10 August, 2019
A useless guide to haggling nice gifts from Santa
Right off the bat, this may not be for you. While pushing away a potentially large part of my audience is not necessarily a good thing, I thought I should be honest with you. This is another bad thing, but I will not be covering this here. Or I do not think I will; I have not made up my mind about the narrative yet. That being said, we'll see how it goes as we go.
If you do not believe in Santa, this is probably not for you. If you do believe in Santa but are Jewish, this is a bit more complicated. If you do believe in Santa and your parents are Jewish, this is even more complicated. If your parents are Jewish and you are not, or if you are Jewish and your parents are not, this should not come as a shock, but you are adopted. Still, it could be worse; you could be Jewish, and your parents could be followers of the Islam.
If you do believe in Santa and you are more than 5 years old, again: there may be some problems, regardless of your or your *cough* parents' beliefs.
Come to think of it, the right audience is children below five whose parents are neither cheap nor followers of an intense religion. After subtracting from this the lot those that cannot read yet, my audience is around 10 people at best. Which is still more than my regular audience...
Anyway, let's cut straight to the chase. A normal exchange with Santa would likely go like this.
"Dear Santa,
My name is Lulu. I am 4 years old I have been a good girl this year. For this Christmas I would like a new doll, the blonde princess from Disney. She would be my best friend forever. I would also like a magic kitchen, a pony and lots and lots of chocolate.
I can't wait for your gifts.
Love, Lulu."
Ah, sweet Lulu! Let us see how successful she was at melting Santa's heart (and budget).
"Dear Claire,
Everyone says they have been a good girl, including your mommy, who obviously was not. This is why 3 different milkmen have been at your house this year, even though there isn't even a milk delivery service in your area. Maybe you should think twice why mommy sends you to buy milk from the grocery store when the nice milkman comes around to visit her.
Anyway, that aside, every year you are asking me to bring you a doll to be your best friend. And even though you have no other friends, every year that doll ends up in the garbage before February and stuck in a reef before June. Given your brief attention span, I fear the pony would meet a similar fate. The only difference being a glue factory or a high-end grocery chain instead of a reef. In the latter scenario at least, you could see him again when you go shopping for milk. Speaking of which, you should consider regular instead of the chocolate caramel range every once in a while. I know you're only 5, but it's already very difficult to find a kitchen for you to fit in, magic or not. And my sleigh sure as hell is not magic enough to carry it anyway; I would surely need to swap the reindeers with a long-haul truck. And a small lorry for the chocolate. Which, again, I strongly urge you to reconsider. For your own sake. And, who knows, you might even make some real friends after this. It's nice to have someone to help in case you have a stroke.
So how about a wooden doll and a bag of oranges? If anything, there is less risk of a turtle swallowing doll parts once you get bored with it. And let's we skip the magic kitchen completely? A kitchen is probably the last thing you need right now.
Santa"
Hardly optimal, is it, Lulu? Santa got all your wishes wrong. And your appetite, too. Heck, he even got your name and age wrong. Well, this is where my help comes in.
"Hey, Santa.
To say I was gravely disappointed by your reply would be a gross understatement. You might be interested to know that my name is Lulu, and not Claire. You might be also interested to know that I know the truth about the milkmen. And that I recognize you as one of them. And you know who else might be interested about them (and you)? Daddy. Remember daddy? Well, he got back from the seas at the end of summer and we are spending Christmas together this year.
How about that, huh? The eyes of a child may be innocent, but they do see a lot of things. Remember last Christmas? Well, I sure do. You brought that magic rolling pin with batteries for mommy last year. And then you showed her how to use it. On several occasions, until April. Therefore, I am expecting my magic kitchen this year, alright? Or at least a mini fridge stocked with chocolates. Along with the pony and doll. And don't you worry about my friends and health! It's my enemies you should be worried about.
As for the oranges, you may feed them to your reindeers. The extra energy might help you arrive on time this year instead of blaming Amazon Prime.
We can skip the love for now. Lulu."
After some serious after-thought, I have made up my mind about the narrative and decided to not pursue here the subject of being honest, after all. Somehow, it looks like it is not suited for the occasion.
11 May, 2019
A useless guide for the... dim lights to attracting moths (I'm not sure)
Three men walk into a bar, except that it is not okay now to have only men; women should be represented. It would be more balanced to make a joke about being in a bar and a lady who promises is a gentleman, although the less divisive path is to say there a person which claims to
be the opposite sex to make it equal-gender and neutral. Such terrible inception for a prematurely dead joke, but
hey, at least it's inclusive. All this so that people with no sense of humour would stop yelling that it is not funny. Like saying something dumb so that the stupid can also acknowledge it to be intelligent. And just like the LGBTQSUF is going to run out of letters soon, humour is going to run out of audiences. Sudden laughter will need to be carefully evaluated before bursting and spontaneous quips should be compiled in a list that is thoroughly checked by people who have no sense of humour. And guess who thrives in such barren circumstances? Funny (sorry) you should mention it, but there is this guy at work that could limbo flawlessly below the low bar held by the unfortunate cocktails of words, mime and utterances that crack priests, corporate people and other people to from the bottom of the dull barrel into spontaneous laughter. Or, to put it on a more cheery note, the rat feasting during the plagued times of intellectual atrophy.
If knowing your audience is key, he should refrain even from attempting to entertain brighter pets or even some of the more intellectually-endowed pieces furniture (like a smart-fridge that sets to defrost whenever you put a cake in) that are stand on a higher rung where his brain cannot climb. But just like moths around light, he cannot help himself from stampeding at even the faintest flicker, away from his more suitable environment: the pitch dark of switched-off minds. Which means not even the canteen could provide haven during my feeble attempts to take refuge from his spewed broadcast in the open space. Some would call it fate that he happens to take his coffee breaks whenever I'm on a coffee break myself, but as I do not believe in fate, I would rather say it's the fact that I'm always on coffee breaks.
Maybe it is time to take a better look at myself and identify one of genders that entitle me to use bathrooms he should not be allowed to go to. Just like the white clouds of heaven, an immaculate white haven for me right here on earth (second hallway on the left after the elevators, if you're curious). Well, not quite immaculate, but at least white. Mostly white. It's ironical how the most handicapped people use the lavatory for the disabled, even though theirs is the only handicap that does not qualify them to use a lavatory for the disabled. They should be restricted to the filthy corner in the cage of their inconsiderate minds (that's also second hallway on the left once you exit the elevator, but first you need to take the elevator all the way to the basement, near the garages where they park their expensive company BMW's).
Another thing I could do is... well, screw it, I'm tired of being pompous and pretentious. I'll get a coffee across the street. Call me if there's an emergency, I find the missed calls notifications soothing.
Handle it with funny-boy, you referred him just so you can get a new phone.
If knowing your audience is key, he should refrain even from attempting to entertain brighter pets or even some of the more intellectually-endowed pieces furniture (like a smart-fridge that sets to defrost whenever you put a cake in) that are stand on a higher rung where his brain cannot climb. But just like moths around light, he cannot help himself from stampeding at even the faintest flicker, away from his more suitable environment: the pitch dark of switched-off minds. Which means not even the canteen could provide haven during my feeble attempts to take refuge from his spewed broadcast in the open space. Some would call it fate that he happens to take his coffee breaks whenever I'm on a coffee break myself, but as I do not believe in fate, I would rather say it's the fact that I'm always on coffee breaks.
Maybe it is time to take a better look at myself and identify one of genders that entitle me to use bathrooms he should not be allowed to go to. Just like the white clouds of heaven, an immaculate white haven for me right here on earth (second hallway on the left after the elevators, if you're curious). Well, not quite immaculate, but at least white. Mostly white. It's ironical how the most handicapped people use the lavatory for the disabled, even though theirs is the only handicap that does not qualify them to use a lavatory for the disabled. They should be restricted to the filthy corner in the cage of their inconsiderate minds (that's also second hallway on the left once you exit the elevator, but first you need to take the elevator all the way to the basement, near the garages where they park their expensive company BMW's).
Another thing I could do is... well, screw it, I'm tired of being pompous and pretentious. I'll get a coffee across the street. Call me if there's an emergency, I find the missed calls notifications soothing.
Handle it with funny-boy, you referred him just so you can get a new phone.
30 March, 2019
A useless old-school guide to business optimisation
Recently at the office I watched an educational film from the late '80s on how you can turn a failing business a multi-million-dollar business in less than forty minutes. The film was exactly forty minutes long, but there was no relevant advice during the credits section. With a bit of smart scrolling through the timeline (you will understand later why), you can master the secrets of becoming successful in any business in fifteen minutes*. For free. Well, it probably was not free when it was launched, but now it is on YouTube (thank you, Youtube, I do not want to try now your paid subscription). Anyway, prepare to change your life and from now on your only worry will be which type of veneer you should choose for the deck of your yacht** or which colour to choose for your new office-golf set.
Before we start, you should remember is that eighties cheesy synthesiser music is a must for success in mastering the art of doing business. Bonus: it goes great with yellow all-caps text that fills half the screen. This is where the key points are; pay attention!
Bob was just promoted to line manager. It was always a Bob back then. Or a Dan. Of course, it could have been Sandeep, or Sarah, or Ngandu, but this was in the eighties. So, it is Bob. He is a nice guy from Engineering, currently a manager. He is as surprised as anyone else, except for Charles. Charles is the CEO. He is white and male, too, but he has a longer name. Also not very surprised by the promotion is Denise, Bob's wife. She is having an affair with Charles and thought that such a promotion should be keeping Bob busy at work. Plus a bit more money in the household... Win-win. In all fairness, I did not see this in the film, but it is probably in one of the sections I skipped. Since she married an engineer, she is probably not very good-looking, hence I did not bother to scroll back and check. Charles does not find her attractive either, for him it is a thing of power. I know better websites where you can find more attractive women involved with their husband's boss, but the web filter is blocking them at work. Damn you, corporate firewall!
Anyway...
In the past months, business was not doing great. Sales were declining, inventory was piling up in the warehouses, customers were not happy, employees were getting frustrated.
Bob is not very sure where to start. He asks for a one-on-one meeting with Charles to ask for advice. Being a true leader, Charles starts with generic advice that sounds interesting but is useless, like "look at the big picture". Then sends him to talk to Cecille in finance (of course she works in finance, her name is Cecille) to take a look at the production flow in order to identify bottlenecks. Bottlenecks are the enemy of lean production (this is an important lesson, it twirled in an animation and filled the screen for about 5 seconds). Charles exits scene, probably heading for another one-on-one with Denise.
Bob proceeds to talk to Cecille, who sends him to consult Donovan in the factory warehouse and Mike in Sales and Marketing. These crucial holders of relevant information (well, except Mike; he is in Sales and Marketing, after all) provide him with numbers and charts. Bob nods but is not thoroughly convinced.
