I figure, there's a store I use to go to get them, I'll use my free time on Friday (go figure, I couldn't possibly assign any classes to Fridays this semester...). It's a bit far away, meaning not even in the same city where I live, but I was going to go up north for the weekend anyway, it's just a small detour from my originally intended route. Before I call it in for the weekend, however, I should go to the launderette to drop off my dirty laundry for the weekend, go to the copy shop to get some papers copied and go to the courthouse to drop off said copies (appearentely I'm something along the lines of an "accidental intervenient" in something I could hardly care any less about; it doesn't concern me at all, yet I must draw from my personal time and resources to help the powers that be. My tax money at work. I pay so that some institution can send crude letters to my home demanding that I work for them for free and at my own expense. Thanks, lads). Only when I found myself before a very closed launderette did I realise it was an institutional holiday. Meaning "Sorry, old chum, so much for the best laid plans of mice and men. And yours, too."
So what are the implications of this? Well, right off the bat, I still need trousers, and I had to make do with some hedious rag I had bought I-forget-how-many-months ago just to make do with (rather figures, doesn't it?), which I can't wait to get out and rid of. But that will have to wait until no sooner than Wednesday (when, go figure, I couldn't manage to squeeze a single class either). Same goes for just about everything else, meaning I'll run out of clean clothes, meaning yet another otherwise unnecessary expense. Make no mistake, I have nothing against unnecessary expense; I buy stuff I don't need, as we all do, and it doesn't bother me for as long as I get some enjoiment out of my purchase, a little tick for my tack, but it absolutely revolts me to be forced or as much as coherced into buying when I really don't want to. Which brings me to...
My shirt. It's fabric (cotton, I think. Doesn't look or feel like polyester), it's got little buttons and a collar. Nothing remarkable about it. I need another shirt, because they come clean from the store (right?). So I set about to buy one. Now, I'm not too picky about shirts, I only have two rules: it mustn't be outrageously designed (think something along the likes of a big scrape or a taer or gash across the back or one long sleeve and a short one or flaring sleeve cuffs... you get the picture) and it must be black. So where does this leave me? What stores carry non-outrageous, black shirts? Plenty, really, nothing too remarkable about that. It does make me wonder exacly what message or inkling lurks behind the fact that no store has a menswear section at least as large as a womenswear section (one store in particular had male manequins and male clothes on the window, yet carried only ladies clothes. Go figure...). So what am I going to complain about? Fitting!
OK, so I'm fat. I'll be blunt about it, I am fat. I was quite lean last December, but my hernia and all the implications there of made me gain a lot of weight. Now I do understand that it might be far more fun and far easier to design clothes for very tall and slim models, such as Tricia Helfer than the likes of me, but here's a little nibble of fact for all clothes designers out there: Fat people need clothes too! I tried on what felt like a dozen different shirts until I found one that fit in some five different stores, under blazing hot halogen lamps in cramped little dressing rooms to hardly any avail. So here's a hint t designers, the next time you're enjoying your fine Coq au Vin or Vol au Vent or whatnot-UHN, ficture some fat bloke sitting across the table from you, stark naked, with rolling flabs of fat stacking on his sides like puncured tyres and man-boobs bigger than the firm supple breast of any female model you've ever worked with. Ficture the sweaty grime collecting in the furrows of their chins (If they're going to walk agout naked, i's bound to happen), and the lint gathering in their navel. then after you choke to near asphixiation and make a mess with fine spilt red wine on the otherwise immaculate white tablecloth of whatever gourmet diner you were, make me a suitable shirt, you pompous buffoon!
I'm sorry, I'm just still a bit angry about this...
Requiem aeternum dona eis et lux perpetua luceat eis
I mean
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark thought that last entry was worth at least a single ton comment... I guess mechanical watchmaking isn't as popular as I thought it to be. But the poll just got an extension.
I can't help to wonder why is it that the day our Republic was born is marked by a day off to just about everyone. What does this imply? That our Republic is borne of sloth and mediocrity? That the archetypal attitude of our regime is inaction? Or is it something a little more intricate, such as "Republic says: Up yours, citizen!"? How so? read on... I have you hooked now... or have I?
