Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
This past Monday, Laurianne and I headed down to the Bytowne theatre to see Paul Verhoeven's Black Book (not to be confused with Little Black Book, a horrendous romantic comedy.) Paul Verhoeven is a director whose American portfolio includes such films as Basic Instinct, Starship Troopers, Robocop, Total Recall, and the truly horrible Showgirls. None of these films are particularly good, and all seem to share a common theme of excessive violence, excessive sex, or a combination of both.
I was astonished to learn that Verhoeven has directed two movies that are considered the greatest Dutch films of the twentieth century: Soldier of Orange, and Turkish Delight. While the plot synopsis of Turkish Delight does not appeal to me, Soldier of Orange, the story of students involved in the Dutch resistance, does. I hope to see that movie some day.
Black Book was of particular interest to me because it deals with the Dutch Resistance during World War II. Being of Dutch extraction, and being a student of history, I was exci
ted about seeing this movie. My excitement was tempered by a certain anxiousness. What would Verhoeven do? Would there be any resemblance of actual historical events, or would it be an excuse for bloody shoot-outs and mindless sex?
ted about seeing this movie. My excitement was tempered by a certain anxiousness. What would Verhoeven do? Would there be any resemblance of actual historical events, or would it be an excuse for bloody shoot-outs and mindless sex?In the end, I was neither satisfied nor disappointed. The movie begins with the words "based on actual events" which, in the film world, is code for "we dressed everybody old-fashioned and then made up a story." The movie does a fine job in recreating the war-time Netherlands (I think), but the fictional characters do not correspond to any Dutch reality. The film is poignant at times, while at other times it is so over the top it borders on ridiculous. There is a lot of violence, which is to be expected in a movie dealing with a clash between the resistance and the Nazis. There is also a lot of nudity, which is, for the most part, completely unnecessary.
Carrice Van Houten plays Rachel Stein, a Jewish woman in hiding. Circumstances force her out of hiding and into the resistance. Further events lead her to befriend the German SD officer, Ludwig Müntze whom she initially uses for information but later falls in love with. I had a difficult time with the idea that a Dutch Jew could have possibly fallen for any Nazi, no matter how sympathetic, during this dark period of history. I could not build up any positive feeling towards Müntze, a man who presumably would have served Nazism to the end if it had been successful. The film follows Rachel Stein's trials and tribulations right through to the liberation of the Netherlands.
Despite the problems I had with this movie, I still consider it to be well-done. While it often seemed forced to me, it packs an emotional punch. The dark underbelly of the resistance is shown in all of its ugly glory. Van Houten's performance is superb, the story is intense, and many of the characters are intriguing. Verhoeven's often heavy hand succeeds in sculpting a work of merit.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
The Great Redeemer Post
My mother is writing an article for the Beacon (?). She asked me to create a post asking my friends for their thoughts on how Redeemer shaped them as a person. So, if any of my fellow Redeemerites out there could take the time to share their thoughts and possibly gain immortality by having their name printed in a newsletter, my mother would be most grateful.
For myself, I feel that Redeemer allowed me to embrace my love for this world without being ashamed. We do not stand with our heads in the clouds, but with our feet firmly planted on the earth, wrestling with current ideas and trends, caring for the planet, and always seeking the truth. I would speak on this further, but I need to eat. Thus, I leave the pith of Redeemer to the rest of you . . . Please. Your time is appreciated.
My mother is writing an article for the Beacon (?). She asked me to create a post asking my friends for their thoughts on how Redeemer shaped them as a person. So, if any of my fellow Redeemerites out there could take the time to share their thoughts and possibly gain immortality by having their name printed in a newsletter, my mother would be most grateful.
For myself, I feel that Redeemer allowed me to embrace my love for this world without being ashamed. We do not stand with our heads in the clouds, but with our feet firmly planted on the earth, wrestling with current ideas and trends, caring for the planet, and always seeking the truth. I would speak on this further, but I need to eat. Thus, I leave the pith of Redeemer to the rest of you . . . Please. Your time is appreciated.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
On the Bus
Recently, due to certain ailments in our automobile, we have been forced to take the public transportation system. Often when I tell people that this is what I do, they give me their sympathy. To be honest, however, I rather like taking the bus. No longer do I have the frustration of getting across the Ottawa River, of Ottawa's often inexplicable traffic jams, or of getting stuck behind a bus. Now I'm stuck in the bus. All I have to do is walk to my stop, get on the bus, and sit. I have been getting a lot of reading done, which gives me a certain sense of accomplishment.