The weekend finds Bob not happy with his progress, worried he might not be doing a great job. Denise reminds him he is supposed to go on a trip with their son's boy-scouts group in the forest. Yeah, right; anything to get poor Bob out of the house. Denise, you cheating cow! However, Charles decides to spend the day with his buddies playing golf and smoking cigars in the restaurant over a lavish dinner.
Meanwhile, Bob is wandering in the woods with a bunch of kids. This is during the eighties, it is not a problem until thirty years later. The problem is that their pace is slower than estimated; if they keep on like that there is no chance they can complete the hike before sunset. Bob has a flashback from his discussions during the week and remembers that in situations like this he should look for bottlenecks. In this case the bottleneck is Georgie, a fat kid whining and gasping for air while struggling uphill. Since the kids are supposed to stay together, he is slowing everybody down. Bob notices Georgie is carrying an enormous backpack. Upon inspection, he redistributes the heavier content to other kids that were carrying less despite being stronger and more fit than poor Georgie. After this shuffle, the pace improves considerably, the children make it to the cabin on time, enjoy a nice dinner and tell stories by the camp-fire. Most likely about Debbie, the classroom cheerleader, who has started wearing bras and hanging out with older kids. The boys are wondering if she could get pregnant from kissing with that guy from the football team behind the gym on Thursday or whether they might get tickets for the next Michael Jackson concert. I cannot be certain, because their dialogue fades out and the cheesy music and animation combo takes over to remind you how crucial it is to eliminate bottlenecks.
This was an interesting turn of events; based on my experience in the workplace a more likely scenario would include firing Georgie for slowing the team down, throwing out all his stuff in a bush and enjoying the increased productivity. By the time the boys (except for Georgie) reach the camp, they notice that the pots for preparing dinner were in Georgie's backpack, along with crucial ingredients and the tasty snacks. Everyone goes to bed hungry and irritated, hoping that Georgie gets mauled by a bear and eaten slowly. In the mean-time, Georgie recovers his things -and as the road back is downhill- he gets back to town quickly, happy that he has the rest of the afternoon off and a big back of sugary treats.
The following Monday, while the kids at school are bullying the crap out of Georgie for making them carry his stuff, Bob is telling Charles the episode with Georgie and how he fixed the problem. He somehow managed to take the same approach in the second assembly line and has improved production by reducing the wait times for machine P385B. Charles does not seem to notice how that was possible between Saturday afternoon and Monday morning, given that the factory is closed during weekends; probably the backstabbing bastard has other things on his mind. He congratulates Bob for the progress and tells him to continue with the quality control and customer satisfaction. After this, the boss walks out of the office, leaving Bob with a confident smile and a full-screen text regarding customer loyalty being of utmost importance for the success of any product.
The boss walks in, and everything must be put on hold for now.
If this sounds confusing, let me explain: this is my boss, in real-life, not in the film. I hit pause quickly before bringing up an Excel window and put on a busy face while selecting random columns. Oh! He only wanted to say he was attending a meeting in another office and would not be back before the end of the day.
At this point, I had to speed things up; it is a well-known productivity rule to never spend more than four minutes in the office after the boss has left the building.
To sum up before I leave: avoid bottlenecks, optimise production, pay attention to quality and customer satisfaction, be careful with the marketing campaigns and deliver quickly. Also, be careful with that back-stabbing bitch, either at home or at work (never trust the sales guy)!
*Note: In my case it took under two hours; after the first 8 minutes I was exhausted and went for a sandwich and nap in a small conference room.
**Note: I skipped the ending, but I imagine Bob bought a yacht.
***Note: As you may see, I am not asterisks-adverse. This would have killed in the eighties. Not like Pol Pot, though.
Before we start, you should remember is that eighties cheesy synthesiser music is a must for success in mastering the art of doing business. Bonus: it goes great with yellow all-caps text that fills half the screen. This is where the key points are; pay attention!
Bob was just promoted to line manager. It was always a Bob back then. Or a Dan. Of course, it could have been Sandeep, or Sarah, or Ngandu, but this was in the eighties. So, it is Bob. He is a nice guy from Engineering, currently a manager. He is as surprised as anyone else, except for Charles. Charles is the CEO. He is white and male, too, but he has a longer name. Also not very surprised by the promotion is Denise, Bob's wife. She is having an affair with Charles and thought that such a promotion should be keeping Bob busy at work. Plus a bit more money in the household... Win-win. In all fairness, I did not see this in the film, but it is probably in one of the sections I skipped. Since she married an engineer, she is probably not very good-looking, hence I did not bother to scroll back and check. Charles does not find her attractive either, for him it is a thing of power. I know better websites where you can find more attractive women involved with their husband's boss, but the web filter is blocking them at work. Damn you, corporate firewall!
Anyway...
In the past months, business was not doing great. Sales were declining, inventory was piling up in the warehouses, customers were not happy, employees were getting frustrated.
Bob is not very sure where to start. He asks for a one-on-one meeting with Charles to ask for advice. Being a true leader, Charles starts with generic advice that sounds interesting but is useless, like "look at the big picture". Then sends him to talk to Cecille in finance (of course she works in finance, her name is Cecille) to take a look at the production flow in order to identify bottlenecks. Bottlenecks are the enemy of lean production (this is an important lesson, it twirled in an animation and filled the screen for about 5 seconds). Charles exits scene, probably heading for another one-on-one with Denise.
Bob proceeds to talk to Cecille, who sends him to consult Donovan in the factory warehouse and Mike in Sales and Marketing. These crucial holders of relevant information (well, except Mike; he is in Sales and Marketing, after all) provide him with numbers and charts. Bob nods but is not thoroughly convinced.
The weekend finds Bob not happy with his progress, worried he might not be doing a great job. Denise reminds him he is supposed to go on a trip with their son's boy-scouts group in the forest. Yeah, right; anything to get poor Bob out of the house. Denise, you cheating cow! However, Charles decides to spend the day with his buddies playing golf and smoking cigars in the restaurant over a lavish dinner.
Meanwhile, Bob is wandering in the woods with a bunch of kids. This is during the eighties, it is not a problem until thirty years later. The problem is that their pace is slower than estimated; if they keep on like that there is no chance they can complete the hike before sunset. Bob has a flashback from his discussions during the week and remembers that in situations like this he should look for bottlenecks. In this case the bottleneck is Georgie, a fat kid whining and gasping for air while struggling uphill. Since the kids are supposed to stay together, he is slowing everybody down. Bob notices Georgie is carrying an enormous backpack. Upon inspection, he redistributes the heavier content to other kids that were carrying less despite being stronger and more fit than poor Georgie. After this shuffle, the pace improves considerably, the children make it to the cabin on time, enjoy a nice dinner and tell stories by the camp-fire. Most likely about Debbie, the classroom cheerleader, who has started wearing bras and hanging out with older kids. The boys are wondering if she could get pregnant from kissing with that guy from the football team behind the gym on Thursday or whether they might get tickets for the next Michael Jackson concert. I cannot be certain, because their dialogue fades out and the cheesy music and animation combo takes over to remind you how crucial it is to eliminate bottlenecks.
This was an interesting turn of events; based on my experience in the workplace a more likely scenario would include firing Georgie for slowing the team down, throwing out all his stuff in a bush and enjoying the increased productivity. By the time the boys (except for Georgie) reach the camp, they notice that the pots for preparing dinner were in Georgie's backpack, along with crucial ingredients and the tasty snacks. Everyone goes to bed hungry and irritated, hoping that Georgie gets mauled by a bear and eaten slowly. In the mean-time, Georgie recovers his things -and as the road back is downhill- he gets back to town quickly, happy that he has the rest of the afternoon off and a big back of sugary treats.
The following Monday, while the kids at school are bullying the crap out of Georgie for making them carry his stuff, Bob is telling Charles the episode with Georgie and how he fixed the problem. He somehow managed to take the same approach in the second assembly line and has improved production by reducing the wait times for machine P385B. Charles does not seem to notice how that was possible between Saturday afternoon and Monday morning, given that the factory is closed during weekends; probably the backstabbing bastard has other things on his mind. He congratulates Bob for the progress and tells him to continue with the quality control and customer satisfaction. After this, the boss walks out of the office, leaving Bob with a confident smile and a full-screen text regarding customer loyalty being of utmost importance for the success of any product.
The boss walks in, and everything must be put on hold for now.
If this sounds confusing, let me explain: this is my boss, in real-life, not in the film. I hit pause quickly before bringing up an Excel window and put on a busy face while selecting random columns. Oh! He only wanted to say he was attending a meeting in another office and would not be back before the end of the day.
At this point, I had to speed things up; it is a well-known productivity rule to never spend more than four minutes in the office after the boss has left the building.
To sum up before I leave: avoid bottlenecks, optimise production, pay attention to quality and customer satisfaction, be careful with the marketing campaigns and deliver quickly. Also, be careful with that back-stabbing bitch, either at home or at work (never trust the sales guy)!
*Note: In my case it took under two hours; after the first 8 minutes I was exhausted and went for a sandwich and nap in a small conference room.
**Note: I skipped the ending, but I imagine Bob bought a yacht.
***Note: As you may see, I am not asterisks-adverse. This would have killed in the eighties. Not like Pol Pot, though.
15 December, 2018
A useless guide to moral superiority
Easy! I will begin, of course, with something about religion, because it is an endless trove of inspiring tales when you are looking for moral superiority. Also, religious people are most likely to click on links and make the largest donations. So maybe I should focus on something nice, because if I infer bigotry, intolerance and the genocide of... pretty much anyone outside their flock they might click away in outrage and switch back to wedding-cake-hats and under-age grindring. An unusual choice, I know: someone who is sworn into celibacy to be so keen on hats resembling the symbol of weddings. Hmm... I cannot think of anything nice beyond cake, so maybe it is time to move on to something nicer than religion. How about preventing racism? A great topic for displaying moral superiority, without the need for holy books (if anything, holy books are anything but helpful here). This is something we can all agree on. Like the fact that some words we say can hurt and therefore are not okay to say. Particularly if you are white. If you black, they are fine. And if you are Asian then it is a gray, area depending on how drunk and rich are the black people at the party. A long time ago I saw a clip where a famous comedian (famous because his main audience is American) was saying it is okay for some people to use a certain word, but not for anyone else. Those that are okay to say it happen to be his people, which is a common occurrence in pretty much any religious argument. I said I would not get into religion, though, so back to our comedian. He argued that some things are okay when he does them but not okay when anyone else does. For instance, playing naked with his little children. Because if he does it, it is fine, but when anyone else does it they are paedophiles.
