We've come a long way since pannum et circences, you might say, but I beg to differ. Sure, pannum is no more bread or even brioche than ready made, mass produced, streamline packed, subliminally advertised junk of all sorts and circences is a far cry from slaves or convicts slain in an arena for fun, mostly because the arena is digital now, as are the gladiators and their likes. Nonetheless, it would seem that the pursuit for enlightment, knowledge and cold hard scientific fact has become rather unfashionable in the face of the most basic needs of simple nourishment and enterntainment.
Nothing wrong with that, really. Or perhaps we need a modern day Nero to burn this global Rome to the ground. I know I shouldn't be so lucky to turn to a pillar of salt.
So, gaming, then. Gaming, it appears, has become a major vertent of entertainment, today. Long gone are the days when an Atari 2600 was a kids toy and video games were merely novelties for the very young. It has becomme acceptable for adults to enjoy video games, and why not, when you think about the way games and their themes have grown to encompass just about all other aspects of entertainment.
I started gaming in the very early 90's, as a consequence of the dissemination of home gaming systems (I had a Sega Mega Drive for my birthday! Oh joy!), as opposed to the iconic arcades of the late 80's. Therefore, I have only a mild recollection of passing by arcades and wishing madly to go in and try out that dazzlingly wonderful world of flashing lights and beeping sounds that seemed so much fun from the outside, but, alas, no persons under 16 were ever admitted, and by the time I was 16 (and I had three home consoles under my belt), arcades were no more. Also, personal computers had grown to the point where they were afordable enough that just about every household had one sufficientely powerful to run games most arcade machines dared only dream of. And now, the market is veritably flooded with games and gaming systems, and I thought we'd take a look at the wide picture.
First of all, I'd like to make a remark on the evolution of games. My long gone Mega Drive (known as Genesis, across the pond) came with two standard gaming controllers. each had one (1) 8-way directional button and a grand total of three (3) buttons, plaus the start button, which was usually assigned to pausing the game, and, if it wasn't, odds were there was no option to pause the game (Hello, Mortal Kombat, who had the start button used to block, as punch, mid kick and high kick took up all of the other buttons, how do you do these days? How's the arthritis treating you?). Now, my X-Box 360 came with one standard controller with one 8-way directional button, two analogue thumbsticks, four action buttons, two shoulder (or bumper) buttons, two triggers, start feature button, back feature button and the iconic X-Box Dashboard button. You'd think that with this greatly enchanced range of controls (even more so when you think of combinations), games could offer a much wider range of complexity, but I just don't see that happening.In fact, it seems to me that game mechanics have become simpler than ever, but not "streamlines" simpler, rather "dumbed down" simpler. See, one game I used to love to bits was Jane's Fighters Anthology. Long before computer games came in ultra thin DVD cases (as some of you might remember, if Alzheimer's allows you to), they used to come in these shoeboxes you could fit nearly anything into. That was enough for a jewel case for the game disc, plenty of promotional material and a propper instruction manual, and Fighter's Anthology had a big one. Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw once complained that "The Witcher" came with an instruction manual "you could bludgeon goats to death with". Well, that's his opinion, I din't think it was all that large, but maybe that was because I had read all of Fighter Anthology instruction manual, and that wasn't stapled together, it was properly bound, like a book. It had a good half-inch thick spine, and it wasn't merely "press Ctrl to fire" (obviously), it was a comprehensive manual of flight physics, tactical maneouvers, dogfight strategies, flight patterns, weapons selection and stuff I can't even begin to remember (that was almost fifteen years ago, you know). Some of you, Yahtzee among them, I suppose, might shudder at the thought of a game needing a manual the size of a small Thesaurus, but bear two things in mind: first, you didn't need to memorize the whole thing, not by a long shot, to be able to play the game; and second, all the added content contributed immensely to the enjoiment of the game. All I'm trying to say is I miss chunky manuals. Refering players t online tutorials all the time seems to be today's trend, but I still like the thought of being put in command of my character or whatever my role is and to be expected to know the controls, rather than being condescendingly taught to press X not to die.
Another thing I'd like to talk about is the inordinate quantity of systems available for today's gamer. Step into any games store and you'll find a dozen sections. Often enough, this means developers have to make each game available to each system. Most any game you can buy today has a version for PC, X-Box 360, Wii (a silly name for a silly console, wouldn't you say?), Nintendo DS, Playstation 2 (it's still kicking, the old girl!), Playstation Portable (another odd concept, if you ask me, but I'll let it slide in face of it's performance) and Playstation 3. I suppose you can plainly understand the pressure on game makers not to ostracize any gamers and try to cover all their bases, but how do you think it reflects on the quality of games? This isn't to say that the quality of a game is inversely proportional to the number of platforms it can run on, but wouldn't you say that a game that is developped for a particular platform has the potential to be much better than another game which was made bearing in mind that each aspect has to be compatible with each of the platforms it's goimg to be run on? Frankly, I think that diminuishes a gamer's experience. If I had my way, everybody would realise that with tons of games comming out each year, genres would be sufficientely distributed across the plethora of platforms that if each game was developped for a single system, it really wouldn't be that much of a deal. or maybe we could go the other way around and decide that each console was best suited for a particular genre, and gamers would buy a console based on their preference of genre rather than agonize over specs, politics and predictions of what might come to pass in the gaming panorama. Wouldn't it be great if there was a console best suited for mindless FPS types, another for single minded racing game types and so on? It would certainly simplify things a lot. Or maybe we should all plainly discard the thought of consoles and focus on developping games for the PC.
On the subject of hurting the games industry, hello, there, Electronic Arts. Hopefully, you've realised by now how moronic ypu concept of renting games was when you created that presposterous arrangement for Spore. I can only hope the expansion pack doesn't excpand on that idea, even though I'm only scarcely considering it. But you thoughts on The Sims 3 are worthy of punishment by St. Catherine's wheel, followed by decapitation with a rusty spoon. Ostracising players who try to improve their own gaming experinece as well as others' by adding custom modified objects is not OK. Not even in the planes of Oblivion (now that was a great game. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but the potential was all there). Now I'm told that Command and Conquer 4 will have an online based player progression, and after I read up on it for a few minutes, I don't think that's a bad thing, but I can't help but wonder the way's You'll find to muck it all up.
On a lighter note, olly olly oxen free, Starcraft 2.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is not a hardcore gamer, but, surprisingly, neither are most game developers, I hear.
Out for drinks
Most of you might know I'm not a heavy drinker. I'll have the odd beer with the mates at gatherings or even go out for drinks on special occasions, but generally I don't drink, and when I do, I pace myself.
WHich is a good thing, because
It would take 34 bottles of Guinness Guinness Draught to kill me
I don't like Guiness all that much...
Feel free to try this at home. Taking the test, that is, not chugging down 34 bottles of Guiness. If you do (the latter), however, can I have your earthly possessions afterwards?
Pax (et vino) vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has tried to have some Jagermeister for his last few outings for drinks, but with no success. How hard is this drink to come by, really?
WHich is a good thing, because
It would take 34 bottles of Guinness Guinness Draught to kill me
Created by Bar Stools
I don't like Guiness all that much...
Feel free to try this at home. Taking the test, that is, not chugging down 34 bottles of Guiness. If you do (the latter), however, can I have your earthly possessions afterwards?
Pax (et vino) vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has tried to have some Jagermeister for his last few outings for drinks, but with no success. How hard is this drink to come by, really?
Vacationing soon?
I have never made any effort to conceal my fondness for London either as a vacationing spot or a place to live. However, I might be going to Okinawa sometime soon instead, after seeing this...
I just have to see what in blazes they mean by this sign.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark dares to brave the flu scare and will be going to London for one (1) weekend in late August. Single attractive females of age between 18 and 40 are welcome to apply as travel companions.
I just have to see what in blazes they mean by this sign.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark dares to brave the flu scare and will be going to London for one (1) weekend in late August. Single attractive females of age between 18 and 40 are welcome to apply as travel companions.
Ciao
"Ciao!", she said.
And though I was the one who left, I was left wondering:
"What the bloody hell did she mean by that!?"
Cyphers I can deal with. Subtlety, on the other hand, is like a foreign language of which I know only a few words. Kind of like German...
Pax vobiscum aque vale.
ArabianShark would like to to notice that last post (not this post, last post) was this blog's 169th post. That's thirteen squared. Very bad luck if you're superstitious, very good luck if you're a fan of the very lovely Olivia Wilde. Draw your own conclusions.
And though I was the one who left, I was left wondering:
"What the bloody hell did she mean by that!?"
Cyphers I can deal with. Subtlety, on the other hand, is like a foreign language of which I know only a few words. Kind of like German...
Pax vobiscum aque vale.
ArabianShark would like to to notice that last post (not this post, last post) was this blog's 169th post. That's thirteen squared. Very bad luck if you're superstitious, very good luck if you're a fan of the very lovely Olivia Wilde. Draw your own conclusions.
Incompetence spreads...
I used to think this wretched excuse for a country was the only massively incompetent country nearby. Well...
In the 28th of June I ordered a pair of boots from a Spanish website. I had had dealings with that website before and thought it was good enough. Back then, when I had ordered a pair of sunglasses, I had paid with credit card the moment I placed my order. A few days later I received an e-mail from them saying that as soon as I made a money order transfer to some account they indicated, they would proceed with shipping. I made my best to send an e-mail in Spanish (which I never do) calling their attention to the fact that I had already paid. They made their excuses and said that their boss was on vacation and only he had the credit card numbers, so if I could re-send just the credit card number, they'd proceed to send my order. So I did, and they sent me the sunglasses and I thought it had been just a minor hiccup and never thought much about it.
Back to my new boots. On the same day as I placed my order, they sent me a confirmation e-mail, and I thought everything was running smoothly. On the 6th of July, a whole week after I had placed my order, I had heard nary a peep from them, so I went to their site to see if there was a problem. Now, most commercial sites keep a log of their clients' orders, and even an option to track yet undelivered packages, but my latest order wasn't even listed on my account information. I sent an e-mail asking about this. They were quite quick to answer that the order wouldn-t be listed until it was processed. So, I wonder, what the bloody hell had they been doing for the previous week, faffing about with bulls? THey did, however, promise to give me a delivery date the next day. Which they never did.
Fast forward another week and I sent them another e-mail, complaining a bit more. They said nothing about that, but they called me the next day, saying they had lost my order, and asked me, on the phone, to place my order - again. By this time my patience had run out, and I tired of trying to make my point across in Spanish, so I adressed them in my own mother tongue and let them work for a sale, for a change.
Today I received an e-mail stating that they could not satisfy my order. Mind you, this was not an apolgetic e-mail, more of an informative e-mail, as though they were telling me when my order would be delivered (which, in fact, they were - never). And for this they took more than a whole fortnight. What the hell!? They also said I should contact my local distributor for that particular brand. Well, don't you bloody think I tried that even before I went to you, you paella shovelling castanette heads!?
In a way, I'm glad to see mine isn't the only masively incompetent country. In another, it seems competence isn-t just as within reach as I thought. I really need to get out of here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark fails to see why the Brits have such a warm spot in their hearts for Spain, as there-s hardly anything there they wouldn't find in their former colonies - the ones worthwhile, that is.
In the 28th of June I ordered a pair of boots from a Spanish website. I had had dealings with that website before and thought it was good enough. Back then, when I had ordered a pair of sunglasses, I had paid with credit card the moment I placed my order. A few days later I received an e-mail from them saying that as soon as I made a money order transfer to some account they indicated, they would proceed with shipping. I made my best to send an e-mail in Spanish (which I never do) calling their attention to the fact that I had already paid. They made their excuses and said that their boss was on vacation and only he had the credit card numbers, so if I could re-send just the credit card number, they'd proceed to send my order. So I did, and they sent me the sunglasses and I thought it had been just a minor hiccup and never thought much about it.
Back to my new boots. On the same day as I placed my order, they sent me a confirmation e-mail, and I thought everything was running smoothly. On the 6th of July, a whole week after I had placed my order, I had heard nary a peep from them, so I went to their site to see if there was a problem. Now, most commercial sites keep a log of their clients' orders, and even an option to track yet undelivered packages, but my latest order wasn't even listed on my account information. I sent an e-mail asking about this. They were quite quick to answer that the order wouldn-t be listed until it was processed. So, I wonder, what the bloody hell had they been doing for the previous week, faffing about with bulls? THey did, however, promise to give me a delivery date the next day. Which they never did.
Fast forward another week and I sent them another e-mail, complaining a bit more. They said nothing about that, but they called me the next day, saying they had lost my order, and asked me, on the phone, to place my order - again. By this time my patience had run out, and I tired of trying to make my point across in Spanish, so I adressed them in my own mother tongue and let them work for a sale, for a change.
Today I received an e-mail stating that they could not satisfy my order. Mind you, this was not an apolgetic e-mail, more of an informative e-mail, as though they were telling me when my order would be delivered (which, in fact, they were - never). And for this they took more than a whole fortnight. What the hell!? They also said I should contact my local distributor for that particular brand. Well, don't you bloody think I tried that even before I went to you, you paella shovelling castanette heads!?
In a way, I'm glad to see mine isn't the only masively incompetent country. In another, it seems competence isn-t just as within reach as I thought. I really need to get out of here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark fails to see why the Brits have such a warm spot in their hearts for Spain, as there-s hardly anything there they wouldn't find in their former colonies - the ones worthwhile, that is.
First exemplar
For once, Yahtzee disappointed me. His review of Prototype said nearly bugger all about the game, and while it was entertaining enough, as are all of his reviews, I feel he put way too much emphasis on comparing it to inFamous to give any sort of idea of what the game was all about. This must be addressed...
