OK, probably the greatest set of films produced. Ever. "Lord of the Rings". It leaves "Star Wars" in its dust, combining the amazing storytelling and plot weaving of J.R.R. Tolkien with the imagination, vision, and execution of Peter Jackson.
I have watched the entire trilogy three times already, and it leaves me with a gaping jaw every time. I have, of course, bought the extended edition release, because more is better in this case.
And so, I sat to watch it with my father, who is also a huge fan. Except I can barely watch five straight minutes of film without "was this in the original release?...was this...?".
Now, I remember, mostly. It is also indicated in the chapters which as been extended from or add to the theatrical version.
But I want to watch the film!
I need to concentrate. I need to feel myself disappear into the story. I welcome the abduction of all my senses when I watch these films, and I feel myself walking along with the characters. Awed with them at the sights that accompany them on their journey. Because where the film is amiss, I complete from my own knowledge of the story from the all the works of Tolkien I have read and even fleeting moments on screen take on a profound meaning, that someone who has only seen the movies might overlook, or be completely unaware of.
And then there are the gaps. Some things are not crystal clear in the movie, and I, having become the repository of all things LOTR for my father, find myself explaining little bits of background information. "Why did he say that?" and "Where did they go?" and "Where did they com from?" and my favorite "How come they don't know this?" It's annoying and distracting.
Next time, I'm bringing with me a piece of paper and pen.
Please save all questions to the end.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Black on Black
What a genius Lewis Black is!
I'm in the process of listening (it's better than reading) his book "Nothing's Sacred". It prompted an urge to download all his Back in Black segments from the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. I can no longer watch the show itself because of a cable versus satellite competitions and regulations and cost-value schemes, but the internet serves me with the highlights.
Anyway, it has been a long time since such a politically aware comic has been so affective is Lewis Black. Politically in the way of Political-Correctness comic, not a Political-Governmental way.
Satire about celebrities and minorities and life in general has been amiss since someone invented political Correctness, and that person should be shot. Jon Stewart has made a whole career of it. There have been people in the past, Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, and others I might no even be aware of, but in my life-time I can barely remember any. None that were really exceptional (may Chris Rock forgive these lines). It's more than making jokes about them, it's putting them in a rediculous light.
Returning to Lewis Black, I just love him. He doesn't always make me laugh, and that's exactly the point. He touches nerves that most people nowadays stay away from. Things that I may not find funny, do not put me off of listening to every word he has to say. He warns us about the things in life we might take too seriously, and points out their absurdities. He points out the naked kings we wish to follow, worship, and celebrate. The way we empathize with celebrities who a suffer minor indignation, while our neighbors and fellow men wallow in true misery.
And on top of that, he is funny!
What else can we ask for?!
I'm in the process of listening (it's better than reading) his book "Nothing's Sacred". It prompted an urge to download all his Back in Black segments from the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. I can no longer watch the show itself because of a cable versus satellite competitions and regulations and cost-value schemes, but the internet serves me with the highlights.
Anyway, it has been a long time since such a politically aware comic has been so affective is Lewis Black. Politically in the way of Political-Correctness comic, not a Political-Governmental way.
Satire about celebrities and minorities and life in general has been amiss since someone invented political Correctness, and that person should be shot. Jon Stewart has made a whole career of it. There have been people in the past, Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, and others I might no even be aware of, but in my life-time I can barely remember any. None that were really exceptional (may Chris Rock forgive these lines). It's more than making jokes about them, it's putting them in a rediculous light.
Returning to Lewis Black, I just love him. He doesn't always make me laugh, and that's exactly the point. He touches nerves that most people nowadays stay away from. Things that I may not find funny, do not put me off of listening to every word he has to say. He warns us about the things in life we might take too seriously, and points out their absurdities. He points out the naked kings we wish to follow, worship, and celebrate. The way we empathize with celebrities who a suffer minor indignation, while our neighbors and fellow men wallow in true misery.
And on top of that, he is funny!
What else can we ask for?!
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Music bitching again...
I'm going to rant about music again. This time not in the disgusting self-pity of my lat entry, but in a militant "what-the-hell-are-they-playing" fashion.
As I've mentioned before, I occasionally like to go out an play some pool. I'm not very good at it, I've mentioned as well, but damn it, I like it!
We meet at a place not far from here, on the roof a large mall. It's a nice sized club with lots of people and large projected TV's all around so you can check out the current game on Eurosports, or maybe the latest in the fashion on FTV (depending on the mood of who=ever is in charge).
Now, as some may know, pool halls should have certain kind of music playing in them. Namely Rock. Rock and Roll. Punk Rock. Garage Punk...Anything with guitars and drums. It can be hard or heavy, melodic or bouncing, indie or progressive (no emo, please!), but it should fall into the category of "Rock Music".
Hip Hop, not to mention Rap, have no real space in a pool hall, but I can see how they would work.
Dance is right out!
That stupid banging and repetitive beats with dumb-ass words and three repeating bars of distinguishable music.
And that's kinda what they play at the place we go to.
If it weren't for the awful music they play it would be perfect.
I swear my play time is cut short because long before I get tired of playing, the music just pisses me off! It does, indeed, save me money, but I'm not sure that it's the manager's intentions.
Every once in a while they have a good evening with kick ass music, but it's usually only for an hour or so, and then they return to the regularly schedule crap. We've spoken to them once, and the guy at the desk (running the music computer) says the music is mandated by the owners over the entire chain, and they can't do anything about it.
Tonight, for example, I've heard five Eminem songs in the course of the hour and a half we were there. That is too much, even if I am in the mood! Which I wasn't.
I apologize to all the Eminem fans out there, but "Cleanin Out My Closet" is not a pool-playing background-music song!
Makes me wanna stick a cue through my brain!
As I've mentioned before, I occasionally like to go out an play some pool. I'm not very good at it, I've mentioned as well, but damn it, I like it!
We meet at a place not far from here, on the roof a large mall. It's a nice sized club with lots of people and large projected TV's all around so you can check out the current game on Eurosports, or maybe the latest in the fashion on FTV (depending on the mood of who=ever is in charge).
Now, as some may know, pool halls should have certain kind of music playing in them. Namely Rock. Rock and Roll. Punk Rock. Garage Punk...Anything with guitars and drums. It can be hard or heavy, melodic or bouncing, indie or progressive (no emo, please!), but it should fall into the category of "Rock Music".
Hip Hop, not to mention Rap, have no real space in a pool hall, but I can see how they would work.
Dance is right out!
That stupid banging and repetitive beats with dumb-ass words and three repeating bars of distinguishable music.
And that's kinda what they play at the place we go to.
If it weren't for the awful music they play it would be perfect.