Well, there are some wrong ideas in his argument. And by wrong I mean utterly stupid. First: he might be a paedophile even if they are his children; being the father is not a guarantee. Second: while lack of garment is certainly weird (albeit more for other adults rather than children), it does not make you ipso facto a paedo. It is intent of sex and pursue of said intent that make you one. Third: it could be other toddlers playing with his, in which case it will not raise any eyebrows at all, particularly in a hot summer day around a swimming pool or spouting hydrant (are hydrants still a thing? I used to see loads of them in 'seventies and 'eighties movies). The same is also valid for pets, swimming pool or not. Nevertheless, he got huge cheers.
If you cannot make it as a cheap entertainer in front of an uneducated audience, another option for reaching moral superiority is to preach (sorry) about how important your (actually very unimportant) work is. You need to start by giving it a fancy title to compensate for how meaningless it is. Aim for something like personal development guru, AdWords master, life coach, guerilla copywriter, marketing ninja, sales black-belt or anything with synergy or leader in it. After that, keep on telling people how what you do makes the world a better place. From time to time gather with your peers and give each other shiny awards. Wear something gaudy. Top it off with a flashy hat. For extra notoriety and cash, put out a book titled "The name-of-your-job-here's Bible".
Hmm, is there a pattern emerging here? No matter how hard you try, you cannot boast your moral superiority without being religious, racist and/ or incompetent.
Probably the easiest way to display moral superiority safely is to install a men's bathroom, a women's bathroom, and at least other 6 to 8 other bathrooms for the others, according to how much the sub-genre acronym has expanded since the last time I checked. Probably soon they will run out of letters in the Latin alphabet to include every option, but luckily there are also the Cyrillic and Arabic alphabet for future additional options. Many of the peoples using them are notoriously famous for compassion and openness on the topic, which will make everything even more meaningful.
Or buy a silicone wrist band with a message.
Well, there are some wrong ideas in his argument. And by wrong I mean utterly stupid. First: he might be a paedophile even if they are his children; being the father is not a guarantee. Second: while lack of garment is certainly weird (albeit more for other adults rather than children), it does not make you ipso facto a paedo. It is intent of sex and pursue of said intent that make you one. Third: it could be other toddlers playing with his, in which case it will not raise any eyebrows at all, particularly in a hot summer day around a swimming pool or spouting hydrant (are hydrants still a thing? I used to see loads of them in 'seventies and 'eighties movies). The same is also valid for pets, swimming pool or not. Nevertheless, he got huge cheers.
If you cannot make it as a cheap entertainer in front of an uneducated audience, another option for reaching moral superiority is to preach (sorry) about how important your (actually very unimportant) work is. You need to start by giving it a fancy title to compensate for how meaningless it is. Aim for something like personal development guru, AdWords master, life coach, guerilla copywriter, marketing ninja, sales black-belt or anything with synergy or leader in it. After that, keep on telling people how what you do makes the world a better place. From time to time gather with your peers and give each other shiny awards. Wear something gaudy. Top it off with a flashy hat. For extra notoriety and cash, put out a book titled "The name-of-your-job-here's Bible".
Hmm, is there a pattern emerging here? No matter how hard you try, you cannot boast your moral superiority without being religious, racist and/ or incompetent.
Probably the easiest way to display moral superiority safely is to install a men's bathroom, a women's bathroom, and at least other 6 to 8 other bathrooms for the others, according to how much the sub-genre acronym has expanded since the last time I checked. Probably soon they will run out of letters in the Latin alphabet to include every option, but luckily there are also the Cyrillic and Arabic alphabet for future additional options. Many of the peoples using them are notoriously famous for compassion and openness on the topic, which will make everything even more meaningful.
Or buy a silicone wrist band with a message.
24 November, 2018
A useless guide to a wholesome diet
Many years ago, I watched a movie about a teacher with a knack for molesting teenagers doing a nice gesture for a troubled child haunted by the ghosts of dead people. (Are there ghosts of living people, too?) This is probably not the first sentence that a health guide usually begins with, but I find it to set a more accurate tone for the subject. If it makes you feel better, the teacher was not a child molester at all, but a kind, loving human being. And the child did not actually see ghosts in this movie but in another one. Anyway, the teacher told the kid he did not want anything in return, but that he could do a nice gesture for another person in need instead. From here, a chain of nice deeds cascades throughout the movie all the way to a flood of kindness and overall feel-good to the happy-end. Probably not the kind of happy-ending you had in mind when you began reading this; maybe you should not jump to conclusions so quickly next time, hmm?
Or should you? This being Hollywood, it turns out that the teacher was actually a molester after all. Anyway, this is not the point.
I think advice for a healthy lifestyle is a bit like that, in the sense that people who think of themselves as generous flood other people with links to studies from experts, personal experience and lifting quotes from famous people that emerged victorious after a long life-threatening struggle.
Also like in the movie, this trove of wisdom is offered for free. OK, maybe for a share, or a like, or a re-tweet, or all? No pressure, no pressure. Or maybe, just maybe, for a modest sum when enough text was hoarded from the above-mentioned studies and then combined with personal stories and motivating quotes to yield a new book (anything around 80 pages including pictures and charts seems just about right).
But just like that nice teacher turns out to be not so nice in real life, it turns out that the studies are not really from experts, the personal experience is personal fantasy and the inspiring quotes come from people that had good enough plastic surgery or Photoshop to camouflage the lard and airbrush the flabby skin. Let me expand on that (no offence intended).
The experts are people who think common-sense is not interesting enough to just eat reasonably and balanced and get your ass out of the car from time to time to walk for a change. This is neither financially rewarding nor fast enough for the hippos who stuffed their faces with choccies and greasy fast-food for years and suddenly expect to have a beach body in six weeks. Since a big ass goes hand in hand with a big ego, they are easily offended (imagine my surprise!), the experts need to come up with something better (and more profitable) than "your only chance for a beach body in six weeks is the one of a whale carcass beached for six weeks". So, they come up with exaggerated diets enforced by pseudo-science and imported ingredients. Not because exotic is interesting enough to sound plausible, but if it had grown close enough, they would have tried it already. Or maybe they tried it so much that it has gone extinct. Eat only tofu yoghurt with goji and acai. Of course, unless you happen to live near places where these magic berries grow -in which case you probably cannot afford them anyway- and substitute them with apple skins. You may add a spoon of synthetic honey, which has zero calories, unlike the natural one which has enzymes that encourage fat (not really, but real honey tastes nice and we all know it is never one teaspoon but rather half a jar, and half a jar does encourage fat). Eat only this during a full moon, because the it stimulates the midichlorians in the upper liver and enhances weight loss. For non-full-moon days stick to lean fats, steamed fish shanks and turnip and quinoa salad (replace the quinoa with other grains from 3 continents away if it happens to grow near your place). And an apple core for dessert, if you crave something sweet. (Really? "If"?) Just three weeks ago the pips in the core have been discovered recently (regardless of when you read it) to contain friendly bacteria that is beneficial for the intestinal traffic and overall waist line.
People who tend to share such advice often claim it worked for them and that they speak from personal experience. And also tend to be women in their late thirties or later, often living alone with at least two cats, sometimes divorced and often quite fat that they have profile photos taken from one side on social media. All the other photos are of their cats, or from an exotic beach where they went many years ago, back when they could still jump unassisted for an original photo in mid-air, preferably surrounded by less attractive women or fit men. The other photos of beaches they do not appear in are accompanied by a Photoshopped sunset and dumb quotes from failed, talentless celebrities. Which is where the uplifting quotes come from to complete the circle of resources for switching to a wholesome life. And remember to drink at least 38 glasses of water each day. Preferably with unfiltered lemons, if I remember correctly.
Since this guide would be incomplete without my personal experience, here is what worked for me: I bought an expensive (success demands sacrifice) silicone sieve for steaming food in any regular pot. It did cost more than a separate electric steamer, but it seemed wasteful to buy another device. I started with some asparagus. First start with the harder, lower bits, wait for a few minutes and then add the tips (nice tip for you right here). Then wait some more. In my case it was a lot more, as I got sidetracked by some Cypress Hill videos and trying to keep up with lyrics. After a lot more time, all the water from the pot evaporated and the sieve started to carbonize, lending a nice chewy texture to the asparagus and a strong smoky flavour to the entire kitchen. One fire alarm later, I continued with the cooking. I remembered there was some salmon in the freezer which could be a nice match for both the remaining asparagus and a healthy diet. Not to brag, but my memory is fantastic; the use-by date on the salmon was about two years ago. Unimpressed by such scary supermarket tactics I decided to cook it in the oven, as the steaming options were severely limited at this point. And it turned out quite nicely, thank you. There you go, a nice meal that is also healthy. The following day, when it felt repetitive already, I gradually introduced other super-foods in the diet. I replaced the fish and asparagus diet with quinoa, which tastes amazing stir-fried and mixed with caramel on top of chocolate ice-cream. When other important activities kept me away from the kitchen and house I relied on peanut m&m's as great outdoor snacks. Nuts are a healthy and nutritious super-food. Another healthy option is Harribo, as long as you stay away from unhealthy ones like Cola and stick to the fruit-flavoured models. Fruit is good for you, it is rich in fibre.
There you have it. I shall leave you with the famous words of Bruce Jenner, who fought a long hard fight against male-specific health challenges and won spectacularly: "In order to achieve your life-long dream, you need to cut the evil from the root".
If you found this uplifting, please share or like.
Donations are also accepted.
Or should you? This being Hollywood, it turns out that the teacher was actually a molester after all. Anyway, this is not the point.
I think advice for a healthy lifestyle is a bit like that, in the sense that people who think of themselves as generous flood other people with links to studies from experts, personal experience and lifting quotes from famous people that emerged victorious after a long life-threatening struggle.
Also like in the movie, this trove of wisdom is offered for free. OK, maybe for a share, or a like, or a re-tweet, or all? No pressure, no pressure. Or maybe, just maybe, for a modest sum when enough text was hoarded from the above-mentioned studies and then combined with personal stories and motivating quotes to yield a new book (anything around 80 pages including pictures and charts seems just about right).
But just like that nice teacher turns out to be not so nice in real life, it turns out that the studies are not really from experts, the personal experience is personal fantasy and the inspiring quotes come from people that had good enough plastic surgery or Photoshop to camouflage the lard and airbrush the flabby skin. Let me expand on that (no offence intended).