Imagine that GTA IV, Assassin's Creed and Mirror's Edge had a threesome (OK, now I gave myself the image of Altair and Niko Belic going at it with Faith at the same time. Hot, a bit, perhaps, but hilarious, a lot, definitely. The joke potential is out there and there's a pecan nut cookie with the name of who can make the best joke out of this situation on it) from which a beautiful child was born, and then that child got stuck on one nasty acid trip.
So storywise Alan Mercer (that's you, the player) woke up at his own autopsy, and rather than reassure the coroners who hadn't started to cut into him, decided to murder them brutally with appendages that he wasn't supposed to have, as much to his surprise as to ours (if we had no previous knowledge of what the game was all about, that is). So he sees what he did, and someone shoots him for it (fair enough, I'd say), except that doesn't kill him and he resumes his fledgeling rampage. This does alright to set the tone for the game: Everyone hates you, kill everyone.
Well, that's a bit simplistic, really. There's the harmless, innocent civillians, who can do absolutely nothing to hurt you and exist only to kill for a disguise, kill for a tidbit of the story, kill for extra health or kill for the heck of it. There's no penalty for killing civilians, and no law enforcement, at least not the way you'd expect from GTA, where you can't accidentally shoot someone's head off without a whole police station worth of police forces chasing after you. In this game, killing everyone is alright provided you don't let the militray see you do it. Come thi think of it, the Marines (because that's the branch of the military they're going to pick on in this game) are really only concerned about your superpowers, so I suppose they'd be cool with you picking up one of their spare M-16 and going postal on the rest of the populace. I'll ahve to try that.
Onto gameplay then. As I said, the game plays much like GTA, except that instead of driving about, you parkour around. Parkour, in spite of being the definition given of Alan's free running on the manual, isn't really what he does, as I am yet to met any traceur who can leap like Alan, although that's probably a techinicality, run up a vertical wall for as long as there's a wall to run along, although that's probably because most traceurs aren't strong enough to dig their feet into brick walls with each step like Alan, or, for some reason not entirely given neither in game nor in the manual, glide, although that's probably because traceurs are real people without fictional mutant afflictions. Much like GTA, you run around Manhattan (they recreated Manhattan for the game, and quite well, I thought) looking for the lazy bum who sits about and tells you what you need to do. See, this is why I liked Scarface (the game, not the movie, although the movie is good too, just not called upon for this matter). In Scarface, you alone knew what to do next, you didn't need some NPC to tell you what to do next. I mean, you're given control of a character, the character is supposed to somehow embody you in the game. What does your character say about you if he/she can't think for themselves as far as deciding what the next story mission is going to be? So anyway, you run errands like a good little boy with some wierd mutation that allows you to perform awesome feats of strength and agility and twist your body into weapons of bludgeoning, slicing, ripping and whipping (for the S&M crowd, I suppose) and in between there are sidemissions that pop up and sit there until you can be bothered to do them (or don't that's alright). Sometimes (and I mean "in some games") these missions are fun and rewarding and look like they have a purpose and a place in the setting of the game (again, Scarface had you do drug runs, protecting your empire and shylocking, all well within Tony Montana's character and trade). Prototype has you seeing how many zombies (they're not called zombies, but ever since Fallout 3 started calling its zombis "Ghouls" I decided every sort of Zombie should be properly called zombie instead of whatever their creator called it, and if you're not happy, I demand that you refer to my opinions, as I have created them, as "Commandments". So there) or Mrines you can kill in a specific way within a time limit. There remind me of GTA II and III's Kill Frenzies, and are alright enough. Then there's the War Missions, where you join either the Zombies or the Marines and kill the other faction before everyone else in yoour faction snuffs it, and this seems aright as well, although a bit strange, as neither faction actually likes you or goes one iota out of their way to stop themselves from killing you as soon as they kno eho you are. And then there's the races. Why, oh why races? Yahtzee said this, and the races have absolutely no place in this game. Really, if you were to find yourself hunted by Marines and Zombies, with no memory whatsoever of anything and suffering from some disease that gave you superpowers as well as driving you insane with the memories of those you killed, would you set up races or yourself against the clock around some rooftops? I wouldn't either. And Gliding? Those are fun, but I feel they have no place either. I suppose that's where this game should not have taken so much after Mom (that's Faith, from Mirros's Edge, if you couldn't figure it out for yourself).
Combat is where this game realy shines. There's something for everybody: Hack and slash fun makes up most fo the combat, with fluid attacks from your claws/blades/hammers/whips/fists (yes, you can just duke it out in a regular fist fight with super strength, but half the fun goes away, if you do), but there's a rather bland shooter component with auto aim (at least for the 360 version) and only one weapon at a time which you discard as soon as you run out of ammo (again, Faith's colours shining through) and, of course, you can get your hands (if you can find them) on a military vehicle and blast about in it. As this isn't GTA, there's only a handful of things to drive: so far I've found an APC, with homing missiles and a heavy machinegun, a Tank, with a main turret and a machine gun, a transport helicopter, with rockets and a machine gun and a redition of the AH-64 Apache anti-tank helicopter, with tracking all-purpose missiles, rockets and, surprise, a machine gun (go figure). It should be said that usually fliying in these games is a nightmare, as the controls aren't made for flight simulation, and this is hardly any exception, although nowere as nightmarish as, say, Operation Flashpoint, in the late 90's, and even less of a nightmare than in GTA IV. However, once you get down and dirty with melee, combos are a bit dodgy, and the whole thing is button mashingly repetitive and bland, at times, nothing like, say, Samurai Warriors and it's like. Still, there's a wide enough array of things to do with your enhanced mutant flesh in combat, but most of them are a bit ungainly to be done often.
Character progression is always nice, and here, it's a bit of a hybrid. Some evolutions you get as part of the story, and others you buy with experience (which Prototpe calls EP, but as Microsoft hasn't tried to copyright the abreviation XP, I suppose it might as well have used it like everyone else). Yhis is the only reason to do most of the side quests, except those which have you breach a military base and eat up personnel with skills, which you acquire and cannot be had any other way. But even this isn't such a good reason to do the side quests. More on this in a while.
Innovation for this game comes in the Consume gimmick. For any reason, at any time, you can consume people. If you do, they vanish in a brutally violent cloud of groy brutality, your health gets replenished a bit and you can take on the form of whoever you just ate (so you are what you eat, in this game). This is useful to shake off pursuers when you behave badly in front of the Marines, but is also useful to infiltrate their bases, as they don't usually bother you at all for as long as you don't do superpowers, don't kill them and look like one of them, which allows you to do all the things you shouldn't while they're not watching under their own noses. At some foint, it also enables you to point at any Marine and yell "It's him", and the other Marines around (including automated turrets) will shoot the Marine you pointed at for you. You may then ask them who wrote "gullible" on the ceiling, and they'll all look up, even if they're outdoors. Well, you can't, but if there was an action for asking them who wrote "gullible" on the ceiling, they would look up.
Workarounds come in the form of exploiting the Hives (not, not the disease). You see, for some reason, every now and then, the zombies infest a building, and make it a zombie churning hive. Destrying the building, provides XP like crazy for doing hardly anything, really. Just wlak into a base, wreak some havok and the Marines, instead of just fending for themselves, then calling reinforcements, then upgrading reingorcements and so on, immediately call in the helicopters. An then, your day is made. If running about isn't your thing, save your XP until you can get the jump upgrades, the Whipfist power and the one that allows you to grab from a distaance. Now go into a Military base, bitchslap the Commander (or any other Marine) and wait for the helicopters. Then jump up, latch on to a helicopter, "skyjack" it (skyjacket is not a garment worn by pilots) and dispose of the other helicopters. Now unload your rockets into the Hives and let the XP roll. When you run out of ammo, take the helicopter back towards some Marines and hassle them until more helicopters come (i. e., in a heartbeat). Knowing this takes some of the fun out of the game, but the storyline compels me such... Oh, wait, no it doesn't.
Finally, the real nasty dealings. First, there's the useless collectionism. Spread around the city there are phantom fire looking things that are either hints or landmark collectibles. Hints are usually about as useful as "Press the jump button tpo jump", and landmark collectibles do bugger all, in game. Bad to the bone, if you ask me. Then, storywise - ok, hold on. The story is a convoluted mess of starting out knowing nothing and finding out that nowing nothing is probably the way to go. There are some fellows walking around that know stuff, and consuming them lets you know what parto of the storyline they know, and if you can be bothered to stop playing, then go into an unnavigateable menu to see who knew whom (remember the names won't have a face to put it to - because you ate it) and what did they know of the story, then you might be able to learn what the hell is going on in this strange, diesase ridden Manhattan - but, really, why should you care? This is probably where this acid junkie should have taken after one of the dads (Assassin's Creed had a neat story), which leads me to believe Altair was probably the only one - no, I won't do this. I suppose the story might be alright, but the game is enjoyable enough without it, and I don't see how it's going to make it any better, especially because the memories I've been getting are usually much too biased to be storytelling, or only barely relevant (or so it seems, but I haven't really been playng attention). Then, storywise, there came a moment, after a Boss fight where I lost all my powers. What the hell was that all about? So now, for a few story missions, I can't do most of the stuff that makes the game fun? And how would the game explain that I had lost all battle worth powers, but not the ability to absorb people, disguise, run up walls and glide? Major fault, Prototype...
In conclusion, however, this is pretty good. It's not revolutionary in any way, and seems to pick up on many other titles and fames (there's a persistent, undrlying Spider Man thme to the whole thing - young adult in New York jumping from rooftop to rooftop in disguise with figures of authority after him, they could have made a good Carnage game instead), but is well entertaining. So give it a whirl.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has his last final ever in a few hours.
Imagine that GTA IV, Assassin's Creed and Mirror's Edge had a threesome (OK, now I gave myself the image of Altair and Niko Belic going at it with Faith at the same time. Hot, a bit, perhaps, but hilarious, a lot, definitely. The joke potential is out there and there's a pecan nut cookie with the name of who can make the best joke out of this situation on it) from which a beautiful child was born, and then that child got stuck on one nasty acid trip.
So storywise Alan Mercer (that's you, the player) woke up at his own autopsy, and rather than reassure the coroners who hadn't started to cut into him, decided to murder them brutally with appendages that he wasn't supposed to have, as much to his surprise as to ours (if we had no previous knowledge of what the game was all about, that is). So he sees what he did, and someone shoots him for it (fair enough, I'd say), except that doesn't kill him and he resumes his fledgeling rampage. This does alright to set the tone for the game: Everyone hates you, kill everyone.
Well, that's a bit simplistic, really. There's the harmless, innocent civillians, who can do absolutely nothing to hurt you and exist only to kill for a disguise, kill for a tidbit of the story, kill for extra health or kill for the heck of it. There's no penalty for killing civilians, and no law enforcement, at least not the way you'd expect from GTA, where you can't accidentally shoot someone's head off without a whole police station worth of police forces chasing after you. In this game, killing everyone is alright provided you don't let the militray see you do it. Come thi think of it, the Marines (because that's the branch of the military they're going to pick on in this game) are really only concerned about your superpowers, so I suppose they'd be cool with you picking up one of their spare M-16 and going postal on the rest of the populace. I'll ahve to try that.
Onto gameplay then. As I said, the game plays much like GTA, except that instead of driving about, you parkour around. Parkour, in spite of being the definition given of Alan's free running on the manual, isn't really what he does, as I am yet to met any traceur who can leap like Alan, although that's probably a techinicality, run up a vertical wall for as long as there's a wall to run along, although that's probably because most traceurs aren't strong enough to dig their feet into brick walls with each step like Alan, or, for some reason not entirely given neither in game nor in the manual, glide, although that's probably because traceurs are real people without fictional mutant afflictions. Much like GTA, you run around Manhattan (they recreated Manhattan for the game, and quite well, I thought) looking for the lazy bum who sits about and tells you what you need to do. See, this is why I liked Scarface (the game, not the movie, although the movie is good too, just not called upon for this matter). In Scarface, you alone knew what to do next, you didn't need some NPC to tell you what to do next. I mean, you're given control of a character, the character is supposed to somehow embody you in the game. What does your character say about you if he/she can't think for themselves as far as deciding what the next story mission is going to be? So anyway, you run errands like a good little boy with some wierd mutation that allows you to perform awesome feats of strength and agility and twist your body into weapons of bludgeoning, slicing, ripping and whipping (for the S&M crowd, I suppose) and in between there are sidemissions that pop up and sit there until you can be bothered to do them (or don't that's alright). Sometimes (and I mean "in some games") these missions are fun and rewarding and look like they have a purpose and a place in the setting of the game (again, Scarface had you do drug runs, protecting your empire and shylocking, all well within Tony Montana's character and trade). Prototype has you seeing how many zombies (they're not called zombies, but ever since Fallout 3 started calling its zombis "Ghouls" I decided every sort of Zombie should be properly called zombie instead of whatever their creator called it, and if you're not happy, I demand that you refer to my opinions, as I have created them, as "Commandments". So there) or Mrines you can kill in a specific way within a time limit. There remind me of GTA II and III's Kill Frenzies, and are alright enough. Then there's the War Missions, where you join either the Zombies or the Marines and kill the other faction before everyone else in yoour faction snuffs it, and this seems aright as well, although a bit strange, as neither faction actually likes you or goes one iota out of their way to stop themselves from killing you as soon as they kno eho you are. And then there's the races. Why, oh why races? Yahtzee said this, and the races have absolutely no place in this game. Really, if you were to find yourself hunted by Marines and Zombies, with no memory whatsoever of anything and suffering from some disease that gave you superpowers as well as driving you insane with the memories of those you killed, would you set up races or yourself against the clock around some rooftops? I wouldn't either. And Gliding? Those are fun, but I feel they have no place either. I suppose that's where this game should not have taken so much after Mom (that's Faith, from Mirros's Edge, if you couldn't figure it out for yourself).