I swear my play time is cut short because long before I get tired of playing, the music just pisses me off! It does, indeed, save me money, but I'm not sure that it's the manager's intentions.
Every once in a while they have a good evening with kick ass music, but it's usually only for an hour or so, and then they return to the regularly schedule crap. We've spoken to them once, and the guy at the desk (running the music computer) says the music is mandated by the owners over the entire chain, and they can't do anything about it.
Tonight, for example, I've heard five Eminem songs in the course of the hour and a half we were there. That is too much, even if I am in the mood! Which I wasn't.
I apologize to all the Eminem fans out there, but "Cleanin Out My Closet" is not a pool-playing background-music song!
Makes me wanna stick a cue through my brain!
Monday, April 17, 2006
Silence
Music is one of the greatest things in the world. I love music. I can listen to music, but most often I experience it. I can't tell you what's my favorite song or who is my favorite band, because there are thousands of songs that I love the most, and dozens of bands that whose music I like almost unconditionally (the definition of fanatic!).
As long as I can remember, I had a sound-track to my life. I would wake up in the morning with a song in my head. The song would change with my mood. Sometimes, a surprising song on the radio will alter my mood completely. Music was defined my current mood, and affected it in much the same way.
However, lately, I have been waking up with nothing. And walking through the day with nothing. Sometimes, a song will elevate my mood, but it's occurring in lessening frequency. It is the brightest and most shiny sign of my lack of inspiration. I get up, and I don't want to go to work. I feel bored. I go to write something, and nothing comes out, and instead I let my mind lock on something stupid on the television set.
I need a change to happen. Quickly. Get up and change myself, people keep telling me, but it's hard to do when you're mired in dullness, and you can't see what's your interest in getting up and doing something.
I need something to elate me again, because I'm just sad all the time. And angry. And, sometimes nothing. Just blank.
As long as I can remember, I had a sound-track to my life. I would wake up in the morning with a song in my head. The song would change with my mood. Sometimes, a surprising song on the radio will alter my mood completely. Music was defined my current mood, and affected it in much the same way.
However, lately, I have been waking up with nothing. And walking through the day with nothing. Sometimes, a song will elevate my mood, but it's occurring in lessening frequency. It is the brightest and most shiny sign of my lack of inspiration. I get up, and I don't want to go to work. I feel bored. I go to write something, and nothing comes out, and instead I let my mind lock on something stupid on the television set.
I need a change to happen. Quickly. Get up and change myself, people keep telling me, but it's hard to do when you're mired in dullness, and you can't see what's your interest in getting up and doing something.
I need something to elate me again, because I'm just sad all the time. And angry. And, sometimes nothing. Just blank.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Let's Eat!
It is said that all Jewish holidays may be described in the following manner: "Somebody wanted to kill us all, but we were saved at the last minute. Let's Eat!"
It's true, for the most part. No matter how asinine the reason is for a holiday, there is an ample amount of food, many items specific to that holiday, an no others.
Never is this truer that at Passover. The entire holiday (all seven days of it) is centered around the food. There are special foods that we eat only during this week. There is a special Kosher designation for Passover. Many of the every day food-stuffs that we eat, become contraband in Passover. You are not even supposed to have them in access. Whatever you don't throw away you must sell!
There is so much food-related fussing, that the real reason for the holiday is almost forgotten in the shuffle.
Passover celebrates freedom. In Hebrew we refer to it as the "Liberty Holiday". It is also the "Spring Holiday". There are many names to it, but aside from a few select moments in this long holiday, we never remember them. It's all about who is more "Kosher for Passover".
It's down to Kosher bathroom cleaning products!
Likely to lick a toilet bowl, are we?
It's true, for the most part. No matter how asinine the reason is for a holiday, there is an ample amount of food, many items specific to that holiday, an no others.
Never is this truer that at Passover. The entire holiday (all seven days of it) is centered around the food. There are special foods that we eat only during this week. There is a special Kosher designation for Passover. Many of the every day food-stuffs that we eat, become contraband in Passover. You are not even supposed to have them in access. Whatever you don't throw away you must sell!
There is so much food-related fussing, that the real reason for the holiday is almost forgotten in the shuffle.
Passover celebrates freedom. In Hebrew we refer to it as the "Liberty Holiday". It is also the "Spring Holiday". There are many names to it, but aside from a few select moments in this long holiday, we never remember them. It's all about who is more "Kosher for Passover".
It's down to Kosher bathroom cleaning products!
Likely to lick a toilet bowl, are we?
Sunday, April 09, 2006
2nd Degree Relations
There is an old Israeli-army quote about career-NCOs: "I want a large circle of 360 degrees, and inside a small circle of 180 degrees!"
It is used in great reverence for their intelligence (where is that sarcastic blue when you need it) but I use it symbolize tight circles of relationships. Inside, you have your closest friends. Friends you can share any thoughts with. People you can share your very life with. A circle so tight it does seem to have only 180 degrees in it.
Outside, there is the "friends of friends". People who, usually, are met through mutual friends, who you keep a friendly term with, but not a person you would normally call out of the blue for nothing. These are the second degree relations. People who are not really close, but close enough that you don't want to hurt their feelings. Usually because of repercussion from people you do care about, but never mind the motive.
The worst is when these people don't notice. The circles are often very clear, and people share definition of a circle. It is rare, although it happens, that one person might place another in an inner circle, while the latter places the former in an outer circle. This misunderstanding of relationship definition can be, at best uncomfortable, and at worst, downright annoying.
This can often lead to greatly awkward moments.
Like last night
When I found myself in an outer-circle party, when all my inner-circle friends - the link to the hosts - were missing. It was a birthday party as well, so small gifts were involved, on top of everything. One got stuck on a trip with a broken down car and could not make it, one has a pregnant wife who was feeling ill, and another was sick at home with mild pneumonia. All valid excuses, except the pneumonia - what's a little coughing of contagious viruses! Except, that I was mostly by myself with people I wasn't so close to and did not look to get so close to.
And now I've made their inner circle, which is why they are bothering me with IMs all day! Like now, as I'm writing this!
Social civility is a bitch!
It is used in great reverence for their intelligence (where is that sarcastic blue when you need it) but I use it symbolize tight circles of relationships. Inside, you have your closest friends. Friends you can share any thoughts with. People you can share your very life with. A circle so tight it does seem to have only 180 degrees in it.
Outside, there is the "friends of friends". People who, usually, are met through mutual friends, who you keep a friendly term with, but not a person you would normally call out of the blue for nothing. These are the second degree relations. People who are not really close, but close enough that you don't want to hurt their feelings. Usually because of repercussion from people you do care about, but never mind the motive.