The experts are people who think common-sense is not interesting enough to just eat reasonably and balanced and get your ass out of the car from time to time to walk for a change. This is neither financially rewarding nor fast enough for the hippos who stuffed their faces with choccies and greasy fast-food for years and suddenly expect to have a beach body in six weeks. Since a big ass goes hand in hand with a big ego, they are easily offended (imagine my surprise!), the experts need to come up with something better (and more profitable) than "your only chance for a beach body in six weeks is the one of a whale carcass beached for six weeks". So, they come up with exaggerated diets enforced by pseudo-science and imported ingredients. Not because exotic is interesting enough to sound plausible, but if it had grown close enough, they would have tried it already. Or maybe they tried it so much that it has gone extinct. Eat only tofu yoghurt with goji and acai. Of course, unless you happen to live near places where these magic berries grow -in which case you probably cannot afford them anyway- and substitute them with apple skins. You may add a spoon of synthetic honey, which has zero calories, unlike the natural one which has enzymes that encourage fat (not really, but real honey tastes nice and we all know it is never one teaspoon but rather half a jar, and half a jar does encourage fat). Eat only this during a full moon, because the it stimulates the midichlorians in the upper liver and enhances weight loss. For non-full-moon days stick to lean fats, steamed fish shanks and turnip and quinoa salad (replace the quinoa with other grains from 3 continents away if it happens to grow near your place). And an apple core for dessert, if you crave something sweet. (Really? "If"?) Just three weeks ago the pips in the core have been discovered recently (regardless of when you read it) to contain friendly bacteria that is beneficial for the intestinal traffic and overall waist line.
People who tend to share such advice often claim it worked for them and that they speak from personal experience. And also tend to be women in their late thirties or later, often living alone with at least two cats, sometimes divorced and often quite fat that they have profile photos taken from one side on social media. All the other photos are of their cats, or from an exotic beach where they went many years ago, back when they could still jump unassisted for an original photo in mid-air, preferably surrounded by less attractive women or fit men. The other photos of beaches they do not appear in are accompanied by a Photoshopped sunset and dumb quotes from failed, talentless celebrities. Which is where the uplifting quotes come from to complete the circle of resources for switching to a wholesome life. And remember to drink at least 38 glasses of water each day. Preferably with unfiltered lemons, if I remember correctly.
Since this guide would be incomplete without my personal experience, here is what worked for me: I bought an expensive (success demands sacrifice) silicone sieve for steaming food in any regular pot. It did cost more than a separate electric steamer, but it seemed wasteful to buy another device. I started with some asparagus. First start with the harder, lower bits, wait for a few minutes and then add the tips (nice tip for you right here). Then wait some more. In my case it was a lot more, as I got sidetracked by some Cypress Hill videos and trying to keep up with lyrics. After a lot more time, all the water from the pot evaporated and the sieve started to carbonize, lending a nice chewy texture to the asparagus and a strong smoky flavour to the entire kitchen. One fire alarm later, I continued with the cooking. I remembered there was some salmon in the freezer which could be a nice match for both the remaining asparagus and a healthy diet. Not to brag, but my memory is fantastic; the use-by date on the salmon was about two years ago. Unimpressed by such scary supermarket tactics I decided to cook it in the oven, as the steaming options were severely limited at this point. And it turned out quite nicely, thank you. There you go, a nice meal that is also healthy. The following day, when it felt repetitive already, I gradually introduced other super-foods in the diet. I replaced the fish and asparagus diet with quinoa, which tastes amazing stir-fried and mixed with caramel on top of chocolate ice-cream. When other important activities kept me away from the kitchen and house I relied on peanut m&m's as great outdoor snacks. Nuts are a healthy and nutritious super-food. Another healthy option is Harribo, as long as you stay away from unhealthy ones like Cola and stick to the fruit-flavoured models. Fruit is good for you, it is rich in fibre.
There you have it. I shall leave you with the famous words of Bruce Jenner, who fought a long hard fight against male-specific health challenges and won spectacularly: "In order to achieve your life-long dream, you need to cut the evil from the root".
If you found this uplifting, please share or like.
Donations are also accepted.
04 November, 2018
A useless guide to sun after the rain
The sun always shines brightly after the rain. You often hear it from gurus, religious people and in country music. It is meant to be an encouragement for optimism and hope, a belief that good eventually triumphs over evil, that things turn out well, no matter how bad they seem to be at present.
As it often happens with quixotic statements from the ignorant and uneducated, there are a few problems with this. I will take a brief look at them below to kill some time while the internet is down, and it still rains outside.
First thing that comes to mind: such a claim is evidently stupid in the case of rain during the night, cloudy sky or total eclipse. Assuming a reasonably even distribution of rain between night and day, the claim is false about 50% of the time. I am a bit generous here, because not all days are sunny. So far, not the worst percentage for the religious or uneducated but still far from what a reasonable person would consider... um, reasonable.
But let us not stop here. Rain is not always a bad thing. I hope you will not find shocking that it can be rather useful at times; rain brings water to plants, animals and humans. It clears the air. It makes a park look decent again after a festival. In an area affected by severe draught, rain means a crop that will not wither and survival for another year. The mentioning of sun soon shining brightly again under such circumstances is as considerate as saying "It will not last" at a wedding ceremony. Of course it will not last: in the best-case scenario where they live happy together, one of them will still die after some time; this is unavoidable. Just like a nice bit of rain will not quench the thirst of a desert-dry area in the long run. But this does not diminish its short-term benefits. Assuming another generous half-half division between useful and damaging rain, one can easily see the irrelevance of the statement in less than three out of four cases.
It would be unfair to the argument to hold a single-sided view and ignore the rain's damaging side. It can cause flooding, it can destroy the crops it helped to grow, and it can bring misery and death. Occasionally, it can even bring down the internet by taking down a utility pole or other equipment. But I am getting ahead of myself. The sun will evaporate away the surplus water that could threaten survival, it will bring warmth in both body and spirit. Feel free to imagine this more metaphorically, if you are so inclined, this is the best I could find; I am getting a bit hungry, too, and it is not my best state of mind for artistic constructions. Briefly: it restores the balance, it is a good thing. Just like the saying claims. However, timeliness is important, and the sun's schedule is not always matching the necessities of a small part of the world on a small planet that is only one among its many. And ours is neither the bigger (this is what I meant by small in the previous sentence), nor the more important planet, if we're being realistic. This may come as a shock to the more religious, but it does not make it less of a fact. All this means there will be times when the sun does come out a bit too early or a bit late. In one case, it cancels out the potential benefit of rain before it even gets to become too much. In the other, its sole purpose is to help you to better contemplate the disaster of your flooded house and to find your drowned loved ones and your destroyed possessions more easily. Sometimes it will be just on time, but the probability of this "perfect timing" is unrealistic considering the complex aspects of astronomy, geography, technological development and weather conditions involved. Pizza delivery is late almost of all the time, and their shop is much closer to my house than the sun is to Earth. Just saying... But even by granting a generous chunk of probability to such convenient scenarios, the overall relevance of the saying lands in the realm of a minuscule double-digit percentage, with a decimal sign between those two digits. And the first one is zero.
If there is anything to be learned from this all this, it is that the gullible favour irrelevant but easy solace to looking objectively at facts, learning from the outcome and trying to fix, prevent and improve. Another thing I learned is that the internet was down because the rain short-circuited some equipment near where I live. I hope they fix it before the sun comes out, but I will not be surprised if they do not. In the meantime, pizza? Anyone? I am not offering, I am begging.
As it often happens with quixotic statements from the ignorant and uneducated, there are a few problems with this. I will take a brief look at them below to kill some time while the internet is down, and it still rains outside.
First thing that comes to mind: such a claim is evidently stupid in the case of rain during the night, cloudy sky or total eclipse. Assuming a reasonably even distribution of rain between night and day, the claim is false about 50% of the time. I am a bit generous here, because not all days are sunny. So far, not the worst percentage for the religious or uneducated but still far from what a reasonable person would consider... um, reasonable.
But let us not stop here. Rain is not always a bad thing. I hope you will not find shocking that it can be rather useful at times; rain brings water to plants, animals and humans. It clears the air. It makes a park look decent again after a festival. In an area affected by severe draught, rain means a crop that will not wither and survival for another year. The mentioning of sun soon shining brightly again under such circumstances is as considerate as saying "It will not last" at a wedding ceremony. Of course it will not last: in the best-case scenario where they live happy together, one of them will still die after some time; this is unavoidable. Just like a nice bit of rain will not quench the thirst of a desert-dry area in the long run. But this does not diminish its short-term benefits. Assuming another generous half-half division between useful and damaging rain, one can easily see the irrelevance of the statement in less than three out of four cases.
It would be unfair to the argument to hold a single-sided view and ignore the rain's damaging side. It can cause flooding, it can destroy the crops it helped to grow, and it can bring misery and death. Occasionally, it can even bring down the internet by taking down a utility pole or other equipment. But I am getting ahead of myself. The sun will evaporate away the surplus water that could threaten survival, it will bring warmth in both body and spirit. Feel free to imagine this more metaphorically, if you are so inclined, this is the best I could find; I am getting a bit hungry, too, and it is not my best state of mind for artistic constructions. Briefly: it restores the balance, it is a good thing. Just like the saying claims. However, timeliness is important, and the sun's schedule is not always matching the necessities of a small part of the world on a small planet that is only one among its many. And ours is neither the bigger (this is what I meant by small in the previous sentence), nor the more important planet, if we're being realistic. This may come as a shock to the more religious, but it does not make it less of a fact. All this means there will be times when the sun does come out a bit too early or a bit late. In one case, it cancels out the potential benefit of rain before it even gets to become too much. In the other, its sole purpose is to help you to better contemplate the disaster of your flooded house and to find your drowned loved ones and your destroyed possessions more easily. Sometimes it will be just on time, but the probability of this "perfect timing" is unrealistic considering the complex aspects of astronomy, geography, technological development and weather conditions involved. Pizza delivery is late almost of all the time, and their shop is much closer to my house than the sun is to Earth. Just saying... But even by granting a generous chunk of probability to such convenient scenarios, the overall relevance of the saying lands in the realm of a minuscule double-digit percentage, with a decimal sign between those two digits. And the first one is zero.
If there is anything to be learned from this all this, it is that the gullible favour irrelevant but easy solace to looking objectively at facts, learning from the outcome and trying to fix, prevent and improve. Another thing I learned is that the internet was down because the rain short-circuited some equipment near where I live. I hope they fix it before the sun comes out, but I will not be surprised if they do not. In the meantime, pizza? Anyone? I am not offering, I am begging.
19 August, 2018
A useless guide to watching horror movies
Well, what better way to enjoy a quiet Friday night in than watching a good
film with some friends? Or what other way to enjoy a Friday night when you do
not have friends? Unless you actually like alcohol, but -in this case- you would
have a lot of friends. And you would be out. At a party, or in a bar, in a
park or under a bridge. It all depends on how committed you are.