Combat is where this game realy shines. There's something for everybody: Hack and slash fun makes up most fo the combat, with fluid attacks from your claws/blades/hammers/whips/fists (yes, you can just duke it out in a regular fist fight with super strength, but half the fun goes away, if you do), but there's a rather bland shooter component with auto aim (at least for the 360 version) and only one weapon at a time which you discard as soon as you run out of ammo (again, Faith's colours shining through) and, of course, you can get your hands (if you can find them) on a military vehicle and blast about in it. As this isn't GTA, there's only a handful of things to drive: so far I've found an APC, with homing missiles and a heavy machinegun, a Tank, with a main turret and a machine gun, a transport helicopter, with rockets and a machine gun and a redition of the AH-64 Apache anti-tank helicopter, with tracking all-purpose missiles, rockets and, surprise, a machine gun (go figure). It should be said that usually fliying in these games is a nightmare, as the controls aren't made for flight simulation, and this is hardly any exception, although nowere as nightmarish as, say, Operation Flashpoint, in the late 90's, and even less of a nightmare than in GTA IV. However, once you get down and dirty with melee, combos are a bit dodgy, and the whole thing is button mashingly repetitive and bland, at times, nothing like, say, Samurai Warriors and it's like. Still, there's a wide enough array of things to do with your enhanced mutant flesh in combat, but most of them are a bit ungainly to be done often.
Character progression is always nice, and here, it's a bit of a hybrid. Some evolutions you get as part of the story, and others you buy with experience (which Prototpe calls EP, but as Microsoft hasn't tried to copyright the abreviation XP, I suppose it might as well have used it like everyone else). Yhis is the only reason to do most of the side quests, except those which have you breach a military base and eat up personnel with skills, which you acquire and cannot be had any other way. But even this isn't such a good reason to do the side quests. More on this in a while.
Innovation for this game comes in the Consume gimmick. For any reason, at any time, you can consume people. If you do, they vanish in a brutally violent cloud of groy brutality, your health gets replenished a bit and you can take on the form of whoever you just ate (so you are what you eat, in this game). This is useful to shake off pursuers when you behave badly in front of the Marines, but is also useful to infiltrate their bases, as they don't usually bother you at all for as long as you don't do superpowers, don't kill them and look like one of them, which allows you to do all the things you shouldn't while they're not watching under their own noses. At some foint, it also enables you to point at any Marine and yell "It's him", and the other Marines around (including automated turrets) will shoot the Marine you pointed at for you. You may then ask them who wrote "gullible" on the ceiling, and they'll all look up, even if they're outdoors. Well, you can't, but if there was an action for asking them who wrote "gullible" on the ceiling, they would look up.
Workarounds come in the form of exploiting the Hives (not, not the disease). You see, for some reason, every now and then, the zombies infest a building, and make it a zombie churning hive. Destrying the building, provides XP like crazy for doing hardly anything, really. Just wlak into a base, wreak some havok and the Marines, instead of just fending for themselves, then calling reinforcements, then upgrading reingorcements and so on, immediately call in the helicopters. An then, your day is made. If running about isn't your thing, save your XP until you can get the jump upgrades, the Whipfist power and the one that allows you to grab from a distaance. Now go into a Military base, bitchslap the Commander (or any other Marine) and wait for the helicopters. Then jump up, latch on to a helicopter, "skyjack" it (skyjacket is not a garment worn by pilots) and dispose of the other helicopters. Now unload your rockets into the Hives and let the XP roll. When you run out of ammo, take the helicopter back towards some Marines and hassle them until more helicopters come (i. e., in a heartbeat). Knowing this takes some of the fun out of the game, but the storyline compels me such... Oh, wait, no it doesn't.
Finally, the real nasty dealings. First, there's the useless collectionism. Spread around the city there are phantom fire looking things that are either hints or landmark collectibles. Hints are usually about as useful as "Press the jump button tpo jump", and landmark collectibles do bugger all, in game. Bad to the bone, if you ask me. Then, storywise - ok, hold on. The story is a convoluted mess of starting out knowing nothing and finding out that nowing nothing is probably the way to go. There are some fellows walking around that know stuff, and consuming them lets you know what parto of the storyline they know, and if you can be bothered to stop playing, then go into an unnavigateable menu to see who knew whom (remember the names won't have a face to put it to - because you ate it) and what did they know of the story, then you might be able to learn what the hell is going on in this strange, diesase ridden Manhattan - but, really, why should you care? This is probably where this acid junkie should have taken after one of the dads (Assassin's Creed had a neat story), which leads me to believe Altair was probably the only one - no, I won't do this. I suppose the story might be alright, but the game is enjoyable enough without it, and I don't see how it's going to make it any better, especially because the memories I've been getting are usually much too biased to be storytelling, or only barely relevant (or so it seems, but I haven't really been playng attention). Then, storywise, there came a moment, after a Boss fight where I lost all my powers. What the hell was that all about? So now, for a few story missions, I can't do most of the stuff that makes the game fun? And how would the game explain that I had lost all battle worth powers, but not the ability to absorb people, disguise, run up walls and glide? Major fault, Prototype...
In conclusion, however, this is pretty good. It's not revolutionary in any way, and seems to pick up on many other titles and fames (there's a persistent, undrlying Spider Man thme to the whole thing - young adult in New York jumping from rooftop to rooftop in disguise with figures of authority after him, they could have made a good Carnage game instead), but is well entertaining. So give it a whirl.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has his last final ever in a few hours.
American Soil
Two very bad topics to discuss on a first date are politics and religion, and you can take it to the bank (although finance is hardly substacne for a romantic conversation). But this isn't our first date, is it, dear readers?
Movies: now that might be a rather better topic for a fist dte chat. From circa 1944 up until the mid, maybe late 90's, whenever a beligerant threat was needed, you could depend on nuclear ordinance as a plot device. It worked for Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, The Hunt for Red October, Dr. No and, more recently, The Sum of All Fears (where it was proved that Ben Afleck's suck may outweight Morgan Freeman's awesome - sorry, Mr. Freeman, you're still awesome anyway) and The World is Not Enough - and Bond doesn't usually dabble in something as unimaginative as nuclear weapons. Lately, however, it seems there's a bit of a shift in the current of thought towards either biological weapons (vide The Tuxedo and so many others) or terrorism, especially with heavy civillian casualties (vide Collateral, Fight Club, Iron Man, for example) or both (vide 24 and loads more).
Now me, being bit stuck in the past (I tell you, this Internet thing seems like news to me every single day), would like to focus a bit back on the nuclear weapons. Have you ever noticed there is a very small nuber of countries where a nuclear warhead was ever detonated intentionally by another and an even smaller number (x is defined as even smaller then y if x %le y) number of countries who have actively used nuclear weapons on other countries. It should come as no surprise that, among all the countires that currrently count nuclear warheads in their armouries, one of them has more than any other. I wonder if it's a surprise that said country has never been the victim of a nuclear attack or, even had nuclear weapons detonated on its soil (Hawaii hardly counts as American Soil. I mean, they even had specially pritned currency after WWII that would have no monetary value in case Japan tried to reminesce about Pearl Harbour and take Hawaii). Enter the SADM.
By now you may be asking, Shark, you cynical bastard, you, what on Earth is a SADM? Well, this is a SADM. For thise of you whose stubby little fingers are much too good to waste on a click to an external link wich could save me the trouble of typing this long drawn rant that far outweights the actual definition of a SADM, but oh, no, you had to save your precious fingers for your APM or your CS:S or COD or wahtever FPS and TLA you can think of, it's a small, portable nuke, conceived by your friendly neighbourhood Americans in the 1960's to use against the Soviets, should they try to invade Europe. Yes, there's a thought, let's blow the hell out of somewhere we have no business in and irradiate and contaminate their water and their soil under the pretence that we'd be doing them a favour, stopping those gosh darn Soviets. We might even get some thank yous out of it. And before you go on thinking how those crazy European chicks might have "sophisticated European" ways of saying thank you, isn't this on par with American foreign policy? So kind of them...
I'd like to propose a worlwide boycott on good ol' Red, White and Blue (which, by the way, they stole from the Brits. Their flag's colour scheme is taken from the Union Jack. I wonder what it means, thatone of their patriotic icons is actually, first and foremost, the patriotic icon of another country, on from which they claimed emancipation after a war, some would say, instigated by a lie), but I know that's not going to take. We're all a bit too hung up on Ameritrash (kind of Eurotrash, only it refers to products. And not people. And it's from America. And it's not witty in any way, but never mind). Of course, most of Ameritrash isn't even made in America (except for McDOnalds and 5.11 boots. I might be wrong on both counts. You have been warned), so, if a worldwide boycott would mean that Ameritrash still gets made and shipped worldwide, only not passing GO, not collecting $200 and, thus, a bit more affordable... You know, I think this could work. How about we give it a whirl, a trial period. Six months? We can do without pron (oh, right, porn is usually made either in Oakland, San Francisco or San Fernando Valley, so that's also Ameritrash made in America) for six months, right? If not, talk to the Germans and the Austrians, they'll hook you up. Just don't leave them in the same room unattended.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark realises his usual parting sentence sounds a bit ironic in this post, but really, how many wars have the Yanks not been in recently? And how many of the ones they've been on were in their soil? Do you think that explains their war-mongering?
Movies: now that might be a rather better topic for a fist dte chat. From circa 1944 up until the mid, maybe late 90's, whenever a beligerant threat was needed, you could depend on nuclear ordinance as a plot device. It worked for Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, The Hunt for Red October, Dr. No and, more recently, The Sum of All Fears (where it was proved that Ben Afleck's suck may outweight Morgan Freeman's awesome - sorry, Mr. Freeman, you're still awesome anyway) and The World is Not Enough - and Bond doesn't usually dabble in something as unimaginative as nuclear weapons. Lately, however, it seems there's a bit of a shift in the current of thought towards either biological weapons (vide The Tuxedo and so many others) or terrorism, especially with heavy civillian casualties (vide Collateral, Fight Club, Iron Man, for example) or both (vide 24 and loads more).
Now me, being bit stuck in the past (I tell you, this Internet thing seems like news to me every single day), would like to focus a bit back on the nuclear weapons. Have you ever noticed there is a very small nuber of countries where a nuclear warhead was ever detonated intentionally by another and an even smaller number (x is defined as even smaller then y if x %le y) number of countries who have actively used nuclear weapons on other countries. It should come as no surprise that, among all the countires that currrently count nuclear warheads in their armouries, one of them has more than any other. I wonder if it's a surprise that said country has never been the victim of a nuclear attack or, even had nuclear weapons detonated on its soil (Hawaii hardly counts as American Soil. I mean, they even had specially pritned currency after WWII that would have no monetary value in case Japan tried to reminesce about Pearl Harbour and take Hawaii). Enter the SADM.
By now you may be asking, Shark, you cynical bastard, you, what on Earth is a SADM? Well, this is a SADM. For thise of you whose stubby little fingers are much too good to waste on a click to an external link wich could save me the trouble of typing this long drawn rant that far outweights the actual definition of a SADM, but oh, no, you had to save your precious fingers for your APM or your CS:S or COD or wahtever FPS and TLA you can think of, it's a small, portable nuke, conceived by your friendly neighbourhood Americans in the 1960's to use against the Soviets, should they try to invade Europe. Yes, there's a thought, let's blow the hell out of somewhere we have no business in and irradiate and contaminate their water and their soil under the pretence that we'd be doing them a favour, stopping those gosh darn Soviets. We might even get some thank yous out of it. And before you go on thinking how those crazy European chicks might have "sophisticated European" ways of saying thank you, isn't this on par with American foreign policy? So kind of them...
I'd like to propose a worlwide boycott on good ol' Red, White and Blue (which, by the way, they stole from the Brits. Their flag's colour scheme is taken from the Union Jack. I wonder what it means, thatone of their patriotic icons is actually, first and foremost, the patriotic icon of another country, on from which they claimed emancipation after a war, some would say, instigated by a lie), but I know that's not going to take. We're all a bit too hung up on Ameritrash (kind of Eurotrash, only it refers to products. And not people. And it's from America. And it's not witty in any way, but never mind). Of course, most of Ameritrash isn't even made in America (except for McDOnalds and 5.11 boots. I might be wrong on both counts. You have been warned), so, if a worldwide boycott would mean that Ameritrash still gets made and shipped worldwide, only not passing GO, not collecting $200 and, thus, a bit more affordable... You know, I think this could work. How about we give it a whirl, a trial period. Six months? We can do without pron (oh, right, porn is usually made either in Oakland, San Francisco or San Fernando Valley, so that's also Ameritrash made in America) for six months, right? If not, talk to the Germans and the Austrians, they'll hook you up. Just don't leave them in the same room unattended.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark realises his usual parting sentence sounds a bit ironic in this post, but really, how many wars have the Yanks not been in recently? And how many of the ones they've been on were in their soil? Do you think that explains their war-mongering?
That is the question...
I've been working long and hard for this. Now, it's nearly done. I'm almost done with my degree. I have only the summer and the very beginning of fall to endure (hopefully) and, if I manage to finish my dissertation, I'll be doe with this once and for all. And then my trouble begin, but I'll cross thatr bridge when I get to it... I might even burn a few bridges at hat time. Meanwhile...