The worst is when these people don't notice. The circles are often very clear, and people share definition of a circle. It is rare, although it happens, that one person might place another in an inner circle, while the latter places the former in an outer circle. This misunderstanding of relationship definition can be, at best uncomfortable, and at worst, downright annoying.
This can often lead to greatly awkward moments.
Like last night
When I found myself in an outer-circle party, when all my inner-circle friends - the link to the hosts - were missing. It was a birthday party as well, so small gifts were involved, on top of everything. One got stuck on a trip with a broken down car and could not make it, one has a pregnant wife who was feeling ill, and another was sick at home with mild pneumonia. All valid excuses, except the pneumonia - what's a little coughing of contagious viruses! Except, that I was mostly by myself with people I wasn't so close to and did not look to get so close to.
And now I've made their inner circle, which is why they are bothering me with IMs all day! Like now, as I'm writing this!
Social civility is a bitch!
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Team Sports are hazardous to you health...
...if you're watching!
My sport is basketball. I can't play worth a damn, but I love to watch. I don't really have a team in particular, and my favorite change from season to season. The reality is that I'm a fan of coaches! I'm find myself rooting to the teams whose coaches I like.
All that's true in our local, national league.
The story is different in international competition when I'm a HUGE fan (of course) of the Israeli representative. In Europe, the biggest league is the Euroleague. The best teams in the continent play there. And the biggest team to play there, certainly over the last two year, is an Israeli team called Maccabi Tel-Aviv.
They year, the system has been cracked, and they face a much stiffer competition as all their moves have been studied and stopped by the other teams. This year there is a serious danger that they will not go all the. There is even a chance they wont make it to the Final Four (to be held at Prague this year, by the way).
How does all this affect me and why it is dangerous? Because of my poor heart that suffers a thousand tiny attacks during a forty minute game. On top of the immediate physiological affect, I also eat a lot during the game. Eat garbage of course, 'cause that's what you do while watching sports! All sorts of fat, oily, and salty things that come in little bags with health warning on them (I'm exaggerating of course; there are no, in fact, warnings in the bags, but there should be.)
Tonight, for example, was the second game in a series of three for the quarter finals. It was an away game, and Maccabi lost. The series it tied 1-1, and will be decided next week at home.
Maccabi played terribly. So instead of jumping up and down, screaming happily at the television, ignoring the munchables on the table, we sat there sulking, eating continuously. I feel quite sick right now, not to mention the poison that is now slowly being absorbed into my body.
Why do I keep doing this to myself? Because I have no self-restraint.
And because Maccabi keeps losing and playing poorly, and I'm worried that they are not taking the championship this year, and they might not even get to the Final Four.
It's all their fault!
I wonder if my insurance covers this in case I get a heart attack before the end of the season.
My sport is basketball. I can't play worth a damn, but I love to watch. I don't really have a team in particular, and my favorite change from season to season. The reality is that I'm a fan of coaches! I'm find myself rooting to the teams whose coaches I like.
All that's true in our local, national league.
The story is different in international competition when I'm a HUGE fan (of course) of the Israeli representative. In Europe, the biggest league is the Euroleague. The best teams in the continent play there. And the biggest team to play there, certainly over the last two year, is an Israeli team called Maccabi Tel-Aviv.
They year, the system has been cracked, and they face a much stiffer competition as all their moves have been studied and stopped by the other teams. This year there is a serious danger that they will not go all the. There is even a chance they wont make it to the Final Four (to be held at Prague this year, by the way).
How does all this affect me and why it is dangerous? Because of my poor heart that suffers a thousand tiny attacks during a forty minute game. On top of the immediate physiological affect, I also eat a lot during the game. Eat garbage of course, 'cause that's what you do while watching sports! All sorts of fat, oily, and salty things that come in little bags with health warning on them (I'm exaggerating of course; there are no, in fact, warnings in the bags, but there should be.)
Tonight, for example, was the second game in a series of three for the quarter finals. It was an away game, and Maccabi lost. The series it tied 1-1, and will be decided next week at home.
Maccabi played terribly. So instead of jumping up and down, screaming happily at the television, ignoring the munchables on the table, we sat there sulking, eating continuously. I feel quite sick right now, not to mention the poison that is now slowly being absorbed into my body.
Why do I keep doing this to myself? Because I have no self-restraint.
And because Maccabi keeps losing and playing poorly, and I'm worried that they are not taking the championship this year, and they might not even get to the Final Four.
It's all their fault!
I wonder if my insurance covers this in case I get a heart attack before the end of the season.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Isn't that deflating...!
It's nice to know that with all the technology around, and all the crashing of PCs and Servers, all of internet service failure, network congestion, etc., you can always trust a flat tire to bring you back to reality.
I drove into my drive way, and there was a strange sound coming from somewhere I didn't quite place. As I opened the door, the load hissing sound was no longer unmistakable. I had a flat. I don't exactly know how it happened. Normally, I get flats because there is still construction all around me, so there it always the odd nail or piece of metal that jams itself into the rubber. This time, the valve itself torn at the base, and all the air came rushing out.
But there is nothing like changing a tire, a little manual labor, to bring some sense into things. I wish everything could be as easily replaced as a tire. A little back-work, and you're done.
I wish everyday my puzzles would not be more difficult than figuring out which way the Jack goes (because every car has to have its own special king of Jack; a standard would be unthinkable!) So I have grease under my fingernails, and cuts and little bruises over my arms, but it made me forget my day, that's for sure!
I should have a weekly self-initiated tire change. I seem happy about it, for some reason, where I should be cursing and kicking.
On second thought, maybe I'll just leave the tires be.
Oooh! Pizza's done!
I drove into my drive way, and there was a strange sound coming from somewhere I didn't quite place. As I opened the door, the load hissing sound was no longer unmistakable. I had a flat. I don't exactly know how it happened. Normally, I get flats because there is still construction all around me, so there it always the odd nail or piece of metal that jams itself into the rubber. This time, the valve itself torn at the base, and all the air came rushing out.
But there is nothing like changing a tire, a little manual labor, to bring some sense into things. I wish everything could be as easily replaced as a tire. A little back-work, and you're done.
I wish everyday my puzzles would not be more difficult than figuring out which way the Jack goes (because every car has to have its own special king of Jack; a standard would be unthinkable!) So I have grease under my fingernails, and cuts and little bruises over my arms, but it made me forget my day, that's for sure!
I should have a weekly self-initiated tire change. I seem happy about it, for some reason, where I should be cursing and kicking.
On second thought, maybe I'll just leave the tires be.
Oooh! Pizza's done!
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Of course I'm wet again!