So I need a new pair of trousers. The one I had since before the summer finally became worn off to the point of tearing (and it's always the same spot...), and I think it's safe to assume that we all agree that I should wear trousers. Think of the implications of the contrary... So I figure, there's a store I use to go to get them, I'll use my free time on Friday (go figure, I couldn't possibly assign any classes to Fridays this semester...). It's a bit far away, meaning not even in the same city where I live, but I was going to go up north for the weekend anyway, it's just a small detour from my originally intended route. Before I call it in for the weekend, however, I should go to the launderette to drop off my dirty laundry for the weekend, go to the copy shop to get some papers copied and go to the courthouse to drop off said copies (appearentely I'm something along the lines of an "accidental intervenient" in something I could hardly care any less about; it doesn't concern me at all, yet I must draw from my personal time and resources to help the powers that be. My tax money at work. I pay so that some institution can send crude letters to my home demanding that I work for them for free and at my own expense. Thanks, lads). Only when I found myself before a very closed launderette did I realise it was an institutional holiday. Meaning "Sorry, old chum, so much for the best laid plans of mice and men. And yours, too."
So what are the implications of this? Well, right off the bat, I still need trousers, and I had to make do with some hedious rag I had bought I-forget-how-many-months ago just to make do with (rather figures, doesn't it?), which I can't wait to get out and rid of. But that will have to wait until no sooner than Wednesday (when, go figure, I couldn't manage to squeeze a single class either). Same goes for just about everything else, meaning I'll run out of clean clothes, meaning yet another otherwise unnecessary expense. Make no mistake, I have nothing against unnecessary expense; I buy stuff I don't need, as we all do, and it doesn't bother me for as long as I get some enjoiment out of my purchase, a little tick for my tack, but it absolutely revolts me to be forced or as much as coherced into buying when I really don't want to. Which brings me to...
My shirt. It's fabric (cotton, I think. Doesn't look or feel like polyester), it's got little buttons and a collar. Nothing remarkable about it. I need another shirt, because they come clean from the store (right?). So I set about to buy one. Now, I'm not too picky about shirts, I only have two rules: it mustn't be outrageously designed (think something along the likes of a big scrape or a taer or gash across the back or one long sleeve and a short one or flaring sleeve cuffs... you get the picture) and it must be black. So where does this leave me? What stores carry non-outrageous, black shirts? Plenty, really, nothing too remarkable about that. It does make me wonder exacly what message or inkling lurks behind the fact that no store has a menswear section at least as large as a womenswear section (one store in particular had male manequins and male clothes on the window, yet carried only ladies clothes. Go figure...). So what am I going to complain about? Fitting!
OK, so I'm fat. I'll be blunt about it, I am fat. I was quite lean last December, but my hernia and all the implications there of made me gain a lot of weight. Now I do understand that it might be far more fun and far easier to design clothes for very tall and slim models, such as Tricia Helfer than the likes of me, but here's a little nibble of fact for all clothes designers out there: Fat people need clothes too! I tried on what felt like a dozen different shirts until I found one that fit in some five different stores, under blazing hot halogen lamps in cramped little dressing rooms to hardly any avail. So here's a hint t designers, the next time you're enjoying your fine Coq au Vin or Vol au Vent or whatnot-UHN, ficture some fat bloke sitting across the table from you, stark naked, with rolling flabs of fat stacking on his sides like puncured tyres and man-boobs bigger than the firm supple breast of any female model you've ever worked with. Ficture the sweaty grime collecting in the furrows of their chins (If they're going to walk agout naked, i's bound to happen), and the lint gathering in their navel. then after you choke to near asphixiation and make a mess with fine spilt red wine on the otherwise immaculate white tablecloth of whatever gourmet diner you were, make me a suitable shirt, you pompous buffoon!
I'm sorry, I'm just still a bit angry about this...
Requiem aeternum dona eis et lux perpetua luceat eis
I mean
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark thought that last entry was worth at least a single ton comment... I guess mechanical watchmaking isn't as popular as I thought it to be. But the poll just got an extension.
We hardly knew ye
As some of you might know, I collect mechanical watches. Seldom will you see me with a quarts watch, except on summertime, when I'm likely to break out a Casio G Shock, because you don't want to bring a fine leather bracelet or a polished steel casing to a sandy beach. About a weak ago my father called me, offering me a deal.
It seems he had acquired a watch for himself, a new technology gimmick flagship from Jeager-LeCoultre, the Master Control watch with ceramic ball bearings. You see, ceramic ball bearings offer lower levels of friction and wear and tear, potentially decreasing the need for maintnance and lubrication while increasing accuracy and power reserve capacity. The thing is the days of 42 milimeter wide casings are well over and done with, and major watchmakers lean more and more towards larger sizes, such as 47 milimeters, whilst bullet makers stand adamantly in 9 milimeters. Such wide casings (for watches, I mean) don't go so well with my father's quite narrow wrists (nor do bullet casings or bullets, for that matter...), so he offered to trade... with me.