So let's see... I't now 2009, nearly seven years after I began this college thing - seven never dull years, and, taking the good with the bad, seven years well spent, I'd say. It's also been about five years since I last asked myself if Engineering was really the path to follow for me - yes, for two whole years I wondered if I had made the right choice. For the last five years I've been wondering only if I was cut out to be an engineer after all. Not whether I'd be happy as an engineer, but merely if I would be able to become an engineer. See, I've been wanting to be an engineer for over a decade now (give or take), and along the way, I've seen fellow aspiring engineers succeed, fail and change their mind. I've seen fellows become perfectly content with something more along the lines of becoming a technician, and that's fine with me if it's fine with them, I've seen fellows dropping this particular line of work altogether in search for something more up their alley, and why shouldn't theny, if thats what they want. And Then there's that fellow dearest to my heart who once shared my dream and who is now ver very close to becomming something completely different. In spite of the small legion of colleagues whom I've seen follow due course and become what I want to become myself, theree's always been at least a quantum of self doubt.
Well, not any more. These last few days I've seen the kind of silly wanker that can become an engineer, and a respected engineer at that. Of course that isn't to say that all silly wankers become engineers, and certainly not that all who become engineers are silly wankers or even that all engineers become silly wankers, but the percentage of silly wanker enginners, regardless of the direction of the cause-and-effect relation, begs the question, or rather replaces "Can I become an Engineers" with "Do I really want to become associated with this kind of engineers?".
The asnwer, most naturally, is twofold. No, I do not want to wind up in constant association with the ilk of silly wankers I'm discovering more and more, although yes, I want to become an engineer in spite of the silly wankers littering the profession. Maybe a propper bridge burning can provide the flame to cleanse some of the silly wanking stain. If you can take this and make a Monica Lweinsky related pun, contact me as soon a you can for your free chocolate mousse and whipped cream topped cookie.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is quite proud of some ninety pages written over the course of the last year or so and might - just might - profit from them, it seems. Let's not jink it yet. Eat your heart out, Paulo Coelho. And learn to write!
So let's see... I't now 2009, nearly seven years after I began this college thing - seven never dull years, and, taking the good with the bad, seven years well spent, I'd say. It's also been about five years since I last asked myself if Engineering was really the path to follow for me - yes, for two whole years I wondered if I had made the right choice. For the last five years I've been wondering only if I was cut out to be an engineer after all. Not whether I'd be happy as an engineer, but merely if I would be able to become an engineer. See, I've been wanting to be an engineer for over a decade now (give or take), and along the way, I've seen fellow aspiring engineers succeed, fail and change their mind. I've seen fellows become perfectly content with something more along the lines of becoming a technician, and that's fine with me if it's fine with them, I've seen fellows dropping this particular line of work altogether in search for something more up their alley, and why shouldn't theny, if thats what they want. And Then there's that fellow dearest to my heart who once shared my dream and who is now ver very close to becomming something completely different. In spite of the small legion of colleagues whom I've seen follow due course and become what I want to become myself, theree's always been at least a quantum of self doubt.
Well, not any more. These last few days I've seen the kind of silly wanker that can become an engineer, and a respected engineer at that. Of course that isn't to say that all silly wankers become engineers, and certainly not that all who become engineers are silly wankers or even that all engineers become silly wankers, but the percentage of silly wanker enginners, regardless of the direction of the cause-and-effect relation, begs the question, or rather replaces "Can I become an Engineers" with "Do I really want to become associated with this kind of engineers?".
The asnwer, most naturally, is twofold. No, I do not want to wind up in constant association with the ilk of silly wankers I'm discovering more and more, although yes, I want to become an engineer in spite of the silly wankers littering the profession. Maybe a propper bridge burning can provide the flame to cleanse some of the silly wanking stain. If you can take this and make a Monica Lweinsky related pun, contact me as soon a you can for your free chocolate mousse and whipped cream topped cookie.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is quite proud of some ninety pages written over the course of the last year or so and might - just might - profit from them, it seems. Let's not jink it yet. Eat your heart out, Paulo Coelho. And learn to write!
What if theories
If there's anything more boring than watching paint dry is to listen to other people's dreams. And possibly the only thing more boring than that is to read about other people's dreams. So let me tell you about this dream I had last night...
Of course I'm not going to do that. But let's stick to the topic of dreams. Of course you've had dreams about acquaintances or even total strangers before, and possibly dreams that don't make much sense. A great many things could be said about nonsense dreams, and Freud would have a blast poring over them, but let's not go there. Rather, instead of addressing the causes and implications of preposterous dreams, let's talk of the consequences.
But Shark, you charismatic stallion, what consequences could silly little ravings of one's subounscious have to a sensible person?
Well, you might not want to call me a charismatic stallion, or Mr. Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw might take offence that you're imitating his fans, rather than understand that such imitation is really the highest form of homage... to his fans... from my fans. Nonsensical dreams, then.
Consequences, then. To address your question, I don't think there might realistically be any consequences, but what if any time you dreamt of someone, that person had the same dream from their prespective? Of course limitations must exist to this hypotheseis, such as it can only be verified if both people are asleep and in REM stage (Rapid Eye Movement, naturally, not asleep on stage at an REM concert) at the same time. Wouldn't that be neat? Some Hawaiian would have woken up this morning in a right confusion, then.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind you that, for a working graph cut algorithm, one should assign costs to edges with a formula along the lines of e^(-k*d), where k is a threshold constant greater than 1 and d is a propperly computed distance value between the color values of the nodes.
Of course I'm not going to do that. But let's stick to the topic of dreams. Of course you've had dreams about acquaintances or even total strangers before, and possibly dreams that don't make much sense. A great many things could be said about nonsense dreams, and Freud would have a blast poring over them, but let's not go there. Rather, instead of addressing the causes and implications of preposterous dreams, let's talk of the consequences.
But Shark, you charismatic stallion, what consequences could silly little ravings of one's subounscious have to a sensible person?
Well, you might not want to call me a charismatic stallion, or Mr. Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw might take offence that you're imitating his fans, rather than understand that such imitation is really the highest form of homage... to his fans... from my fans. Nonsensical dreams, then.
Consequences, then. To address your question, I don't think there might realistically be any consequences, but what if any time you dreamt of someone, that person had the same dream from their prespective? Of course limitations must exist to this hypotheseis, such as it can only be verified if both people are asleep and in REM stage (Rapid Eye Movement, naturally, not asleep on stage at an REM concert) at the same time. Wouldn't that be neat? Some Hawaiian would have woken up this morning in a right confusion, then.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind you that, for a working graph cut algorithm, one should assign costs to edges with a formula along the lines of e^(-k*d), where k is a threshold constant greater than 1 and d is a propperly computed distance value between the color values of the nodes.
Diets and Consequences
For this past weekend, as I was set to do a lot of dining out, I decided I wasn't going to stick to my diet. Sure, I wasn't about to go on a carb spree, and I kept well away from refined sugars, but I thought the odd potato wouldn't lay waste to over six months of dieting. I even allowed myself to indulge on some crisps.
Not just any crisps, I'd like to point out. Those were the fine "gourmet" crisps, alledgedly cut extra thin from selected potatoes and fried in extra virgin oil or something. Even the package is black and, as we all know, everything that comes wrapped in black is of superior grade, superb quality, exquisite taste and so on and so forth. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Saturday lunch was a casual snack at a seaside café bar and consisted of a hot dog with chips. I hadn't tasted chips in six months (not quite, if you count the very odd chip here and there, very few and very far between), and I found myself not enjoying them as much as I had expected. I thought those were probably poor quality chips, because lets face it, when was the last time you were served fine cuisine at a sea side café bar?
Later that night I got my teeth into those fine quality crisps, and they still didn't taste as good as I remember. That I did not expect...
So am I to conclude that after six months of strict(ish) diet I no longer like some of the high-carb, fattening foods I was so fond of as much as I used to? Compound to that that, after what can be called oversatisfaction, I find myself not enjoying some foods within my diet as much as I used to, and it seems like I'm growing to dislike food altogether.
Oh, well, I'll always have heroin.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has yet to verify that cream sauce, extra cheese, onion, bacon and pepperoni pizza no longer tastes as good, but that won't come to pass anytime soon. Although I might have some more chips someday, just to be sure.
Not just any crisps, I'd like to point out. Those were the fine "gourmet" crisps, alledgedly cut extra thin from selected potatoes and fried in extra virgin oil or something. Even the package is black and, as we all know, everything that comes wrapped in black is of superior grade, superb quality, exquisite taste and so on and so forth. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Saturday lunch was a casual snack at a seaside café bar and consisted of a hot dog with chips. I hadn't tasted chips in six months (not quite, if you count the very odd chip here and there, very few and very far between), and I found myself not enjoying them as much as I had expected. I thought those were probably poor quality chips, because lets face it, when was the last time you were served fine cuisine at a sea side café bar?
Later that night I got my teeth into those fine quality crisps, and they still didn't taste as good as I remember. That I did not expect...
So am I to conclude that after six months of strict(ish) diet I no longer like some of the high-carb, fattening foods I was so fond of as much as I used to? Compound to that that, after what can be called oversatisfaction, I find myself not enjoying some foods within my diet as much as I used to, and it seems like I'm growing to dislike food altogether.
Oh, well, I'll always have heroin.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has yet to verify that cream sauce, extra cheese, onion, bacon and pepperoni pizza no longer tastes as good, but that won't come to pass anytime soon. Although I might have some more chips someday, just to be sure.
Creepy...
Toniht, the most unremarkable, banal thing happened. I had a dread. Well, several, in fact, that I remember. One of them was about opening a parcel, only to find a novelty item I had sent for about a week ago. Then, as it is costumary when one is dreaming, I woke up.
You know how sometimes you wake up from a nightmare and instantly know it was all a dream and you kind of feel relieved? or when you're having a great dream and you know the moment you wake up that it wasn't real and you feel a bit frustrated and a bit angry and bit sad? Well, it was nothing like that. Instead, I wasn't sure I had been dreaming at all, and had to argue with myself to decide whether my parcel had arived or not. All pretty run of the mill, really. I concluded my parcel hadn't arrived because I have placed my order a week ago today, and it wouldn't have been dispatched for at least one or two days. Compound to that that the expected delivery time was 7 to 10 days, and it was far too early for my order to have arrived.
I snoozed some more, and, at about noon, when I wasn't likely to sleep anymore, I lay in bed lazily, contemplating my to-do list for the day and the disdainflu sensation that I just might blow it all off and doze the day away (I'm not going to do that... but I could) when a loud, angry buzz jerked me awake from my slumber.
It was the mailman.
With my order.
About which I had dreamt.
What are the odds? The package came sooner than expected and I foresaw it in a dream. In my book, that's pretty damn creepy.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark does not see dead people... yet!
You know how sometimes you wake up from a nightmare and instantly know it was all a dream and you kind of feel relieved? or when you're having a great dream and you know the moment you wake up that it wasn't real and you feel a bit frustrated and a bit angry and bit sad? Well, it was nothing like that. Instead, I wasn't sure I had been dreaming at all, and had to argue with myself to decide whether my parcel had arived or not. All pretty run of the mill, really. I concluded my parcel hadn't arrived because I have placed my order a week ago today, and it wouldn't have been dispatched for at least one or two days. Compound to that that the expected delivery time was 7 to 10 days, and it was far too early for my order to have arrived.
I snoozed some more, and, at about noon, when I wasn't likely to sleep anymore, I lay in bed lazily, contemplating my to-do list for the day and the disdainflu sensation that I just might blow it all off and doze the day away (I'm not going to do that... but I could) when a loud, angry buzz jerked me awake from my slumber.
It was the mailman.
With my order.
About which I had dreamt.
What are the odds? The package came sooner than expected and I foresaw it in a dream. In my book, that's pretty damn creepy.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark does not see dead people... yet!
Complicated...
Well, this entry has been quite some time in the making, in my head. See, at first I was to start about how I somehow have been feeling a bit wronged since Thursday morning, which is odd, because I plainly see I have neither right nor reason to feel wronged, as who would have wronged me really has no obligation towards me nor has had any ill intent towards me. So I immediately thought of cutting the entry short at the first paragraph, call myself silly, then write a new title in large, greenish font, as per the theme here, make it a link to itself and procede with something else.
Then I thought of going on, as though on a different entry altogether on another topic, something so ironically unmemorable and trivial that I cannot, for the life of me, remember what it was. That too would be cut short, perhaps mid-sentece by some self-derisive exclamaton oh "What is this drivel? Has this blog always been so, these amalgamed trivialities? What should I stoop to next, mindlessly echoing would-be humurous images and video clips, without as much as a would-be witty remark?" and sign off on a self-reprimanding note.
Incidentally, I think the trivial topic for the second attempt would be my ineptitude with the opposite gender. True and truly trivial, not to mention self comiserating and overall unworthy of much thought.
Eventually, I considered scrapping those ideas altogether and posting a short essay on the morality of religion, which I've been wanting to do since Easter. Next time, no doubt. Why not now, instead of this self-flagelating over over-indulging writing?
Well, first of all, because it's my blog and I'll bloody well whine for a bit if I want to. Second, because this really is my catharsis, writing it off. And, to be fair, the futility of my issues does seem to be the greatest issue right now. Third, because I can't really be bothered with an essay right now. It's past 1:00 AM and I've been feeling blue for the last few days, which does sap some of the wind out of my sails.
So, next time, I'm wailing on most religions I know. But for now...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has recentely lost well over 3 stone. That Atkins diet thing really does pay off, you know. And, compared to most (or all, really) diets I've been on, it's a breeze to stick to.
Then I thought of going on, as though on a different entry altogether on another topic, something so ironically unmemorable and trivial that I cannot, for the life of me, remember what it was. That too would be cut short, perhaps mid-sentece by some self-derisive exclamaton oh "What is this drivel? Has this blog always been so, these amalgamed trivialities? What should I stoop to next, mindlessly echoing would-be humurous images and video clips, without as much as a would-be witty remark?" and sign off on a self-reprimanding note.