There is an advertisement for the OC Transpo that I have seen a lot of lately. Above a statement urging people to use the public transporation system in order to meet new people is a picture of an elderly gentleman in a suit and a young woman with an outrageously large and colourful hair-do. Both of them are smiling, but I am left contemplating whether the elderly gentleman wouldn't be reconsidering the time he spent liberating Europe. "Man," he should be saying, "I took shrapnel in my leg so that you could make your head look like a peacock's derriere?"
I cannot say that I have actually met any new people on the bus, but I certainly have seen some interesting ones. One sullen young woman slumped in with repeated thuds. I looked up from my book on the Third Crusade to see a woman with her red hair hanging listlessly over her face. She had green jogging pants, a blue shirt, and a large walking stick with a shrunken skull peering at me from its apex. I really felt that she should have had a leather jacket and maybe a tattoo instead of what I thought were butterflies on her shirt. I also witnessed two bearded gentlemen dressed similarly in bright pastel pink and green tennis suits, the bottom half of which was absurdly short. One of them had flowers in his hair. I didn't bother taking the opportunity to get to know them.
Recently, due to certain ailments in our automobile, we have been forced to take the public transportation system. Often when I tell people that this is what I do, they give me their sympathy. To be honest, however, I rather like taking the bus. No longer do I have the frustration of getting across the Ottawa River, of Ottawa's often inexplicable traffic jams, or of getting stuck behind a bus. Now I'm stuck in the bus. All I have to do is walk to my stop, get on the bus, and sit. I have been getting a lot of reading done, which gives me a certain sense of accomplishment.
There is an advertisement for the OC Transpo that I have seen a lot of lately. Above a statement urging people to use the public transporation system in order to meet new people is a picture of an elderly gentleman in a suit and a young woman with an outrageously large and colourful hair-do. Both of them are smiling, but I am left contemplating whether the elderly gentleman wouldn't be reconsidering the time he spent liberating Europe. "Man," he should be saying, "I took shrapnel in my leg so that you could make your head look like a peacock's derriere?"
I cannot say that I have actually met any new people on the bus, but I certainly have seen some interesting ones. One sullen young woman slumped in with repeated thuds. I looked up from my book on the Third Crusade to see a woman with her red hair hanging listlessly over her face. She had green jogging pants, a blue shirt, and a large walking stick with a shrunken skull peering at me from its apex. I really felt that she should have had a leather jacket and maybe a tattoo instead of what I thought were butterflies on her shirt. I also witnessed two bearded gentlemen dressed similarly in bright pastel pink and green tennis suits, the bottom half of which was absurdly short. One of them had flowers in his hair. I didn't bother taking the opportunity to get to know them.
Friday, June 22, 2007
The dank cabin was full of rough-looking sailors. A lantern hung over top of a stout wooden table the men were gathered around. The rough voices of the men rumbled together in an incoherent babble. A small bespeckled man stood near the centre of the cluster of men and raised his hand, gradually gaining the attention of the gathered seamen.
"Gentlemen," seaman Hoskins began, "the reason I have called you here today is to discuss a very pressing problem."
Several of the assembled sailors checked their pocketwatches impatiently. Two sailors standing near the back stepped anxiously from foot to foot. A burly sailor spat a wad of tobacco into a tin can with a loud spurt of brown saliva.
Hoskins ignored it all, "You see, gentlemen, there is a hole in the bottom of our ship."
A few sailors nodded nonchalantely, there was a cough, and a low rumble sounded as conversation commenced again.
Hoskins stood up, "Gentlemen, there is a large hole in our ship and water is rushing through."
"Now wait a minute!" the large burly sailor, Smitty by name, stood up and slammed his fist angrily on the table, "I need proof before we start talking about some supposed hole in the bottom of our ship."
"You can go and see for yourself," Hoskins said, "the hole is still there."
The burly Smitty glowered at Hoskins, "What, do you think I have time to investigate these things?"
Hoskins shrugged and then leaned forward, his face etched with concern, "I'm just offering a warning."
"Well," a wizened old sailor raised his quavering voice, "if there is a hole, what do you suppose we should do about it?"
"I really feel that we should mend it," Hoskins answered.
There was a chorus of protest from the assembled sailors.
"Now wait here a minute," Smitty growled, "why should I waste my time repairing non-existent holes in ships when there's money to be won gambling?"
There was murmur of agreement from those assembled. Several sailors shuffled away muttering under their breaths.