Yes, it is spring time, and yes, it rarely rains in the spring around here, but it sure as hell going to rain on me!
I hate the rain.
I don't really hate it, but I don't like it. Mainly it is because it is wet. Water on ground - good; water falling through air on head - bad.
I can be happy when it rains. Happy in a sort of appreciative, grateful sort of way, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.
It all comes down to experiences. People who never leave the house, at least not be outside, can like the rain. They can stay indoors, and watch the magnificent flow outside. There are also people who take walks in the rain. They bundle up well, or poorly, depending on the effect they're after, and go for a walk. They can always return as soon as they feel the least bit uncomfortable.
My experiences include standing on a rooftop in a storm that lasted three days. This was back when I was in the Army. I was wearing five layers of winter gear, a flack-jacket, and combat gear, but after six hours straight in the pouring rain, even my underwear was wet.
Another experience is a Golden Retriever that doesn't care what's going on outside, when she needs to go She Needs To Go! (even her bark is capitalized at that point). I can't wait until a more convenient time, and I can't return whenever I want. She needs to go NOW and I have to stay outside until she concludes her business. Anybody who owns a dog knows that there is a very strict protocol for relieving oneself, and one does not "go" just anywhere.
That's what happened tonight. I was at my parents', and Sandy (our Golden) needed To Go. So I took her out, and got caught in a sudden downpour. I had no cloths to change into, and had to stay wet until I got back home.
So yey rain, and boo rain.
Give me the sunshine anytime! (those are some tough words coming from a red-headed-fair-skinned man who has been known to get sun-burns from neon!)
Spell-check Note: I wrote "ourside" when I meant "outside". Speller's suggestion: "Hurst". Go figure...
I hate the rain.
I don't really hate it, but I don't like it. Mainly it is because it is wet. Water on ground - good; water falling through air on head - bad.
I can be happy when it rains. Happy in a sort of appreciative, grateful sort of way, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.
It all comes down to experiences. People who never leave the house, at least not be outside, can like the rain. They can stay indoors, and watch the magnificent flow outside. There are also people who take walks in the rain. They bundle up well, or poorly, depending on the effect they're after, and go for a walk. They can always return as soon as they feel the least bit uncomfortable.
My experiences include standing on a rooftop in a storm that lasted three days. This was back when I was in the Army. I was wearing five layers of winter gear, a flack-jacket, and combat gear, but after six hours straight in the pouring rain, even my underwear was wet.
Another experience is a Golden Retriever that doesn't care what's going on outside, when she needs to go She Needs To Go! (even her bark is capitalized at that point). I can't wait until a more convenient time, and I can't return whenever I want. She needs to go NOW and I have to stay outside until she concludes her business. Anybody who owns a dog knows that there is a very strict protocol for relieving oneself, and one does not "go" just anywhere.
That's what happened tonight. I was at my parents', and Sandy (our Golden) needed To Go. So I took her out, and got caught in a sudden downpour. I had no cloths to change into, and had to stay wet until I got back home.
So yey rain, and boo rain.
Give me the sunshine anytime! (those are some tough words coming from a red-headed-fair-skinned man who has been known to get sun-burns from neon!)
Spell-check Note: I wrote "ourside" when I meant "outside". Speller's suggestion: "Hurst". Go figure...
Friday, March 31, 2006
Short Day
So, this being a third rate excuse for second class country, you can never tell when daylight saving time starts and finishes. I know it seems absurd, but here in Israel, DST is a political issue, and is completely dependent on the coalition the current government has created. That's why your humble servant has to wake up one morning, and then be surprised as he reads the first news page of the day that tonight is the night. At 0200 it will be 0300. I was supposed to remember, every one told me that in the fall they said that "winter time" will last until March 31. Next year we're expecting different dates, by the way. We just had elections, and hopefully we'll have a new government in the next few weeks (these things take time, you know). This means that coalition-building negotiations will determine the length and width of our daylight saving time.
On lighter news:
Funny thing happened on the road tonight. It has been a very long day (going on shorter since the clock jumps ahead) and I turned my radio on loud and started singing (and banging my head a little bit) to the rock on the radio. I've mentioned before that I tend to sing at the top of my lungs along to a good song. Well, this singing (and severe head bobbing) caught the attention of the woman standing next to me at the gridlock. At first she seemed horrified, and as she realized I was happily singing she started laughing and gave me a thumb up!
Cool!
Also, today:
I got my new scanner!
This is the reason why it is now 0132 at nigh....oh, shit, it's 0232 at night!...and I'm still up after such a long day. So far, I am ecstatic with it. It's great. So now, I'm pressing on. So many new applications, so many new modes.
Com'on! Just one more picture and I'm off to sleep...
Maybe a couple more...
We'll see...
On lighter news:
Funny thing happened on the road tonight. It has been a very long day (going on shorter since the clock jumps ahead) and I turned my radio on loud and started singing (and banging my head a little bit) to the rock on the radio. I've mentioned before that I tend to sing at the top of my lungs along to a good song. Well, this singing (and severe head bobbing) caught the attention of the woman standing next to me at the gridlock. At first she seemed horrified, and as she realized I was happily singing she started laughing and gave me a thumb up!
Cool!
Also, today:
I got my new scanner!
This is the reason why it is now 0132 at nigh....oh, shit, it's 0232 at night!...and I'm still up after such a long day. So far, I am ecstatic with it. It's great. So now, I'm pressing on. So many new applications, so many new modes.
Com'on! Just one more picture and I'm off to sleep...
Maybe a couple more...
We'll see...
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Ode to Bureaucracy
I built a house.
I acctually bought a house as part of a larger project, and they built the project-house customized to my requirements. At first there was just a mound of dirt among many mounds of dirt. Then it was a flat field of dirt with little metal poles with red and yellow streamers. Eventually there was a house among a whole neighborhood of houses.
Along the way, the hardest thing to deal with was the bureaucracy that you have to go through. Luckily, there was a minimal amount that I had to personally complete, since the whole project had a management that took care of most things. But still, some did not escape me, and I had to deal with it myself.
Today is another step: I'm getting hooked to the fixed electrical connection. Up until now (almost a year) I was connected via a temporary connection, which is different only in the cost of kilowatt/hour (more then doubled for a temporery connection). And since I have no choice in the electrical service provider, I am at the mercy of the electrical company bureaucracy, which told me that the technicians will be here in the morning. "Morning", for those who do not speak the language of union-backed clecks, stands for "7am to somewhere between 12 to 12:30pm".
(NOTE: I'm sure where my fingers stumbled, but the blog published itself on me mid-writting - I'm editing the "original" post from here).