Anyway, tonight is movie night. It is Friday, and since it also happens to be a 13, someone suggests a horror movie. Yes, I know... But for the superstitious this is relevant. I do not really understand how or why, but she is hot so she was invited. And she brought a friend, too. Unfortunately, not a woman, but fortunately not quite a man, either. I would say about 70/10. There is a lot of margin for error in these cases.
Without further ado, horror film it is. And by "without further ado" I mean a lengthy debate which I do not feel like contributing to since I am the host. I find it more diplomatic to escape to the kitchen and make some popcorn while everybody else carries on. At this point I am thinking there must be better ways to enjoy a Friday night and alcohol suddenly becomes appealing, but as a great host I focus on the kettle instead.
One bowl of popcorn later, I return to the couch to find people lured by the buttery flavour and soon disappointed at the sight of the empty bowl. At least it distracted them from the debate...
While some can be good, in general I do not hold high expectations for horror flicks. They tend to have a bad story, awful acting and either too much make-up. Or too little make-up in the case of Barbara Streisand (Yes, all her films are horror films; pay attention.) Still, fingers crossed! (Can you guess who that is already?)
When I return for a second time from the kitchen -with a full bowl this time- the lights are out and the screen is on and the film has already started. Here it goes... By the opening scene I can guess this is not a lucky exception. The dialogue is fake and forced. The guy on screen is rigid, and not in the good way for a horror. He is supposed to be alive and even cheerful despite all evidence of his acting. He is driving an expensive car somewhere in the mountains and speaking on the phone about a party where he is the main guest. Even the soundtrack is disappointing, more like elevator music than Psycho or any dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun...
And it only gets worse; the superstitious one is getting more and more engaged in a conversation with her friend, everyone else is rather focused on the popcorn and snacks and make enough noise to keep me awake. Well, at least the conversation in my left ear is about make-up, so there is still some hope. And the guy on-screen made it to the cabin in the woods eventually. It does look surprisingly better than the rickety ruins you are used to see in horror movies. This one looks more like a penthouse. Nice cars parked in front, nice pool, the lot. I get the first shiver of horror: oh, please, I hope this is not another Twilight! The guy in the expensive car rings the doorbell and... well, this is not Twilight. The lady is not a midget and definitely not flat. The conversation is just as bad, though. If I could only focus on the cars... Look, that one is a McLaren Senna, and there is a Regerra next to it and... oh, they went inside. Wow, this looks even more expensive than Twilight! And the action is more paced, too: these guys are not taking two hours for a kiss, 20 seconds seem to be enough. And they are not slowing down a bit... Hold on! What the hell is this? I am not so sure this is a horror! What are they.... Yes, definitely not a horror, except only for that snooker table. That is not how you treat a Strachan! At least put a towel on and take your stilettoes off, you cow!
Damn it, who chose this? Surprise surprise, it was the 'uncertain' friend. Apparently, you look for a movie in the adult section because... they are not suitable for children. I cannot help it, and I reflect that he did not look suitable for children, either. The room goes quiet, save for the panting in the background. It is unanimously (with one exception) agreed that I crossed the line: I assumed the dubious friend was a 'he'. How crass of me! How insensitive! How can I not see that he (sorry) identifies himself (sorry again) as a she? Of course, how could I not know? Well, in my defence, the Adam's apple and hairy chest are pretty good clues. No, not enough? Alas! Another lovely evening that I have ruined for everyone.
The hastily misjudged mumbles an excuse about some other event, grabs her purse (Ooh!) and her 46-sized shoes (Ha!) and makes a dramatic exit. Followed by another excuse and her friend. And more excuses and eventually everybody else.
Looks like another quiet night in, after all. Well, there is a good side to such fast pace of the action on- and off-screen: plenty of snacks and popcorn left. And enough time to start over with a proper film.
As I reconfigure the plates and couch for a single-person layout, the superstitious friend returns. Could it be...? Yes, but of course, what else? She forgot her phone. Would she be interested in another movie? Well, she is not quite sure. Maybe she should stay a bit more at least, so that I can explain. She seems reluctant, but eventually agrees.
Dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun!
Not really, that is her phone ringing; somebody is feeling depressed and cannot be left alone right now. Quite the contrary, I think, this could be win-win. For us and the humanity in general. She leaves before I manage to explain, though.
I guess not all horror movies have happy-endings...
Anyway, tonight is movie night. It is Friday, and since it also happens to be a 13, someone suggests a horror movie. Yes, I know... But for the superstitious this is relevant. I do not really understand how or why, but she is hot so she was invited. And she brought a friend, too. Unfortunately, not a woman, but fortunately not quite a man, either. I would say about 70/10. There is a lot of margin for error in these cases.
Without further ado, horror film it is. And by "without further ado" I mean a lengthy debate which I do not feel like contributing to since I am the host. I find it more diplomatic to escape to the kitchen and make some popcorn while everybody else carries on. At this point I am thinking there must be better ways to enjoy a Friday night and alcohol suddenly becomes appealing, but as a great host I focus on the kettle instead.
One bowl of popcorn later, I return to the couch to find people lured by the buttery flavour and soon disappointed at the sight of the empty bowl. At least it distracted them from the debate...
While some can be good, in general I do not hold high expectations for horror flicks. They tend to have a bad story, awful acting and either too much make-up. Or too little make-up in the case of Barbara Streisand (Yes, all her films are horror films; pay attention.) Still, fingers crossed! (Can you guess who that is already?)
When I return for a second time from the kitchen -with a full bowl this time- the lights are out and the screen is on and the film has already started. Here it goes... By the opening scene I can guess this is not a lucky exception. The dialogue is fake and forced. The guy on screen is rigid, and not in the good way for a horror. He is supposed to be alive and even cheerful despite all evidence of his acting. He is driving an expensive car somewhere in the mountains and speaking on the phone about a party where he is the main guest. Even the soundtrack is disappointing, more like elevator music than Psycho or any dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun...
And it only gets worse; the superstitious one is getting more and more engaged in a conversation with her friend, everyone else is rather focused on the popcorn and snacks and make enough noise to keep me awake. Well, at least the conversation in my left ear is about make-up, so there is still some hope. And the guy on-screen made it to the cabin in the woods eventually. It does look surprisingly better than the rickety ruins you are used to see in horror movies. This one looks more like a penthouse. Nice cars parked in front, nice pool, the lot. I get the first shiver of horror: oh, please, I hope this is not another Twilight! The guy in the expensive car rings the doorbell and... well, this is not Twilight. The lady is not a midget and definitely not flat. The conversation is just as bad, though. If I could only focus on the cars... Look, that one is a McLaren Senna, and there is a Regerra next to it and... oh, they went inside. Wow, this looks even more expensive than Twilight! And the action is more paced, too: these guys are not taking two hours for a kiss, 20 seconds seem to be enough. And they are not slowing down a bit... Hold on! What the hell is this? I am not so sure this is a horror! What are they.... Yes, definitely not a horror, except only for that snooker table. That is not how you treat a Strachan! At least put a towel on and take your stilettoes off, you cow!
Damn it, who chose this? Surprise surprise, it was the 'uncertain' friend. Apparently, you look for a movie in the adult section because... they are not suitable for children. I cannot help it, and I reflect that he did not look suitable for children, either. The room goes quiet, save for the panting in the background. It is unanimously (with one exception) agreed that I crossed the line: I assumed the dubious friend was a 'he'. How crass of me! How insensitive! How can I not see that he (sorry) identifies himself (sorry again) as a she? Of course, how could I not know? Well, in my defence, the Adam's apple and hairy chest are pretty good clues. No, not enough? Alas! Another lovely evening that I have ruined for everyone.
The hastily misjudged mumbles an excuse about some other event, grabs her purse (Ooh!) and her 46-sized shoes (Ha!) and makes a dramatic exit. Followed by another excuse and her friend. And more excuses and eventually everybody else.
Looks like another quiet night in, after all. Well, there is a good side to such fast pace of the action on- and off-screen: plenty of snacks and popcorn left. And enough time to start over with a proper film.
As I reconfigure the plates and couch for a single-person layout, the superstitious friend returns. Could it be...? Yes, but of course, what else? She forgot her phone. Would she be interested in another movie? Well, she is not quite sure. Maybe she should stay a bit more at least, so that I can explain. She seems reluctant, but eventually agrees.
Dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun!
Not really, that is her phone ringing; somebody is feeling depressed and cannot be left alone right now. Quite the contrary, I think, this could be win-win. For us and the humanity in general. She leaves before I manage to explain, though.
I guess not all horror movies have happy-endings...
09 July, 2018
A useless guide to visiting the fjords with a troll
I have known Sabine for more than nine years. Of which, for the first five she was the wife of a good friend of mine. Now they are separated. He is married now, has three children and two cats. And a wife with a drinking problem. Her drinking problem is related to his gambling problem. And one of the cats is blind. Still, it could have been worse. He could have stayed with Sabine.
Most of the times Sabine and I get along well. By most of the times meaning the times when I manage to keep my mouth shut and not be honest to all her chatter about her ex-husbands (she has been married twice so far) and former or current partners, or other great stories. Because everything happening to her is fascinating and amazing and fantastic. And she tells it all like it is a trifle, but often makes pauses for you to exclaim "wow, that is formidable, you are so interesting". To be honest, it is incredible. Incredibly boring, especially after hearing it all for more than eleven times. Still, it could be worse. She could have children. There might not be enough hours in a day to tell all the wondrous things her children did. Because they would be the smartest, most beautiful and interesting children in the world. She does not have any, though. She only has a chihuahua and she never mentions it, as I passingly mentioned once how I kicked a chihuahua. I also mentioned, still passingly, how much I hate dogs. Which is a lie. Well, sort of a lie. I love dogs, save for those tiny ones that look like they go into fibrillation every time they poop.
If I could have any pet I wanted, it would be a hyena. Then I could invite Sabine to walk our dogs together and I could discreetly ask my hyena to eat her chihuahua. However, owning a hyena is difficult. They are messy, and it is hard to collect bits of flesh from everywhere and wash blood stains off a carpet. Um... a friend told me that. Eventually I would stick to a 'pure-breeds' mongrel; I am not going to spend eight hundred dollars on a single breed when I can get a mix of four or five pure strands for free at the shelter. It would be like going to a mix-and-match candy shop and paying for a single type of Haribo’s when you could get a bit of everything for free, including peanut butter m&m's and chocolate biscuits. Who would do that that? Unfortunately, I know who: my colleague Martin, who accidentally ate a Haribo Cola once and he liked it, but he is too afraid to try anything new. All this discussion about candy has made me a bit peckish, hold on.
(Four minutes and one jumbo-size bag of Haribo’s later...)
Where was I? Right. Any animal larger than a cat could gobble her chihuahua. But hyenas have better personality than cats, are fierce fighters and are able to laugh. Laughter is good. Without it we could go insane at Sabine's stories. Still, it could be worse...