"I seem to remember," a gangly old seaman mused, "that this ship had a hole in it on another voyage, and there was no problem then."
"That hole was not as large as this one," Hoskins explained, "and we really are carrying a lot of things with us and . . ."
"What can we do about our things?" interrupted a sailor as he leaned disinterestedly against the wall, "throw them overboard?"
"That would certainly help," Hoskins answered.
The room exploded with the sounds of angry voices. When the noise finally began to subside Yurk, a brash young sailor, stood up to speak, "I sure can throw some of my things overboard, but it really isn't going to do anything in the long run if no one else throws their things overboard."
"The deck seems especially dry to me," muttered the burly Smitty, "I don't see any flooding on the deck."
"How long until the boat sinks?" a tall nervous-looking sailor asked.
"The way I figured," Hoskins responded, "we have about half a day."
A few of the older sailors looked worried, but most of the sailors laughed dismissively.
"C'mon!" scoffed Yurk, "if we have half a day, why don't we just fix the hole at the end of the day?"
There was a roar of approval and four more sailors left, yelling out crude predictions on their next game of poker.
"Wait, wait!" Hoskins yelled, "it will be too late!"
Yurk laughed, slapping Smitty on the shoulder, "when the end of the day comes we'll know if it's too late or not. Until that time I have money to win!"
The tall nervous sailor and three other men stumbled forward to stand behind Hoskins. Chesnutt, whose fat face made him look like a young boy raised his voice, "I say, chaps! I say we make an oath!"
The word oath seemed to grab the attention of all the men in the room. There was a hushed silence, "an oath?" a voice asked.
Hoskins smiled, adjusted his glasses, and nodded in approval, "A capital idea."
"I say we make an oath to do what we can to solve this problem of the hole in the ship," Chesnutt continued.
Even Smitty was nodding his head, albeit somewhat confusedly. The room was buzzing with excited conversation. The word oath was repeated a number of times.
The gangly old sailor finally spoke, "we should probably agree on some sort of term for this oath."
"Let's call it the oath of O'Toyk!" a young sailor enthused.
"Why?" several voices asked, "why the oath of O'Toyk?"
"Well," the young sailor said, "we're in the O'Toyk sea."
There was a thunder of approval from the gathered seamen.
Yurk peered at the faces scattered about the cabin, "what, exactly, should this oath say?"
Hoskins cleared his throat, "I think we should all agree to bail twenty buckets of water each."
Most of the sailors made noises of approval. "I'll do thirty!" Yurk declared proudly.
"I still don't think there's a hole," the burly sailor muttered, "I'm not bailing water if there is no hole."
"I think the oath should say something else too," Chesnutt argued.
"What?" mocked a raucous voice, "that you get extra grub?"
Chesnutt raised his voice above the laughter, "The ship is sitting pretty low. If we each reduce our personal cargo by ten per cent it will go a long way."
There was a silent moment of sober reflection. "I'd be willing to do that," Yurk said, "I'll even do twenty!"
"Me too."
"Aye, here too."
Voices solemnly spoke out their willingness to part with their beloved belongings in order to meet the demands of the oath. Right hands upraised, most of the gathered sailors agreed to the terms of the oath of O'Toyk.
"So, we should probably get started," Hoskins cried. He looked relieved.
"Wait a minute," Smitty said, "why should I throw away my goods as ballast if I don't even think there's a hole?"
Another sailor piped in, "Yeah, what about the twenty men who aren't here?"
"Ten of those men are just as cantankerous as this big fellow here," the gangly old sailor slapped the burly Smitty on the back, "and the other ten are too weak to bail anything."
Yurk's puffed-out chest appeared to be deflating, "maybe I'll just throw away five per cent."
"But you promised ten!" whined Chesnutt, "you have to throw away ten because you took the O'Toyk oath."
"Well, how can I gamble with the other guys if they have more stuff than me?" Yurk protested.
"I know what you can do," the wizened sailor whispered in Yurk's ear, "just buy some of the poorer sailors' stuff and throw that out."
Yurk nodded slowly; it sounded good to him.
"I still say there is no hole," Smitty mumbled.
"I have something to say," a balding sailor cried, "I have something important to say."
"Go ahead."
"You know the man who designed this ship was a master ship-builder," the balding sailor said, combing his hand through the greasy locks which hung to his shoulders.
"It's true," the wizened old sailor quavered, "a master ship-builder."
"I'm going to see if there is a hole after all," Smitty interjected as he left the cabin.