So I'm sitting here, waiting. Waiting for the ulmighty electrical comapany technician to do two minutes worth of inspection and fifteen minutes worth of work. I'm looking outside, and it looks like it might rain. Electrical work is always posponed in rain, it must be understood.
But that's just the latest. I had a building permit delay, I had inhabiting permit delays, water connections, suage connection, and garbage collection problems. All to do with the almighty-clerks of government operated services (local, regional, and state governmet).
So I wrote a little ode to bureaucracy and all the wonderful, kind, and useful people who work there (like italic, bold, and underline, and like the different kind of fonts, we need a to create a way to mark sarcasm in writting: "Font Sarcastic", or maybe: "Sarcastic Blue" - blue always strikes me as a sarcastic-sounding color).
So this is it:
The single to come out April 19th from Sony Music International.
I acctually bought a house as part of a larger project, and they built the project-house customized to my requirements. At first there was just a mound of dirt among many mounds of dirt. Then it was a flat field of dirt with little metal poles with red and yellow streamers. Eventually there was a house among a whole neighborhood of houses.
Along the way, the hardest thing to deal with was the bureaucracy that you have to go through. Luckily, there was a minimal amount that I had to personally complete, since the whole project had a management that took care of most things. But still, some did not escape me, and I had to deal with it myself.
Today is another step: I'm getting hooked to the fixed electrical connection. Up until now (almost a year) I was connected via a temporary connection, which is different only in the cost of kilowatt/hour (more then doubled for a temporery connection). And since I have no choice in the electrical service provider, I am at the mercy of the electrical company bureaucracy, which told me that the technicians will be here in the morning. "Morning", for those who do not speak the language of union-backed clecks, stands for "7am to somewhere between 12 to 12:30pm".
(NOTE: I'm sure where my fingers stumbled, but the blog published itself on me mid-writting - I'm editing the "original" post from here).
So I'm sitting here, waiting. Waiting for the ulmighty electrical comapany technician to do two minutes worth of inspection and fifteen minutes worth of work. I'm looking outside, and it looks like it might rain. Electrical work is always posponed in rain, it must be understood.
But that's just the latest. I had a building permit delay, I had inhabiting permit delays, water connections, suage connection, and garbage collection problems. All to do with the almighty-clerks of government operated services (local, regional, and state governmet).
So I wrote a little ode to bureaucracy and all the wonderful, kind, and useful people who work there (like italic, bold, and underline, and like the different kind of fonts, we need a to create a way to mark sarcasm in writting: "Font Sarcastic", or maybe: "Sarcastic Blue" - blue always strikes me as a sarcastic-sounding color).
So this is it:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAgggggggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhThank, you. Thank you.
Why, God? WHY?
Grrrrrrrpppppppffffffttttt
Blrprprprprprprprprprp.....
You Sons of Bitches!!!
You Heralds of Evil Doom!
....
The single to come out April 19th from Sony Music International.
Monday, March 27, 2006
I stink, really
You what I hate? Coming home from an evening out, somewhere that's smokers roam. I come back reeking of cigarette smoke. But that's not really what I hate. What I hate is to come home and discover that I have forgotten to turn on the electric water heater.
And now I have to sit here, reeking, until the water will be hot enough to shower.
I can feel the cigarette smoke on my cloths, in my hair, on my skin. It's a part of any decent pub or pool hall (which happens to be where I'm coming from), so I'm not complaining. If I wanted to avoid the smoke I'd find somewhere else to be. It's just that I keep forgetting to turn on the friggin' water heater! And because of that I have to pass the time in my smelliness, until the water is ready!
Doesn't that just stink! Yes, it does.
SPAM MAIL UPDATE:
I got one that says: "Wanna get back in those jeans." It suddenly reminded me of a pair of jeans I'd like to get back into, but the girl decided it would be best if we didn't see each other any more...
And now I have to sit here, reeking, until the water will be hot enough to shower.
I can feel the cigarette smoke on my cloths, in my hair, on my skin. It's a part of any decent pub or pool hall (which happens to be where I'm coming from), so I'm not complaining. If I wanted to avoid the smoke I'd find somewhere else to be. It's just that I keep forgetting to turn on the friggin' water heater! And because of that I have to pass the time in my smelliness, until the water is ready!
Doesn't that just stink! Yes, it does.
SPAM MAIL UPDATE:
I got one that says: "Wanna get back in those jeans." It suddenly reminded me of a pair of jeans I'd like to get back into, but the girl decided it would be best if we didn't see each other any more...
Sorry, I'm Sore
OK, so after not moving my lazy ass for almost ten years, I recently bought an elliptical-crosstrainer. It all started when I had to climb three flight of stairs when the elevator went out in a building I was in. I got to the top out of breath, and the next morning I could feel, just a little bit, the quadriceps in my legs.
There was that risk of my newly purchased exercising machine becoming another very expensive cloth-stand, but so far I've been good. Really, I have. I've been rolling on it almost every day for the past month. These sort of commitments are usually beyond me, but so-far so-good.
But I've been running on Zero. My lungs and heart protested dearly when other parts of my body demanded they start working harder. Like any good worker that got used to the easy life, really. It's not their fault, but they are paying the cost of my couch-potato attitude.
Anyway, in my vanity I said to myself last night that "I can do better! I'm not that much out of shape!"
It turns out I am. Not really a couch-potato, but apparently some other larger, mushier vegetable. Like a rotting squash, or something.
I moved the resistance level to Two (out of Fifteen, so it's not as impressive as it sounds, although it wasn't impressive to begin with). This meant two things. First, my legs had to work harder; the second is that my arms had to start working too.
Now I can barely lift them.
I'm exaggerating, of course, it's not that bad. I can lift them to the keyboard well enough. It's just that I'm sore at places I haven't felt in ages: shoulders, triceps, etc.
Good health had better be worth it, or else I swear I'll...
...probably do nothing, I'm too lazy...
There was that risk of my newly purchased exercising machine becoming another very expensive cloth-stand, but so far I've been good. Really, I have. I've been rolling on it almost every day for the past month. These sort of commitments are usually beyond me, but so-far so-good.
But I've been running on Zero. My lungs and heart protested dearly when other parts of my body demanded they start working harder. Like any good worker that got used to the easy life, really. It's not their fault, but they are paying the cost of my couch-potato attitude.
Anyway, in my vanity I said to myself last night that "I can do better! I'm not that much out of shape!"
It turns out I am. Not really a couch-potato, but apparently some other larger, mushier vegetable. Like a rotting squash, or something.
I moved the resistance level to Two (out of Fifteen, so it's not as impressive as it sounds, although it wasn't impressive to begin with). This meant two things. First, my legs had to work harder; the second is that my arms had to start working too.