Last month I went on vacation with Sabine. She was between boyfriends or may the current one was unavailable or something, and I was... her last choice in her list of friends but the only one available for that weekend with cheap tickets. She suggested Norway, because she wanted to see a fjord. And the cheap tickets, too.
I was hesitant at first (I always hesitate at her initiatives), but I said yes. When I was in third grade I saw a picture of a fjord in the geography book. I liked it so much that I made a drawing of me on a sleigh at the top of the mountain and I imagined how amazing it would be to drive it (that was the technical term then) all the way down. At that age I did not tend to bother much with aspects such as accelerating for many hundred meters on a steep rocky slope and plunging straight into icy water. It was a fantastic sleigh, but my teacher did not appreciate me drawing on the school's books. To this day, I am not sure if she was jealous of my adventure or the Cockosaurus, a dinosaur with a huge penis that I had drawn on the same page near a bear that presumably lived in fjord-ish areas (another technical term from those innocent days). But a punishment was involved.
When fjords were mentioned, sleighing down on one was my first thought. Now that I am a grown-up I am aware there are downsides to it; I would have to carry the sleigh back all that way once finished. I still wanted to go, despite all that. Including Sabine.
The trip started well, my first fun memory was in the airport. They asked Sabine to pay extra for her oversized suitcase, which was more than the ticket itself. I nodded compassionately to her bitching for the entire duration of Denmark and the Northern Sea while pretending I only kept the noise cancellation headphones for the engine and that I was not listening to anything. My rhythmic nodding almost gave me away during a song or two but in the end, she calmed down before landing. Passport control, thorough exploration of the duty-free (she realised she wanted headphones), car rental, nice drive to town, hotel check-in, walking tour and dinner. Next morning, we were ready for adventure.
Well, not quite ready yet, first she had to get ready for the great outdoors. Make-up for twenty minutes then twenty more minutes to cover in six layers of professional ski and winter clothing. Because Norway is cold. So cold that I also had to put on a light hoodie over of my shirt, there was a light drizzle. But it could easily escalate into a tropical hurricane, according to Sabine's vast experience with urban mountains. When she was done she was so well covered that her make-up had become one of the foundation layers (you see, ladies, I know a thing or two about make-up), beneath two hoods, a scarf, and a polar-expedition-grade hat. Finally, she was ready. Properly equipped, we went all the way to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. And a story about the fifty minutes on the phone in the middle of the night with her ex that still wants to be with her. And the impossibility of escaping such drama. I suggested Silent Mode. I suggested it for breakfast, too, but she did not get it. On the way out, the lady receptionist told us it would be a great day for sight-seeing and suggested us a... sight worth seeing that was a bit further but unreachable by coach. For me it meant no tourists taking pictures on iPads and hopefully no gift shops. I was all in.
Finally, ready for adventure. Well, fist coffee. And another story. Not sure if it was about the same ex or a different one, hard to tell. Then back to her room, she forgot her headphones. Then searched for headphones through the entire luggage and found them on the night-stand. Car. Drive. Incomplete ex story because half-way through she remembered she had new headphones. Like a teenager, Sabine enjoys her bad music at maximum volume, which means I could hear it, too, from her tiny in-ear buds and over the car engine. It sounded worse than the navigation instructions in Norwegian, but it was better than stories I had heard many times before.
One long and beautiful drive and one not very beautiful parking toll later, we were at the top of the fjord. I will not lie, the sight was brilliant, despite the apparent lack of sleighs. The mountains, the trees, the water, it looked majestic. Rain had stopped, and there were just a few clouds to make the sun not so annoying. Perfect, just how I liked it. It was so beautiful that even Sabine managed to shut up for a while. Thank you, lady receptionist! And thank you, headphones! All this splendour and not a single tourist in sight.
Alas, there was still one...
I had enjoyed the sight for a while, and even managed to identify the trekking path to a nearby waterfall. Finding directions is always a challenge for me. I was just about to go when it began...
Can you please take a photo of me? Thanks. Wait, it is blurry! Can you do it again, please? Yes, a bit better. Wait, my face does not appear in the photo! Let me take my hoodie off! Better. Now! And now! Hmm, that should do, I guess. Wait, now take one from the side! Again, I will arrange my hair to look like it is not arranged. Now take one when I'm jumping and in mid-air! No, take it when I am highest in the air! I know a phone is not a professional camera, try to estimate how long it takes and press the button before! Hmm... I will jump from that rock, but make sure the rock does not appear in the photo! Now take one when I'm gazing into the distance! No, a bit more to the side. Try to take in both that tree and the river! Like that. No, it is too much to the side! You never listen! Wow, what a nice bird! Did you manage to get it in the photo? Of course not. Could we wait a bit? Maybe it comes back. Where are you going? Waterfall? Great, maybe we can take some pictures there.
Between each photo there was a pause for walks to and from the camera, criticism and complaints, various changes like making the face visible, rumpling hair, arranging the hair back because it would hide her face, jumping several times with the hands high, knees high and laugher forced, finding a rock, more jumps, moving to and fro finding the best tree (because they do not look the same at all), moving to one side, composing for a serious, meditative pose and so on. The time saved on shorter complaints was used for uploading the picture to Facebook. While internet is fast and coverage is great even in the most remote areas, finding an appropriate message to go with the picture is not fast at all. If you ask me, the message is not great at all, either. But who has the time to ask me? I should focus on taking better pictures.
Finally, we moved on... to shortly stop at every twist and turn in the road that was Instagram-worthy. And in Norway, there are quite a few. Fortunately, the appeal of waterfall photos would set us back in motion quickly.
If I had a target of a minimum number of words in a story, I could simply copy and paste the section from above, replace fjord with waterfall, make small adjustments here and there. And it would not be cheating, because it happened absolutely the same. Setting thresholds for minimum work are not my thing, though; my style is rather focused on avoiding the maximum. To put it briefly, it was like Groundhog Day. The only difference is that there is lower chance to fall in love with Sabine than with Rita. I apologise if you do not know Groundhog Day. You could go, watch it, and come back here if you remember to, and it would still be faster than recollecting the fjord photo session in the context of the waterfall. Bottom line, it was the same. Except that when she demanded an eighteenth meditative photo at the edge of the waterfall I pushed her into the abyss and was surprised to notice how her shrill screaming could briefly cover the thunderous noise of water falling from a height of more than seventy meters. As my phone is slower than her fall from such height, I did not manage to record her fall and the subsequent crash and death. I guess she was right: I am bad at taking photos of people jumping. Well, live and learn. In my case, not hers. What I learned after my trip to the fjords is that maybe I should buy a new, faster phone.
After a lovely and quiet rest of the afternoon in the great outdoors I returned to the hotel. I thanked the lady receptionist for her great tips, it was such a lovely trip. She asked where my friend was, but I did not know her well enough to tell her the truth about Sabine's great "trip". I said instead that she went shopping for a new jacket, which was unfortunately the truth because in reality I did not have the heart to kill Sabine. She is still my friend and very much alive.
Still, there is a silver-lining to this story. Later at the hotel, she got undressed for a shower when her phone rang. It was her current boyfriend and she went to the balcony to talk in private. I do not understand why, because I was not in the room at the time and later at dinner I was served a 40-minutes summary of that 15-minutes conversation anyway. The fish was excellent, though, and what was also excellent -this is where the silver-lining kicks in- was that she got a severe cold when she was in the balcony. Her throat was so inflamed from her coughing that she could barely speak, and her nose was so red and swollen that she did not want any pictures the following day. She only settled for a couple of landscapes she managed to shoot by herself. They were deleted later, during the flight back home; coughing while taking pictures makes them even worse than mine, apparently.
I was a gentleman all the way and took her home and helped with her two suitcases. Now there were two; luggage fees and Norwegian prices cannot stop Sabine from shopping. We were welcomed by her chihuahua. It tried to bite my hand when I accidentally placed one of the suitcases on its sleeping rug. I would not kick a dog, but I think a video of a chihuahua being thrown in a waterfall would gather even more views and Likes on Facebook than Sabine gets in an entire weekend at the beach in a provocative swimming suit.
Most of the times Sabine and I get along well. By most of the times meaning the times when I manage to keep my mouth shut and not be honest to all her chatter about her ex-husbands (she has been married twice so far) and former or current partners, or other great stories. Because everything happening to her is fascinating and amazing and fantastic. And she tells it all like it is a trifle, but often makes pauses for you to exclaim "wow, that is formidable, you are so interesting". To be honest, it is incredible. Incredibly boring, especially after hearing it all for more than eleven times. Still, it could be worse. She could have children. There might not be enough hours in a day to tell all the wondrous things her children did. Because they would be the smartest, most beautiful and interesting children in the world. She does not have any, though. She only has a chihuahua and she never mentions it, as I passingly mentioned once how I kicked a chihuahua. I also mentioned, still passingly, how much I hate dogs. Which is a lie. Well, sort of a lie. I love dogs, save for those tiny ones that look like they go into fibrillation every time they poop.
If I could have any pet I wanted, it would be a hyena. Then I could invite Sabine to walk our dogs together and I could discreetly ask my hyena to eat her chihuahua. However, owning a hyena is difficult. They are messy, and it is hard to collect bits of flesh from everywhere and wash blood stains off a carpet. Um... a friend told me that. Eventually I would stick to a 'pure-breeds' mongrel; I am not going to spend eight hundred dollars on a single breed when I can get a mix of four or five pure strands for free at the shelter. It would be like going to a mix-and-match candy shop and paying for a single type of Haribo’s when you could get a bit of everything for free, including peanut butter m&m's and chocolate biscuits. Who would do that that? Unfortunately, I know who: my colleague Martin, who accidentally ate a Haribo Cola once and he liked it, but he is too afraid to try anything new. All this discussion about candy has made me a bit peckish, hold on.
(Four minutes and one jumbo-size bag of Haribo’s later...)
Where was I? Right. Any animal larger than a cat could gobble her chihuahua. But hyenas have better personality than cats, are fierce fighters and are able to laugh. Laughter is good. Without it we could go insane at Sabine's stories. Still, it could be worse...
Last month I went on vacation with Sabine. She was between boyfriends or may the current one was unavailable or something, and I was... her last choice in her list of friends but the only one available for that weekend with cheap tickets. She suggested Norway, because she wanted to see a fjord. And the cheap tickets, too.