"I really don't think there was any master ship-builder," Chesnutt argued, "I don't think that arguing that there was helps us in any way." A few sailors grunted in agreement.
"I happen to believe that this master ship-builder was quite good," the balding sailor's pate shone in the light of the lantern swinging from the ceiling.
"Quite good," echoed the wizened old sailor.
"I don't think the master ship-builder would design a ship that would sink," the balding man explained, "I mean, he is such a good ship-builder and he wouldn't allow for a hole."
"I believe we created the hole," Hoskins said, "not the ship-builder."
"Well, the ship-builder wouldn't allow the ship to sink just because it has its hull is stuffed with our things," the balding man argued, "I mean, don't you think it's pretty arrogant to believe that the actions of a few men could affect the fate of a humungous galleon?"
The wizened sailor nodded and a few men voiced their agreement.
"The ship was not designed to carry this much weight!" Chesnutt spat in annoyance.
"He was quite a good ship-builder," the balding man repeated.
Smitty returned, his pants soaked to the hip, "There is a lot of water, perhaps there is a hole."
"You see?" Hoskins said, "Something must be done."
"Of course," the balding man said, "I don't think we caused the hole. Think about it. The ship is so wide and majestic and we are like fleas on a lion in comparison to this mighty boat. I am an insignificant speck on a great wooden galleon designed by the masterful hands of a skilled ship-builder," the balding man paused pointing wildly about the cabin, "how can we be so arrogant as to think that we can affect the condition of such an amazing piece of craftmanship?"
"We may seem small compared to this boat, but we definitely caused the hole," Chesnutt declared.
Yurk frowned, "I'm not so sure that we caused the hole. I mean, maybe it just happened."
"Having so much weight on the boat with all this water rushing in definitely does not help," Hoskins asserted.
"I think it's rubbish to say that we caused the hole!" a young pimply-faced sailor shouted.
There was a babble of marked disagreement among the sailors. Some sailors were convinced of the need to keep the oath, while others argued that their gambling needs were just too important.
"Well, there just might be a hole," Smitty said, "but I'm not convinced that all the water coming into the ship will cause it to sink."
"Absolutely!" agreed another man, "I mean, I love the sea. Just imagine how comfortable it will be for us to swim whenever we want to."
"Tell that to the men who need to sleep in the lower cabins," Hoskins said drily.
The man shrugged, "Meh, what can I do for them? None of them are here, anyhow."
"Hey old-timer!" Yurk called out to the gangly old seaman, "Didn't you say that this happened before?"
The gangly old sailor nodded, "Yep, they say tell that this boat was filled with water before on a previous voyage, long before our time. They say tell that there was a couple of flooded areas all over the ship."
"Now see here," said Hoskins, "the last time the ship took on water it was during a storm and it was only parts of the ship. Also, last time there weren't any sailors pulling up boards to use as firewood and gambling chips."
"Were you there?" pressed the gangly old man.
"No, were you?"
"No, but I knowed a man that were."
"As did I."
"If everyone would stop being so imbecilic!" called out Chesnutt, "we could . . ."
"Who are you calling imbecilical, Charlie?" Smitty reached across the table and jut a thick finger into Chesnutt's chest.
"All of ya."
The cabin exploded into a raucous argument and soon fists and bottles were flying through the air. Above the din of breaking noses, smashing bottles, curses, grunts, groans and insults Hoskins tried in vain to gain the attention of the room once more.
If they had cared to listen he was attempting to point out that the ship was beginning to list sharply to starboard. His warning, however, fell on deaf and bleeding ears. Yes, it seemed the ship was doomed to sink.
"Gentlemen," seaman Hoskins began, "the reason I have called you here today is to discuss a very pressing problem."
Several of the assembled sailors checked their pocketwatches impatiently. Two sailors standing near the back stepped anxiously from foot to foot. A burly sailor spat a wad of tobacco into a tin can with a loud spurt of brown saliva.
Hoskins ignored it all, "You see, gentlemen, there is a hole in the bottom of our ship."
A few sailors nodded nonchalantely, there was a cough, and a low rumble sounded as conversation commenced again.
Hoskins stood up, "Gentlemen, there is a large hole in our ship and water is rushing through."
"Now wait a minute!" the large burly sailor, Smitty by name, stood up and slammed his fist angrily on the table, "I need proof before we start talking about some supposed hole in the bottom of our ship."
"You can go and see for yourself," Hoskins said, "the hole is still there."
The burly Smitty glowered at Hoskins, "What, do you think I have time to investigate these things?"