Now I can barely lift them.
I'm exaggerating, of course, it's not that bad. I can lift them to the keyboard well enough. It's just that I'm sore at places I haven't felt in ages: shoulders, triceps, etc.
Good health had better be worth it, or else I swear I'll...
...probably do nothing, I'm too lazy...
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Acid Flashbacks
I am a very "multi-media" kind of person. By that I mean that images and sounds are what get burnt into my memory. I can remember a face, but a name is a near impossibility. The keys to many of my memories are particular music or views I had at the time.
I file away into the deep bowls of my memory tones of audio-visual experiences which usually accumulate dust. Then, all of a sudden, something would trigger an avalanche of memories and emotions.
I can't tell what exactly it was, but "Turn Around" popped into my head the other. "Turn Around" is a song from the 1992 "They Might Be Giants" album "Apollo 18." I'm not a big TMBG fan, but my roommate at University was. We must have heard this album a million times. Whether from the original cassette tape or the best-of compilation he made for himself. On that compilation tape he also had Monty Python stuff, which suddenly reminded me that I used to have a tape like that.
Anyway, the fallout of memories can rolling out, and again, I felt sad. Sad for all the time that went by. Sad for the people and tapes I've lost.
Sad for all the money I'll have to spend right now to retrieve all this music!
The music industry is going to make a killing from my nostalgia. Don't you hate that?
I file away into the deep bowls of my memory tones of audio-visual experiences which usually accumulate dust. Then, all of a sudden, something would trigger an avalanche of memories and emotions.
I can't tell what exactly it was, but "Turn Around" popped into my head the other. "Turn Around" is a song from the 1992 "They Might Be Giants" album "Apollo 18." I'm not a big TMBG fan, but my roommate at University was. We must have heard this album a million times. Whether from the original cassette tape or the best-of compilation he made for himself. On that compilation tape he also had Monty Python stuff, which suddenly reminded me that I used to have a tape like that.
Anyway, the fallout of memories can rolling out, and again, I felt sad. Sad for all the time that went by. Sad for the people and tapes I've lost.
Sad for all the money I'll have to spend right now to retrieve all this music!
The music industry is going to make a killing from my nostalgia. Don't you hate that?
Why Bother?
A man's ego is a fragile thing, I will admit. But not as fragile as it will appear to be. Now, why do women feel like they have to explain themselves? Why do they feel the need to say "it's not you, it's me...".
No. It is me. If I was different, if I was someone else then we would go on, not split up. It is ME you don't like ("that way") and it is ME you don't see a future with.
Oh, it's me alright.
And that's OK.
I would like to sat that I accept the fact that I will not impress everyone. It's fair enough. If everyone walked around being impressed with everyone else, we would waste our time being impressed with each other. It would make a happier world probably, but we could get nothing done. Attraction is different for everyone, and it's not automatically reciprocal.
So why do women feel they need to tell me "you're a real nice guy, the nicest I've met in a long time." Just should just say "I don't think it's going to work" and end it at that. It makes me feel worst, not better. Would it make a difference if I was any less nice?
I don't need a compliment to soften the breaking news that someone thinks that it's not going to work out.
Do I sound bitter? Maybe.
I hate being a nice guy.
No. It is me. If I was different, if I was someone else then we would go on, not split up. It is ME you don't like ("that way") and it is ME you don't see a future with.
Oh, it's me alright.
And that's OK.
I would like to sat that I accept the fact that I will not impress everyone. It's fair enough. If everyone walked around being impressed with everyone else, we would waste our time being impressed with each other. It would make a happier world probably, but we could get nothing done. Attraction is different for everyone, and it's not automatically reciprocal.
So why do women feel they need to tell me "you're a real nice guy, the nicest I've met in a long time." Just should just say "I don't think it's going to work" and end it at that. It makes me feel worst, not better. Would it make a difference if I was any less nice?
I don't need a compliment to soften the breaking news that someone thinks that it's not going to work out.
Do I sound bitter? Maybe.
I hate being a nice guy.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Pulitzer winning talent
So, I know where the most talented writers in the world work. It's not in great newspapers, and they don't get published by conventional means. You can't find them by even the most exhaustive search in Google.
They live in little basements, and fine apartments, I can't tell. They are people you might see everyday, or people you will never notice.
They are the Spam Mail Writers!
Yes indeed.
It used to be outright commercials. Now it's messages from friends, telling me it's an answer to something I was looking for last night, or something they saw on the last Dateline.
I try to stay off as many mailing lists as I can, by publishing my address to as few places as I can, but sometimes it is inevitable (I've posted my address in Blogger, for example, and anyone can scrape it directly off the site very simply). But still, I get dozens of offers every day to help me lose my weight, to help me stay ready for 36 hours straight (no pun...or yeah, pun intended), help me increase my length, my girth, help me earn a million dollars, find nymphomaniacs, or simply become smarter than I've ever been before.
Sometimes, out of curiosity, I read these messages. They are very creative. I can almost believe Hagran is a long lost friend I have forgotten about, and there he is, reaching from the depth of my past, trying to help me with a problem I didn't even know I had.
Bring tears to your eyes...
Or is it just me trying to poke them with a pencil? Maybe that's it...
I mean, just think of the names they come up with!
I suggest a competition. The best e-mail messages will win prices. We can have a whole awards show! In Hollywood! (because we all know how classy Hollywood is). We can bring all the writers in, we can have the directors (the people who actually send them), the technical staff (the people who write the software to send them), and the producers (the people who pay to have them sent, and then make the money from saps who pay). We can have them all in one building for a glorious night of recognition.
Then, maybe, we can just bomb the place to the ground.
They live in little basements, and fine apartments, I can't tell. They are people you might see everyday, or people you will never notice.
They are the Spam Mail Writers!
Yes indeed.
It used to be outright commercials. Now it's messages from friends, telling me it's an answer to something I was looking for last night, or something they saw on the last Dateline.
I try to stay off as many mailing lists as I can, by publishing my address to as few places as I can, but sometimes it is inevitable (I've posted my address in Blogger, for example, and anyone can scrape it directly off the site very simply). But still, I get dozens of offers every day to help me lose my weight, to help me stay ready for 36 hours straight (no pun...or yeah, pun intended), help me increase my length, my girth, help me earn a million dollars, find nymphomaniacs, or simply become smarter than I've ever been before.
Sometimes, out of curiosity, I read these messages. They are very creative. I can almost believe Hagran is a long lost friend I have forgotten about, and there he is, reaching from the depth of my past, trying to help me with a problem I didn't even know I had.
Bring tears to your eyes...
Or is it just me trying to poke them with a pencil? Maybe that's it...