I was hesitant at first (I always hesitate at her initiatives), but I said yes. When I was in third grade I saw a picture of a fjord in the geography book. I liked it so much that I made a drawing of me on a sleigh at the top of the mountain and I imagined how amazing it would be to drive it (that was the technical term then) all the way down. At that age I did not tend to bother much with aspects such as accelerating for many hundred meters on a steep rocky slope and plunging straight into icy water. It was a fantastic sleigh, but my teacher did not appreciate me drawing on the school's books. To this day, I am not sure if she was jealous of my adventure or the Cockosaurus, a dinosaur with a huge penis that I had drawn on the same page near a bear that presumably lived in fjord-ish areas (another technical term from those innocent days). But a punishment was involved.
When fjords were mentioned, sleighing down on one was my first thought. Now that I am a grown-up I am aware there are downsides to it; I would have to carry the sleigh back all that way once finished. I still wanted to go, despite all that. Including Sabine.
The trip started well, my first fun memory was in the airport. They asked Sabine to pay extra for her oversized suitcase, which was more than the ticket itself. I nodded compassionately to her bitching for the entire duration of Denmark and the Northern Sea while pretending I only kept the noise cancellation headphones for the engine and that I was not listening to anything. My rhythmic nodding almost gave me away during a song or two but in the end, she calmed down before landing. Passport control, thorough exploration of the duty-free (she realised she wanted headphones), car rental, nice drive to town, hotel check-in, walking tour and dinner. Next morning, we were ready for adventure.
Well, not quite ready yet, first she had to get ready for the great outdoors. Make-up for twenty minutes then twenty more minutes to cover in six layers of professional ski and winter clothing. Because Norway is cold. So cold that I also had to put on a light hoodie over of my shirt, there was a light drizzle. But it could easily escalate into a tropical hurricane, according to Sabine's vast experience with urban mountains. When she was done she was so well covered that her make-up had become one of the foundation layers (you see, ladies, I know a thing or two about make-up), beneath two hoods, a scarf, and a polar-expedition-grade hat. Finally, she was ready. Properly equipped, we went all the way to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. And a story about the fifty minutes on the phone in the middle of the night with her ex that still wants to be with her. And the impossibility of escaping such drama. I suggested Silent Mode. I suggested it for breakfast, too, but she did not get it. On the way out, the lady receptionist told us it would be a great day for sight-seeing and suggested us a... sight worth seeing that was a bit further but unreachable by coach. For me it meant no tourists taking pictures on iPads and hopefully no gift shops. I was all in.
Finally, ready for adventure. Well, fist coffee. And another story. Not sure if it was about the same ex or a different one, hard to tell. Then back to her room, she forgot her headphones. Then searched for headphones through the entire luggage and found them on the night-stand. Car. Drive. Incomplete ex story because half-way through she remembered she had new headphones. Like a teenager, Sabine enjoys her bad music at maximum volume, which means I could hear it, too, from her tiny in-ear buds and over the car engine. It sounded worse than the navigation instructions in Norwegian, but it was better than stories I had heard many times before.
One long and beautiful drive and one not very beautiful parking toll later, we were at the top of the fjord. I will not lie, the sight was brilliant, despite the apparent lack of sleighs. The mountains, the trees, the water, it looked majestic. Rain had stopped, and there were just a few clouds to make the sun not so annoying. Perfect, just how I liked it. It was so beautiful that even Sabine managed to shut up for a while. Thank you, lady receptionist! And thank you, headphones! All this splendour and not a single tourist in sight.
Alas, there was still one...
I had enjoyed the sight for a while, and even managed to identify the trekking path to a nearby waterfall. Finding directions is always a challenge for me. I was just about to go when it began...
Can you please take a photo of me? Thanks. Wait, it is blurry! Can you do it again, please? Yes, a bit better. Wait, my face does not appear in the photo! Let me take my hoodie off! Better. Now! And now! Hmm, that should do, I guess. Wait, now take one from the side! Again, I will arrange my hair to look like it is not arranged. Now take one when I'm jumping and in mid-air! No, take it when I am highest in the air! I know a phone is not a professional camera, try to estimate how long it takes and press the button before! Hmm... I will jump from that rock, but make sure the rock does not appear in the photo! Now take one when I'm gazing into the distance! No, a bit more to the side. Try to take in both that tree and the river! Like that. No, it is too much to the side! You never listen! Wow, what a nice bird! Did you manage to get it in the photo? Of course not. Could we wait a bit? Maybe it comes back. Where are you going? Waterfall? Great, maybe we can take some pictures there.
Between each photo there was a pause for walks to and from the camera, criticism and complaints, various changes like making the face visible, rumpling hair, arranging the hair back because it would hide her face, jumping several times with the hands high, knees high and laugher forced, finding a rock, more jumps, moving to and fro finding the best tree (because they do not look the same at all), moving to one side, composing for a serious, meditative pose and so on. The time saved on shorter complaints was used for uploading the picture to Facebook. While internet is fast and coverage is great even in the most remote areas, finding an appropriate message to go with the picture is not fast at all. If you ask me, the message is not great at all, either. But who has the time to ask me? I should focus on taking better pictures.
Finally, we moved on... to shortly stop at every twist and turn in the road that was Instagram-worthy. And in Norway, there are quite a few. Fortunately, the appeal of waterfall photos would set us back in motion quickly.
If I had a target of a minimum number of words in a story, I could simply copy and paste the section from above, replace fjord with waterfall, make small adjustments here and there. And it would not be cheating, because it happened absolutely the same. Setting thresholds for minimum work are not my thing, though; my style is rather focused on avoiding the maximum. To put it briefly, it was like Groundhog Day. The only difference is that there is lower chance to fall in love with Sabine than with Rita. I apologise if you do not know Groundhog Day. You could go, watch it, and come back here if you remember to, and it would still be faster than recollecting the fjord photo session in the context of the waterfall. Bottom line, it was the same. Except that when she demanded an eighteenth meditative photo at the edge of the waterfall I pushed her into the abyss and was surprised to notice how her shrill screaming could briefly cover the thunderous noise of water falling from a height of more than seventy meters. As my phone is slower than her fall from such height, I did not manage to record her fall and the subsequent crash and death. I guess she was right: I am bad at taking photos of people jumping. Well, live and learn. In my case, not hers. What I learned after my trip to the fjords is that maybe I should buy a new, faster phone.
After a lovely and quiet rest of the afternoon in the great outdoors I returned to the hotel. I thanked the lady receptionist for her great tips, it was such a lovely trip. She asked where my friend was, but I did not know her well enough to tell her the truth about Sabine's great "trip". I said instead that she went shopping for a new jacket, which was unfortunately the truth because in reality I did not have the heart to kill Sabine. She is still my friend and very much alive.
Still, there is a silver-lining to this story. Later at the hotel, she got undressed for a shower when her phone rang. It was her current boyfriend and she went to the balcony to talk in private. I do not understand why, because I was not in the room at the time and later at dinner I was served a 40-minutes summary of that 15-minutes conversation anyway. The fish was excellent, though, and what was also excellent -this is where the silver-lining kicks in- was that she got a severe cold when she was in the balcony. Her throat was so inflamed from her coughing that she could barely speak, and her nose was so red and swollen that she did not want any pictures the following day. She only settled for a couple of landscapes she managed to shoot by herself. They were deleted later, during the flight back home; coughing while taking pictures makes them even worse than mine, apparently.
I was a gentleman all the way and took her home and helped with her two suitcases. Now there were two; luggage fees and Norwegian prices cannot stop Sabine from shopping. We were welcomed by her chihuahua. It tried to bite my hand when I accidentally placed one of the suitcases on its sleeping rug. I would not kick a dog, but I think a video of a chihuahua being thrown in a waterfall would gather even more views and Likes on Facebook than Sabine gets in an entire weekend at the beach in a provocative swimming suit.
01 July, 2018
A useless guide to underwater life
A couple of years ago, a team of Danish Scientists have discovered a Greenland shark that is 400 years old. It was found a few hundred meters away from its school, lost and dehydrated from all that crying. The research team offered it soup and tried to make contact, but their attempts were in vain, except for the soup. Its lack of response was attributed to its old age and the fact that it was a female, which is a bit sexist but can be true. Many moons ago, when I was a young support monkey I had an older colleague and she displayed the same grumpiness when subjected to stress. I tested that for 180 times and eventually gave up when she hooked up with a friend of mine that is no longer a friend of mine. Win-win, I guess.
The shark's age was determined by radiocarbon dating its eye lens nuclei. My colleague also had eye lenses in a small box on her desk, but since my experience with pulse of carbon-14 produced by nuclear tests is not that vast and equipment was not available nearby, I looked at her ID card lying on the very same desk and computed it in my head. I am not very good with large numbers either, so it took a few attempts and time.
Four hundred years is a long time. If you ask Christians, that is 10 percent of our planet's age. Which means that according to their schedule the shark's grandpa could have been contemporary with Jesus. Possibly. By that I mean that any imaginary thing is possible when evaluated through the lens of religion, no matter how stupid.
I imagine that sharks would be irritated by the noise of flip-flops when someone walks on water, as well as the applauses of its unwashed audience on the shore. Sandals and flip-flops make more noise on water, as sound propagates better than through sand. And on top of that, these are made out of wood. I guess it helps a bit with flotation. Oh, did I ruin the "magic" trick by explaining it? Either that, or that person is a carpenter and is too cheap to spend on havaianans.
If I were a shark and had to face such nuisance, I would give 25-30 pieces of silver to someone in the water-walker's entourage to get rid of the noise source. Like convince him to move someplace else, I guess. His pick, what could go wrong?
Of course, I could just move to other waters, but as a matter of principle I do not skimp on comfort. And 30 pieces of silver are easy to come by, I have 8 sunken pirate ships in my backyard and they are packed with that stuff. The bigger problem is actually finding someone reliable enough to carry the job through. I knew a whale that told me that once he had to bribe 8 people until he finally got rid of the noise. He had become so annoyed with the situation that one day he just couldn't take it and swallowed one of them. After some time, he got fed up with him and spit him back to shore. I did not wait to hear the rest of the story, but apparently that person became famous by embellishing the events to whomever cared to listen. It is complicated to deal with people, so it comes as no surprise that after a few hundred years one would just give up and move to a quiet place la Greenland. Sure, you need to pay attention to the big slabs of ice falling on your head from time to time, but overall it is a cool place to live.
And yes, I could just tackle the issue myself and out-perform the walking on water with a spectacular jump-and-grab and turn the water into red wine, but I find little satisfaction in sorting my own problems myself.
If I had to impress a bunch of gullible unwashed mob by claiming I can do magic, I guess an easy one would be to tell them I could turn water into wine, close my eyes for a bit, mumble some gibberish and then tell them it is done: white wine. It works every time there are no sommeliers in the audience. I heard once that before deciding on red wine, Jesus was working with prosecco until people figured out how he made the bubbles.