Hoskins shrugged and then leaned forward, his face etched with concern, "I'm just offering a warning."
"Well," a wizened old sailor raised his quavering voice, "if there is a hole, what do you suppose we should do about it?"
"I really feel that we should mend it," Hoskins answered.
There was a chorus of protest from the assembled sailors.
"Now wait here a minute," Smitty growled, "why should I waste my time repairing non-existent holes in ships when there's money to be won gambling?"
There was murmur of agreement from those assembled. Several sailors shuffled away muttering under their breaths.
"I seem to remember," a gangly old seaman mused, "that this ship had a hole in it on another voyage, and there was no problem then."
"That hole was not as large as this one," Hoskins explained, "and we really are carrying a lot of things with us and . . ."
"What can we do about our things?" interrupted a sailor as he leaned disinterestedly against the wall, "throw them overboard?"
"That would certainly help," Hoskins answered.
The room exploded with the sounds of angry voices. When the noise finally began to subside Yurk, a brash young sailor, stood up to speak, "I sure can throw some of my things overboard, but it really isn't going to do anything in the long run if no one else throws their things overboard."
"The deck seems especially dry to me," muttered the burly Smitty, "I don't see any flooding on the deck."
"How long until the boat sinks?" a tall nervous-looking sailor asked.
"The way I figured," Hoskins responded, "we have about half a day."
A few of the older sailors looked worried, but most of the sailors laughed dismissively.
"C'mon!" scoffed Yurk, "if we have half a day, why don't we just fix the hole at the end of the day?"
There was a roar of approval and four more sailors left, yelling out crude predictions on their next game of poker.
"Wait, wait!" Hoskins yelled, "it will be too late!"
Yurk laughed, slapping Smitty on the shoulder, "when the end of the day comes we'll know if it's too late or not. Until that time I have money to win!"
The tall nervous sailor and three other men stumbled forward to stand behind Hoskins. Chesnutt, whose fat face made him look like a young boy raised his voice, "I say, chaps! I say we make an oath!"
The word oath seemed to grab the attention of all the men in the room. There was a hushed silence, "an oath?" a voice asked.
Hoskins smiled, adjusted his glasses, and nodded in approval, "A capital idea."
"I say we make an oath to do what we can to solve this problem of the hole in the ship," Chesnutt continued.
Even Smitty was nodding his head, albeit somewhat confusedly. The room was buzzing with excited conversation. The word oath was repeated a number of times.
The gangly old sailor finally spoke, "we should probably agree on some sort of term for this oath."
"Let's call it the oath of O'Toyk!" a young sailor enthused.
"Why?" several voices asked, "why the oath of O'Toyk?"
"Well," the young sailor said, "we're in the O'Toyk sea."
There was a thunder of approval from the gathered seamen.
Yurk peered at the faces scattered about the cabin, "what, exactly, should this oath say?"
Hoskins cleared his throat, "I think we should all agree to bail twenty buckets of water each."
Most of the sailors made noises of approval. "I'll do thirty!" Yurk declared proudly.
"I still don't think there's a hole," the burly sailor muttered, "I'm not bailing water if there is no hole."
"I think the oath should say something else too," Chesnutt argued.
"What?" mocked a raucous voice, "that you get extra grub?"
Chesnutt raised his voice above the laughter, "The ship is sitting pretty low. If we each reduce our personal cargo by ten per cent it will go a long way."
There was a silent moment of sober reflection. "I'd be willing to do that," Yurk said, "I'll even do twenty!"
"Me too."
"Aye, here too."
Voices solemnly spoke out their willingness to part with their beloved belongings in order to meet the demands of the oath. Right hands upraised, most of the gathered sailors agreed to the terms of the oath of O'Toyk.
"So, we should probably get started," Hoskins cried. He looked relieved.
"Wait a minute," Smitty said, "why should I throw away my goods as ballast if I don't even think there's a hole?"
Another sailor piped in, "Yeah, what about the twenty men who aren't here?"
"Ten of those men are just as cantankerous as this big fellow here," the gangly old sailor slapped the burly Smitty on the back, "and the other ten are too weak to bail anything."
Yurk's puffed-out chest appeared to be deflating, "maybe I'll just throw away five per cent."
"But you promised ten!" whined Chesnutt, "you have to throw away ten because you took the O'Toyk oath."
"Well, how can I gamble with the other guys if they have more stuff than me?" Yurk protested.