I mean, just think of the names they come up with!
I suggest a competition. The best e-mail messages will win prices. We can have a whole awards show! In Hollywood! (because we all know how classy Hollywood is). We can bring all the writers in, we can have the directors (the people who actually send them), the technical staff (the people who write the software to send them), and the producers (the people who pay to have them sent, and then make the money from saps who pay). We can have them all in one building for a glorious night of recognition.
Then, maybe, we can just bomb the place to the ground.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Somewhere else
I need to go somewhere else. It's only because I can't stay here anymore.
I have developed a three layer system, for the people at work.
1) People I love
2) People I hate
3) People I hate to hate
It's because of the group 3 people that I have got to find me a new place to work at. It's people I hate, but they are not really worth my hate. And hate that. I hate that I hate them, because I should have no emotions about them. They should be air. A flash of color in the hallway. A whisper in the dining room. Instead, I actually invest valuable emotional energy hating these people.
I keep telling myself that I don't care anymore, but the reality is that I care. A lot. Too much. Otherwise I wouldn't hate now, would I?
The group 1 people is why I stay. The group 3 people is why I have to go. Group 2 people, well, they exist everywhere, so they don't factor in.
And then there is the promise to finish this project.
Which I hate.
Which bores me.
Which I am completely uninterested in, and absolutely intimidated by it.
Mostly because I have no idea what I'm doing. Not really.
I feel sometimes that I have a mountain to climb. Not a problem, I've climbed many mountains before. Except this time, the foot of the mountain stands at the top of a sheer-faced cliff, with me at the bottom. There is so much I have to do and learn before I can even start climbing the mountain.
Well, today the weekend starts.
Although weekends don't make me feel any better lately.
I definitely need to go somewhere else.
I have developed a three layer system, for the people at work.
1) People I love
2) People I hate
3) People I hate to hate
It's because of the group 3 people that I have got to find me a new place to work at. It's people I hate, but they are not really worth my hate. And hate that. I hate that I hate them, because I should have no emotions about them. They should be air. A flash of color in the hallway. A whisper in the dining room. Instead, I actually invest valuable emotional energy hating these people.
I keep telling myself that I don't care anymore, but the reality is that I care. A lot. Too much. Otherwise I wouldn't hate now, would I?
The group 1 people is why I stay. The group 3 people is why I have to go. Group 2 people, well, they exist everywhere, so they don't factor in.
And then there is the promise to finish this project.
Which I hate.
Which bores me.
Which I am completely uninterested in, and absolutely intimidated by it.
Mostly because I have no idea what I'm doing. Not really.
I feel sometimes that I have a mountain to climb. Not a problem, I've climbed many mountains before. Except this time, the foot of the mountain stands at the top of a sheer-faced cliff, with me at the bottom. There is so much I have to do and learn before I can even start climbing the mountain.
Well, today the weekend starts.
Although weekends don't make me feel any better lately.
I definitely need to go somewhere else.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Music to my Heart, Melancholy
So, I admit it, I have a lot junk in my CD collection. I didn't think it was junk when I bought it, but I was sixteen when I did, so I didn't think much at all. Over the years, many of these albums stayed unused and unheard. Now, with the iPOd (which I love, I mentioned before again and again) everything is in there, and I hear everything.
Anyway, I was listening through to the list of all my albums, when suddenly, "Slave to the Grind" came up. To those unaware, "Slave to the Grind" is an album by a band called "Skid Row" which was around for about five years at the end of 80s into the first years of the 90s (with 19.. before them). They weren't that great, and they wont be invited into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but they have a number of hits.
The point is that suddenly, after REM, Skid Row came up in the play list. A disk I haven't listened to in 12 years, give or couple of years. And it suddenly hit me, as it does sometimes, that I'm old. Almost 32, in fact. Where the hell has the time gone? "Is it all just wasted time?" ask the lyrics of the last song on "Slave to the Grind".
Well, is it? There is so much I haven't done, and so much I'll never do. So many missed opportunities. Do the opportunities I did use make up for them? How can any of us tell? How can I shake that "missed" feeling?
It's kind of a heartache that I hate to get when I'm listening to music, but I sometimes do. It starts me thinking, and I swear, if I was a little bit drunk, I'd probably start crying.
I hate feeling sorry for myself.
I hate that depressive feeling of futility that comes with it all.
I sometimes just want to get up and leave.
It's too depressing to leave the post like this, so I'll just report this: After "Skid Row" came and went, "Dire Straits" followed, with some of the most beautiful songs in the world. Now that I'm finishing this, "Calling Elvis" is playing.
I am tapping my foot and smiling.
Anyway, I was listening through to the list of all my albums, when suddenly, "Slave to the Grind" came up. To those unaware, "Slave to the Grind" is an album by a band called "Skid Row" which was around for about five years at the end of 80s into the first years of the 90s (with 19.. before them). They weren't that great, and they wont be invited into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but they have a number of hits.
The point is that suddenly, after REM, Skid Row came up in the play list. A disk I haven't listened to in 12 years, give or couple of years. And it suddenly hit me, as it does sometimes, that I'm old. Almost 32, in fact. Where the hell has the time gone? "Is it all just wasted time?" ask the lyrics of the last song on "Slave to the Grind".
Well, is it? There is so much I haven't done, and so much I'll never do. So many missed opportunities. Do the opportunities I did use make up for them? How can any of us tell? How can I shake that "missed" feeling?
It's kind of a heartache that I hate to get when I'm listening to music, but I sometimes do. It starts me thinking, and I swear, if I was a little bit drunk, I'd probably start crying.
I hate feeling sorry for myself.
I hate that depressive feeling of futility that comes with it all.
I sometimes just want to get up and leave.
It's too depressing to leave the post like this, so I'll just report this: After "Skid Row" came and went, "Dire Straits" followed, with some of the most beautiful songs in the world. Now that I'm finishing this, "Calling Elvis" is playing.
I am tapping my foot and smiling.
Monday, March 20, 2006
I Gotta Vent!!!
I had to post this now, because I'll burst if I don't vent.
I know I'm going to sound bad, no matter how PC I try to be, so I won't even try it.
As a little background it should be known that in the past fifteen years, over a million Russian Jews have immigrated to Israel. Now, there were only 5 million people in Israel when this started, so the cultural shock this immigration caused was staggering. When there are that many people which build their own communities, they find it redundant to learn the language. Then, when they come to perform a service of some sort (for example, hook up a telephone line to an alarm in our company 10 minutes ago) they have a hell of time trying to express what it is they are looking for. I have a background in telephony, so I help sometimes, and they called me to see if I can help this guy find what he's looking for. The problem was, he could not explain himself. Instead of trying, he started snapping at me, and then dismissed me as no help at all.