Incidentally, I think the trivial topic for the second attempt would be my ineptitude with the opposite gender. True and truly trivial, not to mention self comiserating and overall unworthy of much thought.
Eventually, I considered scrapping those ideas altogether and posting a short essay on the morality of religion, which I've been wanting to do since Easter. Next time, no doubt. Why not now, instead of this self-flagelating over over-indulging writing?
Well, first of all, because it's my blog and I'll bloody well whine for a bit if I want to. Second, because this really is my catharsis, writing it off. And, to be fair, the futility of my issues does seem to be the greatest issue right now. Third, because I can't really be bothered with an essay right now. It's past 1:00 AM and I've been feeling blue for the last few days, which does sap some of the wind out of my sails.
So, next time, I'm wailing on most religions I know. But for now...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has recentely lost well over 3 stone. That Atkins diet thing really does pay off, you know. And, compared to most (or all, really) diets I've been on, it's a breeze to stick to.
Don't feel like dancing
A great big thanks to our first guests of this edition of Shark Nibbles, Scissor Sisters.
On an entirely unrelated topic, I wonder if I could say that I enjoy dancing as much as The Next Bloke. So, I say, I'll just ask him. How about it?
Sounds about right, ol' bean!
Always a pleasure to have you with us here, The.
Same.
What are you been up to, these days?
Same old, same old. Triviality and banality keep me busy alright.
I see. So, pray tell, The, how do you like a spitrity ride?
Why, I like it well enough. It's not something I'd go any great lengths for, but I'll enjoy one every now and again.
Very well. How about dancing?
Well, you see, Shark, the thing is, these days, dancing has become, I'm dare say, more of a staple of the elites and less of the common man's indulgence. As so, I, as a representative of the widest stratus of what would only claim to be an unstrsatified society, haven't done much dancing, really. Unless you call that spastic flailing and endless, mindless head bobbing you'd find at any regular loud, smoke-filled, barely lit watering hole at rather unhealthy hours dancing, that is.
But do you like it?
I'm afraid I don't, really.
Thank you very much for your insight, The.
Thanks for having me, mate.
And that concludes our second guest's participation for this edition. Mr. Bloke leaves us today with the knowledge that he does not, in fact, enjoy dancing. I, however, beg to differ. Having found a group that, twice a month, gathers for traditional and folk dancing, I must say I rather like it. It's fun, it's a reat way to meet people, and it seems like a fair workout, as in less than two hours I managed to sweat the most I had ever sweated since my trip to Karnak (except for any trip to the gym, that is).
As a bit of trivia, this was also the first situation that I remember ever being in which the gender ratio was unbalanced that way. Draw your conclusions.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to invite all of his readers to join him on his next dancing trip. Contact for more info.
On an entirely unrelated topic, I wonder if I could say that I enjoy dancing as much as The Next Bloke. So, I say, I'll just ask him. How about it?
Sounds about right, ol' bean!
Always a pleasure to have you with us here, The.
Same.
What are you been up to, these days?
Same old, same old. Triviality and banality keep me busy alright.
I see. So, pray tell, The, how do you like a spitrity ride?
Why, I like it well enough. It's not something I'd go any great lengths for, but I'll enjoy one every now and again.
Very well. How about dancing?
Well, you see, Shark, the thing is, these days, dancing has become, I'm dare say, more of a staple of the elites and less of the common man's indulgence. As so, I, as a representative of the widest stratus of what would only claim to be an unstrsatified society, haven't done much dancing, really. Unless you call that spastic flailing and endless, mindless head bobbing you'd find at any regular loud, smoke-filled, barely lit watering hole at rather unhealthy hours dancing, that is.
But do you like it?
I'm afraid I don't, really.
Thank you very much for your insight, The.
Thanks for having me, mate.
And that concludes our second guest's participation for this edition. Mr. Bloke leaves us today with the knowledge that he does not, in fact, enjoy dancing. I, however, beg to differ. Having found a group that, twice a month, gathers for traditional and folk dancing, I must say I rather like it. It's fun, it's a reat way to meet people, and it seems like a fair workout, as in less than two hours I managed to sweat the most I had ever sweated since my trip to Karnak (except for any trip to the gym, that is).
As a bit of trivia, this was also the first situation that I remember ever being in which the gender ratio was unbalanced that way. Draw your conclusions.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to invite all of his readers to join him on his next dancing trip. Contact for more info.
My current location
I've been known to mention some cars on this blog, notably Aston Martins and Jaguars. You should know I'm not a motor enthusiast, not really. In high school, when most of my classmates could name make, model, horsepower, driver's age ans god knows how many more stats for every car on the block, I could only listen idly and have no idea what the hell it all meant. Even in my senior year, when my mother figured she'd get a Honda Civic Type R (I hear it was a good little ride. It had 200 horse power. I never figured out where the horses went), when, suddenly, I got a bit of a boost in popularity with "the motor clique", I couldn't be bothered to learn about cars. Nowadays, I finally figured where the horses go (in the paddock, of course), but most of the technical data and all still sounds like a lot of gibberish to me. And yet...
There's this TV show I like. It's called Tog Gear. Now, I enjoy a spirity ride as much as The Next Bloke (who is schedulled for a guest appearence soon, stay tuned for that), but that is just not enough to watch Top Gear for the cars. I do enjoy the humour they manage to infuse in every challenge and review. And, I'll admit it, I do rather like some of the cars.
So sometime ago, I believe I was watching something Top Gear related (probably on YouTube), when the host commented that whatever car he was testing (I believe it might have been a Lamborghini. I won't swear by it, though...) was "faster than a Zonda". I had no idea what a Zonda was, and was slightly curious about it. Later, in an entirely unrelated context, I came across the likeness of a Zonda F, and thought it looked pretty neat. I must have made a note to look into it more, but really couldn't be bothered to look it up (even if Wikipedia is so convenient. That should tell you how excited I was about it).
So today I was browsing about Top Gear's website video section, looking for Jamie Oliver's part in their segment "Star in a Reasonably Priced Car" (now cooking, that I like), when I came across some videos pertaining to the Zonda F. Eagerly (though not too much, really), I went to watch them. Immediately (well, after a brief loading time, at any rate), I was met with the message "THE VIDEO YOU ARE TRYING TO WATCH CANNOT BE VIEWED FROM YOUR CURRENT COUNTRY OR LOCATION".
Well, first off, you don't have to shout, I can hear you just fine, even all the way here in my current country or location. Second, while I understand that some restrictions are in place to prevent some content from being accessed by some countries, those measures are usually imposed by governments to enforce their local laws. Thrid, come on, it's just sports cars, it's not like I'm trying to unearth any state secrets. Fourth, that's just how bad we have it here, in my current country or location. We can't even watch a video review for a sports car we wouldn't be likely to affor in a few lifetimes. Thank you, my current country or location, for crushing even our fantasies, let alone our dreams, hope or aspirations.
And you wonder whay I'm so intent on leaving this sinkhole. Even Teh Internets won't come near us.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like, at this point, to remind you all who can read this that you are in a priviledged current country or location, for you can access my blog. Don't you think this is a decent trade-off for all the stuff you're missing out? No? Me neither...
There's this TV show I like. It's called Tog Gear. Now, I enjoy a spirity ride as much as The Next Bloke (who is schedulled for a guest appearence soon, stay tuned for that), but that is just not enough to watch Top Gear for the cars. I do enjoy the humour they manage to infuse in every challenge and review. And, I'll admit it, I do rather like some of the cars.
So sometime ago, I believe I was watching something Top Gear related (probably on YouTube), when the host commented that whatever car he was testing (I believe it might have been a Lamborghini. I won't swear by it, though...) was "faster than a Zonda". I had no idea what a Zonda was, and was slightly curious about it. Later, in an entirely unrelated context, I came across the likeness of a Zonda F, and thought it looked pretty neat. I must have made a note to look into it more, but really couldn't be bothered to look it up (even if Wikipedia is so convenient. That should tell you how excited I was about it).
So today I was browsing about Top Gear's website video section, looking for Jamie Oliver's part in their segment "Star in a Reasonably Priced Car" (now cooking, that I like), when I came across some videos pertaining to the Zonda F. Eagerly (though not too much, really), I went to watch them. Immediately (well, after a brief loading time, at any rate), I was met with the message "THE VIDEO YOU ARE TRYING TO WATCH CANNOT BE VIEWED FROM YOUR CURRENT COUNTRY OR LOCATION".
Well, first off, you don't have to shout, I can hear you just fine, even all the way here in my current country or location. Second, while I understand that some restrictions are in place to prevent some content from being accessed by some countries, those measures are usually imposed by governments to enforce their local laws. Thrid, come on, it's just sports cars, it's not like I'm trying to unearth any state secrets. Fourth, that's just how bad we have it here, in my current country or location. We can't even watch a video review for a sports car we wouldn't be likely to affor in a few lifetimes. Thank you, my current country or location, for crushing even our fantasies, let alone our dreams, hope or aspirations.
And you wonder whay I'm so intent on leaving this sinkhole. Even Teh Internets won't come near us.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like, at this point, to remind you all who can read this that you are in a priviledged current country or location, for you can access my blog. Don't you think this is a decent trade-off for all the stuff you're missing out? No? Me neither...
My poor dear...
Really, some people just can't get a break... In fact, the "people" bit isn't even a requirement.
So a few weeks ago, back when I was mildly worried that my cute little kitty was way past six months old and still had no signs of ever having been in heat, she displaied some unusual behaviour I was a bit startled by. She stood and walked always very close to the ground, but kept her hips rather high up in the air. Also, her hind paws were quite frantic in what could be described as a digging pattern. Lastly, she kept mewing, but not a loud "meyow" kind of mew, rather a subtle and guttural "murr" kind of mew. Unsurprisingly, this was her in heat. Good-o!
Then, after a week of looking agonyzingly uncomfortable at all times and acting a bit pissy (I feel like there's a suitable pun, but I'll leave that to my editor), she had a blissfully calm week... followed by another week in heat. But wait, it's even worse the second time around! By now, she could utter her strange "murr" mews loudly. The previous week I had been mulling it over in my head: to spay or not to spay? The second heat, plus a very odd-feeling lump in the scruff of her neck, very much made the decision for me: spay it is. So I had it done oevr the weekend and went to pick her up from the vet the next week. Naturally, she had had the fur on her belly shaven and wore a large adhesive over her stitches, but I could hardly be bothered by that. The big shaving on her neck, however, was something a bit different.
See, Kunoichi (that's the cat's name, if you hadn't figured), is a persian, and, as such, has a great thick fur coat. When they shaved it off (to extract the lump in her neck, of course), they made quite the dent in her, so much so that it really does look like there's a piece of cat missing. Now the skin underneath is pinkish, but the hair on top began growing back much faster than on her belly, and being quite dark, it made the sin look almost greyinsh. Combine that with the somewhat crude stitching (not shoddy or botched or anything, it healed perfectly, but it looked a little crude at the time) and she just looked like a zombie cat from a bad 80's horror movie. And then our troubles begun... well, hers, really.
For a week she wore the adhesive on her belly, and on a Friday we went to have it removed at the vet. The thing is, it must have been bothering her, and she tried to lick it off. Now, a cat's tongue is atually coarser than fine sandpaper, and, naturally, she licked herself to dire consequences: dermatitis. It's not as bad as it sounds, but it might be a little nastier. Still, it was good luck within bad luck, as she only got a large abrasion instead of an infection. Still, she was made to wear a lampshade collar so she doesn't lick her wounds any further and I have to wipe her sides (which, by the way, were further shaved) with a compress and some solution and rub a healing salve of sorts on her abrasions... twice a day. I don't mind, really, but Kuni-chan gets pretty impatient after one side, so she's not happy about the arrangement. Luckily for her, she's pretty much healed, and should be off that coller in a matter of days. Until then, she can't groom herself and her fur (what's left of it, really) is all oily and messy, making her look dirty and, I reckon, feel dirty. The poor thing has been depressed to no end. Furthermore, with so much of her lovely fur gone, I think she's cold all the time.
On the bright side, her sutures have healed perfectly, and the lump we had off was just some inflamatory reaction, possibly to a jab, so, no big deal.
And before you give me any lip for having her spaied, I'll have you know that I have, in fact, reduced the probability of her developing breast cancer by about 90%. Sure, she might gain weight now, but not only is that not such a bad thing, because she's so skinny, mind you, but also we can prevent that with adequate diet. Also, I don't think the opportunity for breeding would present much to her at any rate, seeing as I can afford to take care of her, but not her and a male companion. Also, if you think castration is inhumane, think back to the last time that you were a bit late for a German class and absolutely had to stop over at the ATM becasue the tecaher had been so good to order the manuals in bulk and would have the students pay that day in class, but the idiot blonde in front of you regarded ATMs as some form of sorcery or witchcraft to be handled with extreme care and precaution and couldn't bloody hurry up if the keypad was on fire and the sword of Damocles was hanging over her on a short timer. Then tell me you wouldn't have liked her mother to have been spaied...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is very, very displeased at the level of orgnisation and care displaied by some (definitely not all, but certainly some) of his teachers this semester. Also, I'd like to point out that a man who is employed by one University, yet runs a course at another, different University and is found out of the country for weeks at the time because he's on the payrole for yet another University at a whole different continent has three jobs - but doesn't work. Because, frankly, with three jobs, where would he find the time? At least he isn't given any students to fuck with overseas.
So a few weeks ago, back when I was mildly worried that my cute little kitty was way past six months old and still had no signs of ever having been in heat, she displaied some unusual behaviour I was a bit startled by. She stood and walked always very close to the ground, but kept her hips rather high up in the air. Also, her hind paws were quite frantic in what could be described as a digging pattern. Lastly, she kept mewing, but not a loud "meyow" kind of mew, rather a subtle and guttural "murr" kind of mew. Unsurprisingly, this was her in heat. Good-o!