Quite the chance, I'd say, for me to introduce a new brand to my personal collection. Furthermore, I can't say no to dear daddy. But what to offrer in exchange? Omega, who made the no-longer-absolute majority of my watches, provided quite the solution, with their DeVille Co-Axial Chronometer Small Seconds model. I used to have two, of them: a terribly elegant one with black dial and black aligator leather bracelet and a near exact double, but with a white dial which clashes with most of my shirts, so I didn't wear it so often. So off it went to a better home...
This picture isn't of the actual watch, as you can see by the not-so-small seconds. It would seem that the actual small seconds model has been discontinued. All the better for whoever owns one of them, as their market value is sure to skyrocket. But I feel I struck quite the bargain...
... for, as you can see, this baby is nowhere behind the Omega fine watch in any aspect, be it technology (although it's a different technology), elegant simplicity or beauty. And it fits my wrist much better. Sure, it's not black dialed, but neither is it so white, so the clash won't be quite as violent. It's pretty...
Why does the mere mention of the word "Odeon" send shivers down my spine?
But this little wonder would turn out ont to be all the tick I'd get for my tack.
Dad would like me to have yet another watch, fresh off the Longines drawing board and a steal, he said, given the time and effort put into constructing such a watch, seeing as it comes with a chronographe and a complete calendar (and, as he forgot the recipt inside the walnut box, I agree). Enter the new Master Collection, the second Longines watch I own.
In Soviet Russia, watch wear YOU!!
And since we're on a bit of an image spree, I'd like to call back to the news of Glen Larson making a Knight Rider Movie. As it seems, Mr. Larson isn't the only one interested on a slice of the pie a talking car might bring in, and so Universal Studios, which once helped to make the original Knight Rider series (and then proceded to anihilate the whole franchise with such subpar works as Knight Rider 2000 and Team Knight Rider) wants in on this. For this effect, they plan to release a new series and a two hour TV movie. It seems they are legally allowed to make as much Knight Rider material as they please, for as long as it is only televised, as opposed to a theatrical movie, to which only Mr. Larson is entitled. A friend of his asked me for my help by bearing this seal as a token of my support. Ergo...
... just so you know where I stand.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will be returning to his usual hustle and bustle of classes tomorrow, with a brand new Algorithms course to begin with. New corse, same old teacher who finally explained phi bach when I started this blog. Psyched!!!
It seems he had acquired a watch for himself, a new technology gimmick flagship from Jeager-LeCoultre, the Master Control watch with ceramic ball bearings. You see, ceramic ball bearings offer lower levels of friction and wear and tear, potentially decreasing the need for maintnance and lubrication while increasing accuracy and power reserve capacity. The thing is the days of 42 milimeter wide casings are well over and done with, and major watchmakers lean more and more towards larger sizes, such as 47 milimeters, whilst bullet makers stand adamantly in 9 milimeters. Such wide casings (for watches, I mean) don't go so well with my father's quite narrow wrists (nor do bullet casings or bullets, for that matter...), so he offered to trade... with me.
Quite the chance, I'd say, for me to introduce a new brand to my personal collection. Furthermore, I can't say no to dear daddy. But what to offrer in exchange? Omega, who made the no-longer-absolute majority of my watches, provided quite the solution, with their DeVille Co-Axial Chronometer Small Seconds model. I used to have two, of them: a terribly elegant one with black dial and black aligator leather bracelet and a near exact double, but with a white dial which clashes with most of my shirts, so I didn't wear it so often. So off it went to a better home...
This picture isn't of the actual watch, as you can see by the not-so-small seconds. It would seem that the actual small seconds model has been discontinued. All the better for whoever owns one of them, as their market value is sure to skyrocket. But I feel I struck quite the bargain...
... for, as you can see, this baby is nowhere behind the Omega fine watch in any aspect, be it technology (although it's a different technology), elegant simplicity or beauty. And it fits my wrist much better. Sure, it's not black dialed, but neither is it so white, so the clash won't be quite as violent. It's pretty...
Why does the mere mention of the word "Odeon" send shivers down my spine?
But this little wonder would turn out ont to be all the tick I'd get for my tack.
Dad would like me to have yet another watch, fresh off the Longines drawing board and a steal, he said, given the time and effort put into constructing such a watch, seeing as it comes with a chronographe and a complete calendar (and, as he forgot the recipt inside the walnut box, I agree). Enter the new Master Collection, the second Longines watch I own.
In Soviet Russia, watch wear YOU!!