See, I was the problem. I was the idiot who couldn't help. I'm always been taught that if I explain something, and the explainee does not understand, it is my problem, not his. But not here. I have over ten years of experience with this stuff, and I'm the friggin' idiot who can't help anyone.
Pisses me off.
I left the room, of course, not saying a word.
It was important enough to me that he will be polite to me, that there was no way I will be impolite to him.
Now, the Israeli are rude and abrasive people. Very Mediterranean. Not that this is an excuse. Those of us who traveled abroad, and saw what it can be like to be a little cultured, weep a little about this behavior here. The Russian immigrants do to. They constantly complain about how impolite the "old" Israelis are. How they don't get the respect they deserve. I've been observing this for many years now, and I've come to a conclusion: They are as impolite, condescending, and brash as the rest of us. They're just not used to anyone talking back to them. You see, and "old" Russia, there was a definite "Class" status. Those who are educated, and those who are not. Those who work in offices, and those who work in factories. If you are a teacher (very respectable in Old Russia) and you walked into a supermarket, everyone had to be polite and kind to you. Politeness and kindness they would not show to any an all customers. If you yelled at a service-giver, he just bowed and agreed away.
Israelis are not like that. They'll talk back.
Oh, yeah, you better believe it.
It's not always good, and not always nice, but sometimes it is very deserving.
So now I have to sit here, feeling bad, and bitching like a moron, about some other moron which doesn't deserver my attention, yet has the full capacity of it.
Not I'm not just annoyed, but I hate myself a little bit.
I know I'm going to sound bad, no matter how PC I try to be, so I won't even try it.
As a little background it should be known that in the past fifteen years, over a million Russian Jews have immigrated to Israel. Now, there were only 5 million people in Israel when this started, so the cultural shock this immigration caused was staggering. When there are that many people which build their own communities, they find it redundant to learn the language. Then, when they come to perform a service of some sort (for example, hook up a telephone line to an alarm in our company 10 minutes ago) they have a hell of time trying to express what it is they are looking for. I have a background in telephony, so I help sometimes, and they called me to see if I can help this guy find what he's looking for. The problem was, he could not explain himself. Instead of trying, he started snapping at me, and then dismissed me as no help at all.
See, I was the problem. I was the idiot who couldn't help. I'm always been taught that if I explain something, and the explainee does not understand, it is my problem, not his. But not here. I have over ten years of experience with this stuff, and I'm the friggin' idiot who can't help anyone.
Pisses me off.
I left the room, of course, not saying a word.
It was important enough to me that he will be polite to me, that there was no way I will be impolite to him.
Now, the Israeli are rude and abrasive people. Very Mediterranean. Not that this is an excuse. Those of us who traveled abroad, and saw what it can be like to be a little cultured, weep a little about this behavior here. The Russian immigrants do to. They constantly complain about how impolite the "old" Israelis are. How they don't get the respect they deserve. I've been observing this for many years now, and I've come to a conclusion: They are as impolite, condescending, and brash as the rest of us. They're just not used to anyone talking back to them. You see, and "old" Russia, there was a definite "Class" status. Those who are educated, and those who are not. Those who work in offices, and those who work in factories. If you are a teacher (very respectable in Old Russia) and you walked into a supermarket, everyone had to be polite and kind to you. Politeness and kindness they would not show to any an all customers. If you yelled at a service-giver, he just bowed and agreed away.
Israelis are not like that. They'll talk back.
Oh, yeah, you better believe it.
It's not always good, and not always nice, but sometimes it is very deserving.
So now I have to sit here, feeling bad, and bitching like a moron, about some other moron which doesn't deserver my attention, yet has the full capacity of it.
Not I'm not just annoyed, but I hate myself a little bit.
IM Hazardous to your work
Or..."Why is IM a Dangerous Tool"
So, my dad is on his day off (once a week, he works from home; big shot CEOs can do that, I gotta come sit in my cubicle). He also had a new toy - an iPod. Since it is a technical gadget, I am instantly the technical genius concerning anything and everything about the thing. I am not, by they, a very "gadgety" person. Besides, all I do with my iPod is shove music on it, and press "Play".
My dad started ripping his entire CD collection to the iPod, which is a good thing. However, he started using his iTunes as the primary media player, which is less of a good thing, because it uses QuickTime, and, well, it's not very happy with Windows and Windows is not very happy with it. So when he plays a music CD, it sounds all squirrelly (or chipmunky, I'm not sure, I wasn't there) and crackly. So begins a whole series of IM conversations on how to best resolve this, ending with me spending thirty minutes going through the iTunes forums to find a solution. Which I did, by the way.
But that's not the point. The point is that he was trying to listen to "Call Me" by Blondie. And after the little problem was fixed, he started to sing along to song. In IM.
Yes, he sent me the song lyrics, more or less one line at a time.
"...call me..."
"...call me anytime..."
"...cover me with designer sheet..."
"...we can share the wine, call me..."
Now, every one of those makes the stupid thing pop up! I'm trying (a swear I was) to work, and I get lyric pop-ups every few seconds!
Now, I can appreciate my dad's enthusiasm, and I love it that he's so excited about this...but I gotta get SOME work done today!
So, my dad is on his day off (once a week, he works from home; big shot CEOs can do that, I gotta come sit in my cubicle). He also had a new toy - an iPod. Since it is a technical gadget, I am instantly the technical genius concerning anything and everything about the thing. I am not, by they, a very "gadgety" person. Besides, all I do with my iPod is shove music on it, and press "Play".
My dad started ripping his entire CD collection to the iPod, which is a good thing. However, he started using his iTunes as the primary media player, which is less of a good thing, because it uses QuickTime, and, well, it's not very happy with Windows and Windows is not very happy with it. So when he plays a music CD, it sounds all squirrelly (or chipmunky, I'm not sure, I wasn't there) and crackly. So begins a whole series of IM conversations on how to best resolve this, ending with me spending thirty minutes going through the iTunes forums to find a solution. Which I did, by the way.
But that's not the point. The point is that he was trying to listen to "Call Me" by Blondie. And after the little problem was fixed, he started to sing along to song. In IM.
Yes, he sent me the song lyrics, more or less one line at a time.
"...call me..."
"...call me anytime..."
"...cover me with designer sheet..."
"...we can share the wine, call me..."
Now, every one of those makes the stupid thing pop up! I'm trying (a swear I was) to work, and I get lyric pop-ups every few seconds!
Now, I can appreciate my dad's enthusiasm, and I love it that he's so excited about this...but I gotta get SOME work done today!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)