Then, after a week of looking agonyzingly uncomfortable at all times and acting a bit pissy (I feel like there's a suitable pun, but I'll leave that to my editor), she had a blissfully calm week... followed by another week in heat. But wait, it's even worse the second time around! By now, she could utter her strange "murr" mews loudly. The previous week I had been mulling it over in my head: to spay or not to spay? The second heat, plus a very odd-feeling lump in the scruff of her neck, very much made the decision for me: spay it is. So I had it done oevr the weekend and went to pick her up from the vet the next week. Naturally, she had had the fur on her belly shaven and wore a large adhesive over her stitches, but I could hardly be bothered by that. The big shaving on her neck, however, was something a bit different.
See, Kunoichi (that's the cat's name, if you hadn't figured), is a persian, and, as such, has a great thick fur coat. When they shaved it off (to extract the lump in her neck, of course), they made quite the dent in her, so much so that it really does look like there's a piece of cat missing. Now the skin underneath is pinkish, but the hair on top began growing back much faster than on her belly, and being quite dark, it made the sin look almost greyinsh. Combine that with the somewhat crude stitching (not shoddy or botched or anything, it healed perfectly, but it looked a little crude at the time) and she just looked like a zombie cat from a bad 80's horror movie. And then our troubles begun... well, hers, really.
For a week she wore the adhesive on her belly, and on a Friday we went to have it removed at the vet. The thing is, it must have been bothering her, and she tried to lick it off. Now, a cat's tongue is atually coarser than fine sandpaper, and, naturally, she licked herself to dire consequences: dermatitis. It's not as bad as it sounds, but it might be a little nastier. Still, it was good luck within bad luck, as she only got a large abrasion instead of an infection. Still, she was made to wear a lampshade collar so she doesn't lick her wounds any further and I have to wipe her sides (which, by the way, were further shaved) with a compress and some solution and rub a healing salve of sorts on her abrasions... twice a day. I don't mind, really, but Kuni-chan gets pretty impatient after one side, so she's not happy about the arrangement. Luckily for her, she's pretty much healed, and should be off that coller in a matter of days. Until then, she can't groom herself and her fur (what's left of it, really) is all oily and messy, making her look dirty and, I reckon, feel dirty. The poor thing has been depressed to no end. Furthermore, with so much of her lovely fur gone, I think she's cold all the time.
On the bright side, her sutures have healed perfectly, and the lump we had off was just some inflamatory reaction, possibly to a jab, so, no big deal.
And before you give me any lip for having her spaied, I'll have you know that I have, in fact, reduced the probability of her developing breast cancer by about 90%. Sure, she might gain weight now, but not only is that not such a bad thing, because she's so skinny, mind you, but also we can prevent that with adequate diet. Also, I don't think the opportunity for breeding would present much to her at any rate, seeing as I can afford to take care of her, but not her and a male companion. Also, if you think castration is inhumane, think back to the last time that you were a bit late for a German class and absolutely had to stop over at the ATM becasue the tecaher had been so good to order the manuals in bulk and would have the students pay that day in class, but the idiot blonde in front of you regarded ATMs as some form of sorcery or witchcraft to be handled with extreme care and precaution and couldn't bloody hurry up if the keypad was on fire and the sword of Damocles was hanging over her on a short timer. Then tell me you wouldn't have liked her mother to have been spaied...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is very, very displeased at the level of orgnisation and care displaied by some (definitely not all, but certainly some) of his teachers this semester. Also, I'd like to point out that a man who is employed by one University, yet runs a course at another, different University and is found out of the country for weeks at the time because he's on the payrole for yet another University at a whole different continent has three jobs - but doesn't work. Because, frankly, with three jobs, where would he find the time? At least he isn't given any students to fuck with overseas.
Like fine wine...
... turned into vinegar
Well, yes, if couldn't have figured it out from the title and it's snide conterpart comment, we're (well, I'm) talking about ageing today. No point beating about the bush, it happens to everybody, so, might as well deal with it.
Well, yes, if you couldn't figure it out from the tone of the previous paragraph, this isn't going to be a list of "you know you're getting old when..." (starting with "1. You write two identical paragraphs consecutively, because you forget you wrote the first one as soon as you did").
So you might think I'm just going to spew a bunch of cliché platitudes regarding growing up, and then growing mature, and getting to the hill, and then worry that your time is running out until it becomes an obcession you overcome just in time to enjoy the "golden years" of elderdom. News flash, all that (what some of us would call "ageing") and it's older sister, Death, happen (/will happen) to each and every one of us, so, again, a bit useless to dwell on that. Better do something a bit new with the time I have left (I don't think it's so shot I should worry, but, then again, depending on the scale you measure it, it can't be very long).
Sorry, before I move on to my next paragraph, which was supposed to come in lieu of this paragraph, I'd just like to comment on the last parenthesis, specifically the phrase "I should worry". And thus I fall down the gaping maw of the very cliché I had sought to banish. Why would I worry? there really isn't/hasn't been/wouldn't be/insert another tense of your liking for the verb to be anything I (or anyone esle, for that matter) could do to prevent the rather definitive finale Mr. Grim Reaper has in stock for each of us. Postpone it perhaps, but worry about that someday, somehow, under some conditions I will die is flat out silly. I have enough concerns without that, as well as any of us. I'd just like to point out that I don't believe in Fate either. Because she's a lying bitch.
Let's instead ponder the social implications of growing old. The reduced muscle strength comes with a rather comfortable side of "what I say goes". Of course any literal interpretation of my little hyperbole would soon drive to the question "Then why is Obama president instead of his grandmother?" The obvious answer is "Because Americans don't want a woman president", as Mrs. Clinton would tell you, whilst the serious answer is "You're being silly". What I mean, lest you ask it, is that it seems sociably unaccpetable, or at least impolite, not to gobble up every last word coming out of a senior citizen (forget senior, anyone over the age of 50, it seems). Now, while a great many 50+ year olds should, indeed, have that kind of respect and admiration lavished upon them (I know a few myself) and could indeed be said to be at their prime (again, I know more than a couple of those), this sort of status should, by no means, be granted by age alone. I mean, a Private, or whatever the entry rank is in any given military force, won't become a Marshal, or, again, whatever the highest ranking is in any given military force (you must realise by now, military rankings don't concern me half as much as the correct way to pronounce "Lieutenent" does. I advocate that it should be "lef-TEN-unt", as they say in the UK, not "loo-TEN-unt", as they say where what Obama says goes) just by not leaving the military. An altar boy doesn't just become pope in time by polishing the saints on the shrine (or whatever it is that altar boys, bless their gullible hearts, do). Likewise, the way I see it, just because you managed to make it to 65 - or 75, for that matter - you shouldn't get an automatic "I know best badge".
Right about now I might look like a bit of elderly basher. Allow me to address that (lest I bash you as well): I have nothing against the elderly, and I have no shame in admitting that ever member of my family of the generation prior to my parents' who's still alive is an elder person to prove it. In their defense, someone with 50 years worth of living under their belt ought to have quite a bit of experience, and thus insight, younder fellows might lack (for the time being). I respect that, sure. However (there must always be a "however". It's in the books. And some old guy told me), even the oldest among us should understand that this world we live in and which many would have you believe to be about 6000 years old and made by some improbable and unprovable omnipotent entity is ever-changing. If I, in under 30 meagre years of existence can appreciate it, how can someone with three times as much not?
Sure, somethings would seem no to change, and what better example to illustrate this point than something straight out to TV? About seven years abou, give or take, I was watching an episode of "Freaks and Geeks" on (an old, CRT, bowled-screen) TV. It seemed alright, as it dealt cheifly with the everyday lives of several high-school students, spread across several cliques, I could identify with in some way or another. It seemed just like any other teen show, nut unlike "Popular" or "Clueless", for which I never really cared, but somehow better. I liked it, in spite of some eerie sense of "something is a bit off here". Was it the clothes? The decoration? The cultural references (i.e., "Dallas", "Ker Plunk", "Mousetrap")? It didn't become clear until a makeshift grave for a pet came on screen, setting the storyline-wise recent date of death in the 80's. There it was, I had been assuming the show was set in actuality, because the idle chatter and the common quarrels and boggles of the characters seem current enough, in spite of the odd setting. So, there, some things appear no to change (much), but at age 40, the latest, you should know that not all that glimmers is gold (plenty of pyrite to 'round).
My point seems to have become a bit lost, I'll get straight back on it. Fortunately (though you can't read it), I just took some 15 minutes out to reminesce about "Freaks and Geeks" (I really liked that show), and it's mellowed me out a bit. My point is that no amount of age ever gives you the right to claim to know better and merely dismiss other, younger people's opinions with as little as a condescending head shake and a "No..". And if you ever do, that should automatically invalidate your right to ask that person for an opinion, help or a favour you can't do yourself because you don't know how, as your overinflated experience can't help you there, let alone accuse said person of ill-intent upon failure to comply, despit one's best efforts (too specific? Go figure...). And no amount of age ever ever ever puts you beyond reproach on any matter whatsoever. Get that through your senior skull!
So, in short... I used to be good at the "in short" bit, but these days... In short, know your bloody place. And I don't suppose that only applies to the elderly, but it just seemed to me the elderly needed a refresher course on that. So there...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind you all that Epicurism isn't just some decrepit doctrine, but actually makes sense. And, if, for some reason, you're dying any faster than the rest of us or due any sooner than most, for the sake of all that you hold dear, don't just sit in a corner dying and bringing us all down over it, bloody get out there (metaphorically, of course, you might as well stay indoors, if you'd like) and bloody LIVE!!!
If you can read this, then you're reading past the end of the entry. You can stop now. Really, there's nothing more to read here. Oi, I mean it! Go away!!!
Well, yes, if couldn't have figured it out from the title and it's snide conterpart comment, we're (well, I'm) talking about ageing today. No point beating about the bush, it happens to everybody, so, might as well deal with it.
Well, yes, if you couldn't figure it out from the tone of the previous paragraph, this isn't going to be a list of "you know you're getting old when..." (starting with "1. You write two identical paragraphs consecutively, because you forget you wrote the first one as soon as you did").
So you might think I'm just going to spew a bunch of cliché platitudes regarding growing up, and then growing mature, and getting to the hill, and then worry that your time is running out until it becomes an obcession you overcome just in time to enjoy the "golden years" of elderdom. News flash, all that (what some of us would call "ageing") and it's older sister, Death, happen (/will happen) to each and every one of us, so, again, a bit useless to dwell on that. Better do something a bit new with the time I have left (I don't think it's so shot I should worry, but, then again, depending on the scale you measure it, it can't be very long).
Sorry, before I move on to my next paragraph, which was supposed to come in lieu of this paragraph, I'd just like to comment on the last parenthesis, specifically the phrase "I should worry". And thus I fall down the gaping maw of the very cliché I had sought to banish. Why would I worry? there really isn't/hasn't been/wouldn't be/insert another tense of your liking for the verb to be anything I (or anyone esle, for that matter) could do to prevent the rather definitive finale Mr. Grim Reaper has in stock for each of us. Postpone it perhaps, but worry about that someday, somehow, under some conditions I will die is flat out silly. I have enough concerns without that, as well as any of us. I'd just like to point out that I don't believe in Fate either. Because she's a lying bitch.
Let's instead ponder the social implications of growing old. The reduced muscle strength comes with a rather comfortable side of "what I say goes". Of course any literal interpretation of my little hyperbole would soon drive to the question "Then why is Obama president instead of his grandmother?" The obvious answer is "Because Americans don't want a woman president", as Mrs. Clinton would tell you, whilst the serious answer is "You're being silly". What I mean, lest you ask it, is that it seems sociably unaccpetable, or at least impolite, not to gobble up every last word coming out of a senior citizen (forget senior, anyone over the age of 50, it seems). Now, while a great many 50+ year olds should, indeed, have that kind of respect and admiration lavished upon them (I know a few myself) and could indeed be said to be at their prime (again, I know more than a couple of those), this sort of status should, by no means, be granted by age alone. I mean, a Private, or whatever the entry rank is in any given military force, won't become a Marshal, or, again, whatever the highest ranking is in any given military force (you must realise by now, military rankings don't concern me half as much as the correct way to pronounce "Lieutenent" does. I advocate that it should be "lef-TEN-unt", as they say in the UK, not "loo-TEN-unt", as they say where what Obama says goes) just by not leaving the military. An altar boy doesn't just become pope in time by polishing the saints on the shrine (or whatever it is that altar boys, bless their gullible hearts, do). Likewise, the way I see it, just because you managed to make it to 65 - or 75, for that matter - you shouldn't get an automatic "I know best badge".
Right about now I might look like a bit of elderly basher. Allow me to address that (lest I bash you as well): I have nothing against the elderly, and I have no shame in admitting that ever member of my family of the generation prior to my parents' who's still alive is an elder person to prove it. In their defense, someone with 50 years worth of living under their belt ought to have quite a bit of experience, and thus insight, younder fellows might lack (for the time being). I respect that, sure. However (there must always be a "however". It's in the books. And some old guy told me), even the oldest among us should understand that this world we live in and which many would have you believe to be about 6000 years old and made by some improbable and unprovable omnipotent entity is ever-changing. If I, in under 30 meagre years of existence can appreciate it, how can someone with three times as much not?