Where was I? Oh, yes. This is whom I'd gladly clip any time: Aquaman. I am a people person... sorry, I meant shark, as you know by now, but this prick is a horrible human being. Remember Ichthyander? Of course, you do not; you are too young and books are harder than movies. Well, Aquaman is the complete opposite. He is the under-water equivalent of Bono. Even if he did not talk so much you would always know where he is by the long trails of make-up he leaves in the water. Also, he spends ages in the shower and leaves more hair in the drain than Ariel. At least she could sing and... had other talents, too (and she tasted nice despite being intensely distressed after we broke up). But this guy? None. With Marvel getting so desperate about profits and coming up with so many franchises, I guess now there are now 5 to 6 superheroes per person already. I would not know what to do with so many. I could use the Strange doctor that can teleport me from place to place when I am too lazy to swim. He seems like a nice person. And he could tell me nice detective stories in the rest of the time. Sure, Stephen Fry has an even better voice, but his audio-book is still more than 60 dollars on amazon. And he is not so great at time travel, should the need arise. But the other super-heroes? I have no use for them. Maybe one to clean around the house and do the groceries, but that's it. I could keep Aquaman to do that, just for spite. But given how incompetent he is, he would probably make more mess than tidying and would get the wrong kind of sea weed. Oh, fun idea: I could also keep Hulk and unleash him from time to time on his ass. And when he's done being beaten up, he can start arranging the furniture back to where it was. Hulk would also be great when he is calm. Brilliant scientist, he is. He could probably fix the TV, post-smash. Which reminds me, MotoGP is on in 5 minutes. Well, children, this concludes today's guide to underwater life.
I hope you have learned a lot.
The shark's age was determined by radiocarbon dating its eye lens nuclei. My colleague also had eye lenses in a small box on her desk, but since my experience with pulse of carbon-14 produced by nuclear tests is not that vast and equipment was not available nearby, I looked at her ID card lying on the very same desk and computed it in my head. I am not very good with large numbers either, so it took a few attempts and time.
Four hundred years is a long time. If you ask Christians, that is 10 percent of our planet's age. Which means that according to their schedule the shark's grandpa could have been contemporary with Jesus. Possibly. By that I mean that any imaginary thing is possible when evaluated through the lens of religion, no matter how stupid.
I imagine that sharks would be irritated by the noise of flip-flops when someone walks on water, as well as the applauses of its unwashed audience on the shore. Sandals and flip-flops make more noise on water, as sound propagates better than through sand. And on top of that, these are made out of wood. I guess it helps a bit with flotation. Oh, did I ruin the "magic" trick by explaining it? Either that, or that person is a carpenter and is too cheap to spend on havaianans.
If I were a shark and had to face such nuisance, I would give 25-30 pieces of silver to someone in the water-walker's entourage to get rid of the noise source. Like convince him to move someplace else, I guess. His pick, what could go wrong?
Of course, I could just move to other waters, but as a matter of principle I do not skimp on comfort. And 30 pieces of silver are easy to come by, I have 8 sunken pirate ships in my backyard and they are packed with that stuff. The bigger problem is actually finding someone reliable enough to carry the job through. I knew a whale that told me that once he had to bribe 8 people until he finally got rid of the noise. He had become so annoyed with the situation that one day he just couldn't take it and swallowed one of them. After some time, he got fed up with him and spit him back to shore. I did not wait to hear the rest of the story, but apparently that person became famous by embellishing the events to whomever cared to listen. It is complicated to deal with people, so it comes as no surprise that after a few hundred years one would just give up and move to a quiet place la Greenland. Sure, you need to pay attention to the big slabs of ice falling on your head from time to time, but overall it is a cool place to live.
And yes, I could just tackle the issue myself and out-perform the walking on water with a spectacular jump-and-grab and turn the water into red wine, but I find little satisfaction in sorting my own problems myself.
If I had to impress a bunch of gullible unwashed mob by claiming I can do magic, I guess an easy one would be to tell them I could turn water into wine, close my eyes for a bit, mumble some gibberish and then tell them it is done: white wine. It works every time there are no sommeliers in the audience. I heard once that before deciding on red wine, Jesus was working with prosecco until people figured out how he made the bubbles.
Where was I? Oh, yes. This is whom I'd gladly clip any time: Aquaman. I am a people person... sorry, I meant shark, as you know by now, but this prick is a horrible human being. Remember Ichthyander? Of course, you do not; you are too young and books are harder than movies. Well, Aquaman is the complete opposite. He is the under-water equivalent of Bono. Even if he did not talk so much you would always know where he is by the long trails of make-up he leaves in the water. Also, he spends ages in the shower and leaves more hair in the drain than Ariel. At least she could sing and... had other talents, too (and she tasted nice despite being intensely distressed after we broke up). But this guy? None. With Marvel getting so desperate about profits and coming up with so many franchises, I guess now there are now 5 to 6 superheroes per person already. I would not know what to do with so many. I could use the Strange doctor that can teleport me from place to place when I am too lazy to swim. He seems like a nice person. And he could tell me nice detective stories in the rest of the time. Sure, Stephen Fry has an even better voice, but his audio-book is still more than 60 dollars on amazon. And he is not so great at time travel, should the need arise. But the other super-heroes? I have no use for them. Maybe one to clean around the house and do the groceries, but that's it. I could keep Aquaman to do that, just for spite. But given how incompetent he is, he would probably make more mess than tidying and would get the wrong kind of sea weed. Oh, fun idea: I could also keep Hulk and unleash him from time to time on his ass. And when he's done being beaten up, he can start arranging the furniture back to where it was. Hulk would also be great when he is calm. Brilliant scientist, he is. He could probably fix the TV, post-smash. Which reminds me, MotoGP is on in 5 minutes. Well, children, this concludes today's guide to underwater life.
I hope you have learned a lot.
18 March, 2018
Coffee-shop and Daffodil
Right, coffee-shop. Not any kind, but new coffee-shop. Coffee-shop 2.0. Where should I start? Fancy chairs, rich menu and decorations, professional baristas. Fancy chairs means there are not two of the same, each trying to out-pass the others in terms of looks and funkiness, made from 19 different materials, with the only thing they have in common being overall lack of comfort. But hey, you know, design!
Design also overflows in the menu, with long descriptions for coffee, in an attempt to make it as exciting as the chairs: single-source, double-roast, hand-picked, fair-trade, gluten-free (probably unlike some bits in the chairs), organic milk (anything but cow is acceptable), virgin cinnamon, sugar without any clarification about its virginity but definitely brown or cane. The list goes on and on. It is so big that you need a full-size wall to handwrite it all in chalk. Preferably by someone suffering from Parkinson, a doctor or someone that has not learned how to write yet. The former can be controversial, and doctors can be harder to find, but luckily you can always find the latter among the staff.
For each item on the menu there are sizes: from 0.2 ml, for a strong roast that will give you a mild heart-attack, all the way to a bucket. And nothing else in between. If they decide to squeeze some intermediary sizes, Latin words irrelevant to volume are to be used.
The other walls are adorned with local art, because, you know, support for the community and struggling artists. The art on display is like finger and macaroni paintings toddlers do in kindergarten when the teacher has forgotten to lock up the sweets cupboard. Swap the paint and macaroni for markers, pebbles, sequins and glitter and there you have it. Sometimes it is done directly on the wall or, for extra zest, on old posters, vinyl discs or any flat surface they were too lazy to take out to the bins. Well, there is a reason local art is local, and that reason is related mainly to quality. Still, the new coffee-shop remains hopeful that good intentions compensate whatever lacks in skill and broadcast it on every surface not taken by the menu: walls, cupboards, radiators, and sometimes even in the bathrooms.
Fortunately, at the end of the day, the outcome of the struggle remains contained locally. Those that are not local will be spared and will only have to deal with their own... and so on, and so on.
Baristas masterfully lead this whole symphony of sensations. You can tell them apart from the cattle by their impeccably dramatic uniforms of beanies and ironically non-matching aprons. Conjoined in a graceful dance around their immense silvery alchemy machine (the coffee maker), they are pushing buttons, scribbling furiously and unintelligibly the customer's name on paper or extruded polyester cups. Said cups are then fed by said baristas to the said machine, buttons are pushed, and the precious brown fluid fills them to the brim a couple of minutes later. Or only filled half-way through, to save room for the upcoming milk-foam art and the complimentary sprinkle or two of precious nutmeg or cinnamon (virgin, remember?) powder from a never-ending jar with a sieve on top.
To the untrained eye all this may look easy, but mastering such craft requires long time and suffering. The long time is for growing the beard and the suffering is for the tattoos, truck-tire earrings in the ears and piercings everywhere else. Attitude, mumbling, and a tank top are added to the mix, and the magnificent outcome is deemed worthy to handle the sacred coffee machine. And blissfully mix up the orders.
If you want to gain the barista's respect, you will ask politely for anything with at least six words in the title. And try to sound like it is not the first time you're reciting the drink's pompous title. Then say your name. Wait two to three minutes. Repeat your name. Wait four minutes more. Spell your name. Offer to write it yourself. Get mumbled or scoffed at. Pay. Wait patiently for other twenty minutes, even if there is no queue; art requires sacrifice. Quickly whiff or gulp to relish your concoction and step out before the local art and music irreversibly scratch your retina and eardrum. Thank you and have a blessed day. Or, if you get it, man, take out your MacBook and spend the next six hours clicking and basking in the potpourri of coffee flavour, visual art and music.
Wait! Oh, my! Silly me, but I forgot to mention the music.
When not violating the copyright off whales snoring or dolphins farting or some twigs cracking in the Amazonian forest, new coffee-shop music is another nod to local musicians. The kind of musicians that do not know how to play any musical instrument. Those that go the extra mile and do learn subsequently display their skill in the live band at their friends' weddings. Most of them do not. And they take pride in making their music on specialised devices. Devices with lamps for pure, analogue sound. Because digital sound is not pure, brother, you know? Anyway, the raw, analogue sound is then taken processed through ready-made filters, presumably for more purity, and then tuned on a computer connected to keyboards with many buttons. Whilst still remaining analogue. And pure. The pure end result is a monotonous series of beats of various frequencies dubbed over elevator music. If there was a woman available during the recording, you may spot a diluted lamenting blur in the song from time to time.
I met once such a "musician". He was named Daffodil and he was almost fifty. He used to describe himself as a new player and promising talent. I thought that would be a perfect name for this kind of artists. Daffodils are among the first flowers to bloom after a long harsh winter. They are supposed to symbolize rebirth, youth and creativity, awareness, and self-reflection. Or probably this is how they would describe themselves.
In reality they are the last flowers you would use in a bouquet and are usually thrown in for free as filler by florists before they get too wilted. Such perfect irony is indeed rare and to be heartily enjoyed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