And since we're on a bit of an image spree, I'd like to call back to the news of Glen Larson making a Knight Rider Movie. As it seems, Mr. Larson isn't the only one interested on a slice of the pie a talking car might bring in, and so Universal Studios, which once helped to make the original Knight Rider series (and then proceded to anihilate the whole franchise with such subpar works as Knight Rider 2000 and Team Knight Rider) wants in on this. For this effect, they plan to release a new series and a two hour TV movie. It seems they are legally allowed to make as much Knight Rider material as they please, for as long as it is only televised, as opposed to a theatrical movie, to which only Mr. Larson is entitled. A friend of his asked me for my help by bearing this seal as a token of my support. Ergo...
... just so you know where I stand.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will be returning to his usual hustle and bustle of classes tomorrow, with a brand new Algorithms course to begin with. New corse, same old teacher who finally explained phi bach when I started this blog. Psyched!!!
Dieting
How many books have you ever seen on the shelves on the topic? How many tomes of wisdom promised fast weight loss, until the media drew the public's attention to the hazzards of such practices? How many books have you since seen promising long lasting results?
Well, I'm not about to unveil the great grand secret to swift, safe and permanent weight loss, but let's talk diets for a while...
Up until the Great Tragedy of 2006 (well, so what if I want to embellish the puny disgraces of my life? I like a little flair...) - that's my hernia, if you remember - I was quite lean, for myself and my long histoy of moderate obesity. Last summer I had undertaken a self constructed course of strict boiled white meat and regular exercise - which was, at some point, somewhat disheveled by a severe cold - to great effect. Then, unable to make the long-ish hike my dieting meant to prevent me from gaining it all back, I gained it all back. After my surgery, it was even worse. Then, this summer, I had planned to return to my strict diet and exercise plan, but, alas, my back wasn't healed enough. I couldn't exercise. And, without the seretonin from the exercise, I couldn't keep my spirits high enough to stick to my diet (hell, I couldn't even sleep right) and fell back into temptation. I managed minimal weight loss. Then summer vacationing ended and I tried another regime, one with a different, less strict diet of balanced meals of grilled meat or fish, vegetables and carbs, along with a 3 mile hike every other night. I managed to gain weight with that. Then, about two weeks ago, I went back to college to study up (to no avail). During that time, I found myself lazily ordering pizza up to three night per week, snacking on pastry and resorting to stress foods ever so often. I eevn found my new poison: creamed camambert cheese on crackers. Now that I came back home (let's see for how long...), I expected a major weight gain. So today, just after breakfast, I stepped on the scale. I hadn't put on a single pound! For my metric readers, that's about 450 grams. For my L.A. readers, I mean fat; grams aren't always heroin or cocaine. For my Australian readers, g'day, mate(s). So explain that to me?
At any rate, I worry. My back has been giving me no end of trouble, and I think I've spotted some troublesome aches on my right sciatic nerve branch. Don't you dare say a prayer for me, but do cross your fingers. Please?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will return to dieting soon enough. And this time, with a vengeance.
Well, I'm not about to unveil the great grand secret to swift, safe and permanent weight loss, but let's talk diets for a while...
Up until the Great Tragedy of 2006 (well, so what if I want to embellish the puny disgraces of my life? I like a little flair...) - that's my hernia, if you remember - I was quite lean, for myself and my long histoy of moderate obesity. Last summer I had undertaken a self constructed course of strict boiled white meat and regular exercise - which was, at some point, somewhat disheveled by a severe cold - to great effect. Then, unable to make the long-ish hike my dieting meant to prevent me from gaining it all back, I gained it all back. After my surgery, it was even worse. Then, this summer, I had planned to return to my strict diet and exercise plan, but, alas, my back wasn't healed enough. I couldn't exercise. And, without the seretonin from the exercise, I couldn't keep my spirits high enough to stick to my diet (hell, I couldn't even sleep right) and fell back into temptation. I managed minimal weight loss. Then summer vacationing ended and I tried another regime, one with a different, less strict diet of balanced meals of grilled meat or fish, vegetables and carbs, along with a 3 mile hike every other night. I managed to gain weight with that. Then, about two weeks ago, I went back to college to study up (to no avail). During that time, I found myself lazily ordering pizza up to three night per week, snacking on pastry and resorting to stress foods ever so often. I eevn found my new poison: creamed camambert cheese on crackers. Now that I came back home (let's see for how long...), I expected a major weight gain. So today, just after breakfast, I stepped on the scale. I hadn't put on a single pound! For my metric readers, that's about 450 grams. For my L.A. readers, I mean fat; grams aren't always heroin or cocaine. For my Australian readers, g'day, mate(s). So explain that to me?
At any rate, I worry. My back has been giving me no end of trouble, and I think I've spotted some troublesome aches on my right sciatic nerve branch. Don't you dare say a prayer for me, but do cross your fingers. Please?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will return to dieting soon enough. And this time, with a vengeance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