Sure, somethings would seem no to change, and what better example to illustrate this point than something straight out to TV? About seven years abou, give or take, I was watching an episode of "Freaks and Geeks" on (an old, CRT, bowled-screen) TV. It seemed alright, as it dealt cheifly with the everyday lives of several high-school students, spread across several cliques, I could identify with in some way or another. It seemed just like any other teen show, nut unlike "Popular" or "Clueless", for which I never really cared, but somehow better. I liked it, in spite of some eerie sense of "something is a bit off here". Was it the clothes? The decoration? The cultural references (i.e., "Dallas", "Ker Plunk", "Mousetrap")? It didn't become clear until a makeshift grave for a pet came on screen, setting the storyline-wise recent date of death in the 80's. There it was, I had been assuming the show was set in actuality, because the idle chatter and the common quarrels and boggles of the characters seem current enough, in spite of the odd setting. So, there, some things appear no to change (much), but at age 40, the latest, you should know that not all that glimmers is gold (plenty of pyrite to 'round).
My point seems to have become a bit lost, I'll get straight back on it. Fortunately (though you can't read it), I just took some 15 minutes out to reminesce about "Freaks and Geeks" (I really liked that show), and it's mellowed me out a bit. My point is that no amount of age ever gives you the right to claim to know better and merely dismiss other, younger people's opinions with as little as a condescending head shake and a "No..". And if you ever do, that should automatically invalidate your right to ask that person for an opinion, help or a favour you can't do yourself because you don't know how, as your overinflated experience can't help you there, let alone accuse said person of ill-intent upon failure to comply, despit one's best efforts (too specific? Go figure...). And no amount of age ever ever ever puts you beyond reproach on any matter whatsoever. Get that through your senior skull!
So, in short... I used to be good at the "in short" bit, but these days... In short, know your bloody place. And I don't suppose that only applies to the elderly, but it just seemed to me the elderly needed a refresher course on that. So there...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind you all that Epicurism isn't just some decrepit doctrine, but actually makes sense. And, if, for some reason, you're dying any faster than the rest of us or due any sooner than most, for the sake of all that you hold dear, don't just sit in a corner dying and bringing us all down over it, bloody get out there (metaphorically, of course, you might as well stay indoors, if you'd like) and bloody LIVE!!!
If you can read this, then you're reading past the end of the entry. You can stop now. Really, there's nothing more to read here. Oi, I mean it! Go away!!!
Odd...
So here I am, back from my yearly trip to Lovely Lady London! And, with my trip, come a few contemplations I'd like to submit to you.
Sometime in 2008 (I believe. I might be wrong here) Regent Street saw an Apple Store joining the myriad shops lining its gentle curve, and I, needing a power charger for my (sadly 2.5G) iPhone, ventured in. I asked a very friendly sales assistant for the charger and, since I was there, if there were any unlocked 3G iPhones for sale. Turns out there weren't, but the kind man went as far as adding "legally". He wouldn't advise me on how to obtain one, but ha mentioned it. SO off I went to Tottenham Court Road, one of my favourite places in London, to inquire about the possibility of having a 3G iPhone, legaly purchased and locked to O2 (for example) unlocked. As it turns out, it was cheaper to just buy the thing unlocked at the same place where they'd unlock it (with Turbo SIM included and all), but that's hardly may point. As I strolled down Tottenham Court road, past Goodge Street Tube Station and to Warren Street Tube Station, I remebered how only two years before there were quite a few video stores, and I'm not just talking about "Ma and Pa Stores", as it were, but large places, three stories high, each larger tham some so-called supermarkets I've been to. And now, they were all gone. Curiously, the smaller stores remain, trading in pre-owned DVDs, especially box-sets and doing a little something on the side in cell phones, but the large stores are now all luxury and design furniture stores. I have to wonder: with the much heralded crisis upon us, is this really the time to set aside the low-cost, small goods most households manage to be able to afford on a regular basis and instead invest in expensive goods, set in a niche market and which one shouldn't be looking to buy more often than once every few years? Perhaps my views of economy are twisted. I hope they are. At any rate, never in my many trips to London had I ran into so many Masserattis, Jaguars, Bentleys and even Aston Martins in the streets (although this was a bit of a slow year for Porsches). So it would seem that eevn in a most miserable economy, these ideas I'd so swiftly regard as hare-brained lead to an abundance of luxury sports cars. All the better, if you ask me.
Setting the vile issue of finance aside for a moment, one of my most favourite places in London closed down last November. I shall always remember the premisses of Coffee, Cake and Kink in Endell Street (or, at least, until they find a new venue, as they are still anactive company, even though they are now a dot com company). For those who don't know, CCK was a coffee house, erotic art gallery and somewhat of an upscale sex shop, in the way that they sold BDSM and fettish supplies and resources. I miss them. In their absence, I, seeking some new BDSM supplies, was forced to resort to common sex shops, where the walls are rank with cheap porn, the stands rife with poor novelty erotic items and the kinky supplies are, more often than not, inadequate to my standards. Alright, perhaps I'm being a bit stuck up here, but... Hold on...
The following section, as well as the previous, contains references to and descriptions of adult oriented materials and should not be read by minors. Shark Nibbles, its employees and associates take no responsability for any damages incurred in reading those, even if they don't believe any damages might be incurred by reading those at all. At any rate, by reading this disclaimer you agree to proceed at your own risk and waive any right to prossecute. Parental guidance is advised.
Right, where were we? So, I might be a bit stuck up about this, but most of you know that porn isn't all alike. We've all ran into high-quality porn as well as into some crappy scenes where male models keep to swinging their hips mechanically, thinking of something else entirely just so they can last for the duration of the scene and the female models either can't even be bothered to work up a half decent moan or, instead, scream in impossible ecstasy from the first awkward touch to the bitter end, and most of what you'd see on the video racks of sex shops looking for a quick profit would have to fall into the latter category. Also, regarding their fetish supplies, I might again come out as a bit arrogant, but most of their so-called restraints seemed quite poor, although I, as a rope enthusiast, am biased. However, some canes and floggers I found could not be honestly described as anything better than "crap". And I took the care to find the upscale sex-shops, the likes of Harmony (not a bad place, really. Still, they couldn't hold a candle to CCK, if you ask me). Now, my point (yes, I'm about to make one) is that London, with its rich mélange of cultures, subcultures, trends and styles, always struck me as a bastion of tolerance, very much a place where you can be as outrageous as you'd like and not be stared at (except by the tourists). Now, going to a sex shop isn't really something I'm accostumed to. CCK was a different thing altogether, because they were much more of a coffee shop and an art gallery, and this was a bit of a plunge for me. Of course, once you're inside, none of the other patrons are in a position to judge you, because, lest we (and they) forget, they're in a sex shop as well, but, more importantely, it seems to me that the people outside will pass no more judgement either. However, a rather remarkable thought crossed my mind: are the staff just as open minded, as one would think, seeing as they work in a sex shop, or are they more the type to secretely think "sick bastard, taking home this sort of filth" of each customer? The nagging sensation remained for a bit, until a buxom blonde, dressed in a provocative black dress, was so warm to ask me if I needed any help. Still...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will know knuckle down and abide by the intransigent laws of his condition, but before I do, I'll leave you this much advice: Don't stay at the Park Lane Hotel in London. It might be part of the prestigious Sheraton chain of Hotels, but it's still utter crap, although their "Sweet Sleeper" beds are rather nice.
Sometime in 2008 (I believe. I might be wrong here) Regent Street saw an Apple Store joining the myriad shops lining its gentle curve, and I, needing a power charger for my (sadly 2.5G) iPhone, ventured in. I asked a very friendly sales assistant for the charger and, since I was there, if there were any unlocked 3G iPhones for sale. Turns out there weren't, but the kind man went as far as adding "legally". He wouldn't advise me on how to obtain one, but ha mentioned it. SO off I went to Tottenham Court Road, one of my favourite places in London, to inquire about the possibility of having a 3G iPhone, legaly purchased and locked to O2 (for example) unlocked. As it turns out, it was cheaper to just buy the thing unlocked at the same place where they'd unlock it (with Turbo SIM included and all), but that's hardly may point. As I strolled down Tottenham Court road, past Goodge Street Tube Station and to Warren Street Tube Station, I remebered how only two years before there were quite a few video stores, and I'm not just talking about "Ma and Pa Stores", as it were, but large places, three stories high, each larger tham some so-called supermarkets I've been to. And now, they were all gone. Curiously, the smaller stores remain, trading in pre-owned DVDs, especially box-sets and doing a little something on the side in cell phones, but the large stores are now all luxury and design furniture stores. I have to wonder: with the much heralded crisis upon us, is this really the time to set aside the low-cost, small goods most households manage to be able to afford on a regular basis and instead invest in expensive goods, set in a niche market and which one shouldn't be looking to buy more often than once every few years? Perhaps my views of economy are twisted. I hope they are. At any rate, never in my many trips to London had I ran into so many Masserattis, Jaguars, Bentleys and even Aston Martins in the streets (although this was a bit of a slow year for Porsches). So it would seem that eevn in a most miserable economy, these ideas I'd so swiftly regard as hare-brained lead to an abundance of luxury sports cars. All the better, if you ask me.
Setting the vile issue of finance aside for a moment, one of my most favourite places in London closed down last November. I shall always remember the premisses of Coffee, Cake and Kink in Endell Street (or, at least, until they find a new venue, as they are still anactive company, even though they are now a dot com company). For those who don't know, CCK was a coffee house, erotic art gallery and somewhat of an upscale sex shop, in the way that they sold BDSM and fettish supplies and resources. I miss them. In their absence, I, seeking some new BDSM supplies, was forced to resort to common sex shops, where the walls are rank with cheap porn, the stands rife with poor novelty erotic items and the kinky supplies are, more often than not, inadequate to my standards. Alright, perhaps I'm being a bit stuck up here, but... Hold on...
The following section, as well as the previous, contains references to and descriptions of adult oriented materials and should not be read by minors. Shark Nibbles, its employees and associates take no responsability for any damages incurred in reading those, even if they don't believe any damages might be incurred by reading those at all. At any rate, by reading this disclaimer you agree to proceed at your own risk and waive any right to prossecute. Parental guidance is advised.
Right, where were we? So, I might be a bit stuck up about this, but most of you know that porn isn't all alike. We've all ran into high-quality porn as well as into some crappy scenes where male models keep to swinging their hips mechanically, thinking of something else entirely just so they can last for the duration of the scene and the female models either can't even be bothered to work up a half decent moan or, instead, scream in impossible ecstasy from the first awkward touch to the bitter end, and most of what you'd see on the video racks of sex shops looking for a quick profit would have to fall into the latter category. Also, regarding their fetish supplies, I might again come out as a bit arrogant, but most of their so-called restraints seemed quite poor, although I, as a rope enthusiast, am biased. However, some canes and floggers I found could not be honestly described as anything better than "crap". And I took the care to find the upscale sex-shops, the likes of Harmony (not a bad place, really. Still, they couldn't hold a candle to CCK, if you ask me). Now, my point (yes, I'm about to make one) is that London, with its rich mélange of cultures, subcultures, trends and styles, always struck me as a bastion of tolerance, very much a place where you can be as outrageous as you'd like and not be stared at (except by the tourists). Now, going to a sex shop isn't really something I'm accostumed to. CCK was a different thing altogether, because they were much more of a coffee shop and an art gallery, and this was a bit of a plunge for me. Of course, once you're inside, none of the other patrons are in a position to judge you, because, lest we (and they) forget, they're in a sex shop as well, but, more importantely, it seems to me that the people outside will pass no more judgement either. However, a rather remarkable thought crossed my mind: are the staff just as open minded, as one would think, seeing as they work in a sex shop, or are they more the type to secretely think "sick bastard, taking home this sort of filth" of each customer? The nagging sensation remained for a bit, until a buxom blonde, dressed in a provocative black dress, was so warm to ask me if I needed any help. Still...
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark will know knuckle down and abide by the intransigent laws of his condition, but before I do, I'll leave you this much advice: Don't stay at the Park Lane Hotel in London. It might be part of the prestigious Sheraton chain of Hotels, but it's still utter crap, although their "Sweet Sleeper" beds are rather nice.
This was a triumph
I'm making a note here:
"Huge Success!"
So just over two weeks ago, I had made my way up north to take the very prestigious IELTS exam. After FCE, CAE and CPE, another exam couldn't hurt, right? Oh, yeah, and I do have that preliminary certificate I got for English as a foregn language even before I got into high school, but should I even bother to mention that? I guess it can't hurt...
I had been in training for three months for that (during which I had that little run into Fate. I coult take it heads on, no problem. I can safely say I even had a bit of fun, during the Speaking part, chatting to the examiner, Mz. Norton, lovely lady that she is. And today, I got my results in the mail.
Oh sure, split the hair that says that today is Sunday, and that the mail isn't delivered on Sundays. Go on, I'll watch. Really... Alright, so I didn't get them today, I just didn't bother to check my mailbox until today (although I did on Thursday, so the mail must have gotten here on Friday). Long story short, I managed to snag a band 8.5 (bear in mind that the scale only goes up to 9.0). So, yes, it seems I can speak, understand, read and write English.
Pretty awesome, isn't it?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really finds it hard to overstate his satisfaction. And now, to run some more experiments on the people who are still alive.
"Huge Success!"
So just over two weeks ago, I had made my way up north to take the very prestigious IELTS exam. After FCE, CAE and CPE, another exam couldn't hurt, right? Oh, yeah, and I do have that preliminary certificate I got for English as a foregn language even before I got into high school, but should I even bother to mention that? I guess it can't hurt...
I had been in training for three months for that (during which I had that little run into Fate. I coult take it heads on, no problem. I can safely say I even had a bit of fun, during the Speaking part, chatting to the examiner, Mz. Norton, lovely lady that she is. And today, I got my results in the mail.
Oh sure, split the hair that says that today is Sunday, and that the mail isn't delivered on Sundays. Go on, I'll watch. Really... Alright, so I didn't get them today, I just didn't bother to check my mailbox until today (although I did on Thursday, so the mail must have gotten here on Friday). Long story short, I managed to snag a band 8.5 (bear in mind that the scale only goes up to 9.0). So, yes, it seems I can speak, understand, read and write English.
Pretty awesome, isn't it?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark really finds it hard to overstate his satisfaction. And now, to run some more experiments on the people who are still alive.
Thank you for the music
Pardon me while I let our Scandinavian musical guests out...
Thank you for the pork luncheon meet
Getting there, just one final tune up, bear with me...
Thank you for the spam
Ah, there we go. Third time's the charm... says them...
So, where to begin? I say we start at the midsection. Why? Because it is quite ample and thus proveides plenty of room for all of us to meet and organise out expedition through whatever little sense I muster for this entree. I mean "entry", sorry, bit of a freudian slip, there, I'll explain in a moment. Right now, you might be wandering where the hell am I trying to get to with this talk of large midsections. Let's not skirt the issue: even those who have only ever met me online should have quite the strong inkling that, as I've mentioned before, I'm fat. Let's not sugar coat it (or I might eat it) with terms such as "plump" or "full figured" or "big boned" or the likes. Now, shortly after I began writing this blog, if memory serves me right, I took it upon myself to embark in a stric regimen of nutritious salads, regular walking and managed to lose quite a bit of weight, before some ugly business sent it hurtling right back to me. Ever since I have tried to get back on that program, but I just couldn't bear the taste of lettuce anymore. Even today it makes me shiver. so I tried different things, such as Paul McKenna's plan of listening to my body's signals of hunger and satisfaction, eating very slowly, imagining that high calories comfort foods are repulsive in some way or another and even listened to his self hypnosis track a few times a week, but it didn't take. I guess either my lifestyle or my will weren't adequate to his plan (or maybe its Mr. McKenna's plan that's crap, but I'm not ready to pass judgement on that), and all the while I kept putting on weight. Now, like a blast from the past, I'm taking up the Atkins diet. For those who don't know it, it's based on the principle that our bodies heed carbon hydrates to absorb fat. Also, fat, much like carbon hydrates, is high on energy, but, if not needed as absorbed, gets stored until needed. Thus, a regimen that's hig in protein but low on carbs might be high on fat, because it won't be absorbed. Furthermore, since the organism isn't getting any carbs, it just has to burn fat for energy. Simple enough, right?
This does bring some disadvantages. Most evidentely, it puts strain in one's liver, but, seeing as I never drink... wine (a cookie for whoever catches this reference), I might be able to cope. And, because I should be able to have all the fatty meat and cheese (by Jove, the cheese!) I crave (well, not really, moderation should be employed, but still...), I shouldn't get those miserable spells when I just want a tasty snack, but can't have it without going off my diet, I should be able to keep it up long enough. However, this diet usually causes cravings for carbs, and they do permeate most of everything around us. And, my, I've never craved pasta with chips and SPAM fritters (the funniest bit being that I've never even tasted SPAM fritters in my life) and double chocolate mousse for dessert. However, this gave me the chance to dig up SPAM in the canned preserves aisle. I found out that I rather like it, but tired of it pretty quickly. I was, nonetheless, surprised to know that the SPAM (although I shouldn't be saying SPAM, as SPAM is a registred trademark of the Hornel Foods Company, and this isn't quite the same) I find here is the same SPAM the Brits get, produced by the Tulip Company, in Denmark, under licence from Hornel, so it's probably not too far removed from the propper thing, if at all.
And, speaking of SPAM, here's a bit of spam I got today:
Hi
My name is alisha. Found your ad on that dating site www.hollystad.com
I also love sex on the side. I have a loving partner but he is working 16 hours a day and we have sex only once a week :(
If you are interested and wanna see my pictures just email me at alisha480@hyperpom.com
Don`t reply, use the email above (my boyfriend doesn`t know about that email!)
Give her a call, lads, she sounds pretty feisty! Don't you just love it when spammers do something so obviously wrong it can't help to be funny?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has re-evaluated his previous claims about craving spam fritters, and, seeing as he had his fill of spam over the past week, he'd be ready to waive the fritters for now. But the pasta with chips would be lovely. Try to make that sound repulsive, Paul McKenna. Oh, wait...
Thank you for the pork luncheon meet
Getting there, just one final tune up, bear with me...
Thank you for the spam
Ah, there we go. Third time's the charm... says them...
So, where to begin? I say we start at the midsection. Why? Because it is quite ample and thus proveides plenty of room for all of us to meet and organise out expedition through whatever little sense I muster for this entree. I mean "entry", sorry, bit of a freudian slip, there, I'll explain in a moment. Right now, you might be wandering where the hell am I trying to get to with this talk of large midsections. Let's not skirt the issue: even those who have only ever met me online should have quite the strong inkling that, as I've mentioned before, I'm fat. Let's not sugar coat it (or I might eat it) with terms such as "plump" or "full figured" or "big boned" or the likes. Now, shortly after I began writing this blog, if memory serves me right, I took it upon myself to embark in a stric regimen of nutritious salads, regular walking and managed to lose quite a bit of weight, before some ugly business sent it hurtling right back to me. Ever since I have tried to get back on that program, but I just couldn't bear the taste of lettuce anymore. Even today it makes me shiver. so I tried different things, such as Paul McKenna's plan of listening to my body's signals of hunger and satisfaction, eating very slowly, imagining that high calories comfort foods are repulsive in some way or another and even listened to his self hypnosis track a few times a week, but it didn't take. I guess either my lifestyle or my will weren't adequate to his plan (or maybe its Mr. McKenna's plan that's crap, but I'm not ready to pass judgement on that), and all the while I kept putting on weight. Now, like a blast from the past, I'm taking up the Atkins diet. For those who don't know it, it's based on the principle that our bodies heed carbon hydrates to absorb fat. Also, fat, much like carbon hydrates, is high on energy, but, if not needed as absorbed, gets stored until needed. Thus, a regimen that's hig in protein but low on carbs might be high on fat, because it won't be absorbed. Furthermore, since the organism isn't getting any carbs, it just has to burn fat for energy. Simple enough, right?
This does bring some disadvantages. Most evidentely, it puts strain in one's liver, but, seeing as I never drink... wine (a cookie for whoever catches this reference), I might be able to cope. And, because I should be able to have all the fatty meat and cheese (by Jove, the cheese!) I crave (well, not really, moderation should be employed, but still...), I shouldn't get those miserable spells when I just want a tasty snack, but can't have it without going off my diet, I should be able to keep it up long enough. However, this diet usually causes cravings for carbs, and they do permeate most of everything around us. And, my, I've never craved pasta with chips and SPAM fritters (the funniest bit being that I've never even tasted SPAM fritters in my life) and double chocolate mousse for dessert. However, this gave me the chance to dig up SPAM in the canned preserves aisle. I found out that I rather like it, but tired of it pretty quickly. I was, nonetheless, surprised to know that the SPAM (although I shouldn't be saying SPAM, as SPAM is a registred trademark of the Hornel Foods Company, and this isn't quite the same) I find here is the same SPAM the Brits get, produced by the Tulip Company, in Denmark, under licence from Hornel, so it's probably not too far removed from the propper thing, if at all.
And, speaking of SPAM, here's a bit of spam I got today:
Hi
My name is alisha. Found your ad on that dating site www.hollystad.com
I also love sex on the side. I have a loving partner but he is working 16 hours a day and we have sex only once a week :(
If you are interested and wanna see my pictures just email me at alisha480@hyperpom.com
Don`t reply, use the email above (my boyfriend doesn`t know about that email!)
Give her a call, lads, she sounds pretty feisty! Don't you just love it when spammers do something so obviously wrong it can't help to be funny?
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has re-evaluated his previous claims about craving spam fritters, and, seeing as he had his fill of spam over the past week, he'd be ready to waive the fritters for now. But the pasta with chips would be lovely. Try to make that sound repulsive, Paul McKenna. Oh, wait...
Says them...
"They", whoever they may be, say a lot of things (I might have mentioned it before). Today, I'd like to pore over one of them.
So, and possibly inspired by the grim news du jour (it's been a pretty grim weekend...), "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger". This sounds well enough, but how well does this work? I'm thinking back about as far as two years. I see three things that did not kill me. Well, I see plenty of things that did not kill me, but if we were to cinsider all these things, we'd live in a beritable bubble of fear (and, having been there for a very brief period - and worse still, having seen the effects of such practive over a long period - it's not something you'd like). So, berakdown time:
A) My hernia: It's been almost two years since I had my first sciatic pain crisis from that hernia I had removed two years ago come February. I still get the occasional pangs along eiter brach of my sciatic nerve from time to time, but nothing worrisome, usually explainable by something as casual as bad posture, and nothing I shouldn't expect, right? So I lived through that, and now, whenever I slip, even if I manage to regain my footing or even if I don't lose my footing at all, I get scared halfway to death. So two slips on the same day could be the death of me (not really, right? Right, you guys?). How is that stronger than when I was at almost my ideal weight, strong as an ox and laughing at these minor adversities?
B) Colleges and Conflicts: It's not really possible to work for an extended period of time with anyone and not disagree on at least some minor, unimportant thing, is it? Often enough, a big fight arises within a short preiod, and that's what happened, about a year ago, give or take. Long story short, I was accused of slacking off, my work was said to be deemed "unusable", yet used and credit for it taken from me, I was threatened in more ways than I care to remeber and it all ended well... with me absolutely never being any warmer than "cordial" to at least one person ever again. So, did I slack off? Well, I might have... a little... I'm fairly sure I did, I'm not one to deny my shortcomings (not all of them, at least), and that's a fact, but here's a few more facts: I wasn't blatatly ripping off others' work, like some colleagues were doing and inciting me to do; I was awaiting feedback from the rest of my group, and got only accusations in turn; I was more aware of the deadline than them, even though they accused me of the contrary; and finally, fuck you, I was the best damn coder of the whole bloody group, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. So I rushed headlong into this with previous, similar experiences, which led me to repeating the phrase, "I just don't learn." I wonder if I'm stronger for it.
C) Family Falling-outs: You might remeber last year's last entry. Well, there's a no-brainer; this one definitely made me stronger. I got my cat, as promised, and we're quite happpy together; she, as the cute, warm and fuzzy lovely pet, and me, as the fat bloke who feeds her, pets her, cuddles with her, shelters her and provides for her needs. At least this much worked out great.
So does it all make us stronger? I, for one, know of people who have, in fact, been made incredably strong for what has nearly killed them, and other who have been very much left for dead, and weaker for the whole ordeal. Perhaps "they" would like to choose their words a bit more carefully. Fat chance!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has some brand new speakers to replace two of his old speakers in his kick-arse 5.1 surround speakers. Guess one of the old ones was not made stronger by what didn't kill it, and the other lacked some measure of restraint... and got itself killed.
So, and possibly inspired by the grim news du jour (it's been a pretty grim weekend...), "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger". This sounds well enough, but how well does this work? I'm thinking back about as far as two years. I see three things that did not kill me. Well, I see plenty of things that did not kill me, but if we were to cinsider all these things, we'd live in a beritable bubble of fear (and, having been there for a very brief period - and worse still, having seen the effects of such practive over a long period - it's not something you'd like). So, berakdown time:
A) My hernia: It's been almost two years since I had my first sciatic pain crisis from that hernia I had removed two years ago come February. I still get the occasional pangs along eiter brach of my sciatic nerve from time to time, but nothing worrisome, usually explainable by something as casual as bad posture, and nothing I shouldn't expect, right? So I lived through that, and now, whenever I slip, even if I manage to regain my footing or even if I don't lose my footing at all, I get scared halfway to death. So two slips on the same day could be the death of me (not really, right? Right, you guys?). How is that stronger than when I was at almost my ideal weight, strong as an ox and laughing at these minor adversities?
B) Colleges and Conflicts: It's not really possible to work for an extended period of time with anyone and not disagree on at least some minor, unimportant thing, is it? Often enough, a big fight arises within a short preiod, and that's what happened, about a year ago, give or take. Long story short, I was accused of slacking off, my work was said to be deemed "unusable", yet used and credit for it taken from me, I was threatened in more ways than I care to remeber and it all ended well... with me absolutely never being any warmer than "cordial" to at least one person ever again. So, did I slack off? Well, I might have... a little... I'm fairly sure I did, I'm not one to deny my shortcomings (not all of them, at least), and that's a fact, but here's a few more facts: I wasn't blatatly ripping off others' work, like some colleagues were doing and inciting me to do; I was awaiting feedback from the rest of my group, and got only accusations in turn; I was more aware of the deadline than them, even though they accused me of the contrary; and finally, fuck you, I was the best damn coder of the whole bloody group, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. So I rushed headlong into this with previous, similar experiences, which led me to repeating the phrase, "I just don't learn." I wonder if I'm stronger for it.
C) Family Falling-outs: You might remeber last year's last entry. Well, there's a no-brainer; this one definitely made me stronger. I got my cat, as promised, and we're quite happpy together; she, as the cute, warm and fuzzy lovely pet, and me, as the fat bloke who feeds her, pets her, cuddles with her, shelters her and provides for her needs. At least this much worked out great.
So does it all make us stronger? I, for one, know of people who have, in fact, been made incredably strong for what has nearly killed them, and other who have been very much left for dead, and weaker for the whole ordeal. Perhaps "they" would like to choose their words a bit more carefully. Fat chance!
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has some brand new speakers to replace two of his old speakers in his kick-arse 5.1 surround speakers. Guess one of the old ones was not made stronger by what didn't kill it, and the other lacked some measure of restraint... and got itself killed.
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