"I know what you can do," the wizened sailor whispered in Yurk's ear, "just buy some of the poorer sailors' stuff and throw that out."
Yurk nodded slowly; it sounded good to him.
"I still say there is no hole," Smitty mumbled.
"I have something to say," a balding sailor cried, "I have something important to say."
"Go ahead."
"You know the man who designed this ship was a master ship-builder," the balding sailor said, combing his hand through the greasy locks which hung to his shoulders.
"It's true," the wizened old sailor quavered, "a master ship-builder."
"I'm going to see if there is a hole after all," Smitty interjected as he left the cabin.
"I really don't think there was any master ship-builder," Chesnutt argued, "I don't think that arguing that there was helps us in any way." A few sailors grunted in agreement.
"I happen to believe that this master ship-builder was quite good," the balding sailor's pate shone in the light of the lantern swinging from the ceiling.
"Quite good," echoed the wizened old sailor.
"I don't think the master ship-builder would design a ship that would sink," the balding man explained, "I mean, he is such a good ship-builder and he wouldn't allow for a hole."
"I believe we created the hole," Hoskins said, "not the ship-builder."
"Well, the ship-builder wouldn't allow the ship to sink just because it has its hull is stuffed with our things," the balding man argued, "I mean, don't you think it's pretty arrogant to believe that the actions of a few men could affect the fate of a humungous galleon?"
The wizened sailor nodded and a few men voiced their agreement.
"The ship was not designed to carry this much weight!" Chesnutt spat in annoyance.
"He was quite a good ship-builder," the balding man repeated.
Smitty returned, his pants soaked to the hip, "There is a lot of water, perhaps there is a hole."
"You see?" Hoskins said, "Something must be done."
"Of course," the balding man said, "I don't think we caused the hole. Think about it. The ship is so wide and majestic and we are like fleas on a lion in comparison to this mighty boat. I am an insignificant speck on a great wooden galleon designed by the masterful hands of a skilled ship-builder," the balding man paused pointing wildly about the cabin, "how can we be so arrogant as to think that we can affect the condition of such an amazing piece of craftmanship?"
"We may seem small compared to this boat, but we definitely caused the hole," Chesnutt declared.
Yurk frowned, "I'm not so sure that we caused the hole. I mean, maybe it just happened."
"Having so much weight on the boat with all this water rushing in definitely does not help," Hoskins asserted.
"I think it's rubbish to say that we caused the hole!" a young pimply-faced sailor shouted.
There was a babble of marked disagreement among the sailors. Some sailors were convinced of the need to keep the oath, while others argued that their gambling needs were just too important.
"Well, there just might be a hole," Smitty said, "but I'm not convinced that all the water coming into the ship will cause it to sink."
"Absolutely!" agreed another man, "I mean, I love the sea. Just imagine how comfortable it will be for us to swim whenever we want to."
"Tell that to the men who need to sleep in the lower cabins," Hoskins said drily.
The man shrugged, "Meh, what can I do for them? None of them are here, anyhow."
"Hey old-timer!" Yurk called out to the gangly old seaman, "Didn't you say that this happened before?"
The gangly old sailor nodded, "Yep, they say tell that this boat was filled with water before on a previous voyage, long before our time. They say tell that there was a couple of flooded areas all over the ship."
"Now see here," said Hoskins, "the last time the ship took on water it was during a storm and it was only parts of the ship. Also, last time there weren't any sailors pulling up boards to use as firewood and gambling chips."
"Were you there?" pressed the gangly old man.
"No, were you?"
"No, but I knowed a man that were."
"As did I."
"If everyone would stop being so imbecilic!" called out Chesnutt, "we could . . ."
"Who are you calling imbecilical, Charlie?" Smitty reached across the table and jut a thick finger into Chesnutt's chest.
"All of ya."
The cabin exploded into a raucous argument and soon fists and bottles were flying through the air. Above the din of breaking noses, smashing bottles, curses, grunts, groans and insults Hoskins tried in vain to gain the attention of the room once more.
If they had cared to listen he was attempting to point out that the ship was beginning to list sharply to starboard. His warning, however, fell on deaf and bleeding ears. Yes, it seemed the ship was doomed to sink.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Some Common Myths Dispelled.
Myth: John is balding.
Fact: John's hairline is making a strategic withdrawal.
Myth: Boerishbwoy is written by four mysterious gnomes whose other activities include sock-stealing and high-pitched giggling.
Fact: Gnomes belong in gardens and in volumnious picture-books authored by two Dutchmen with overactive imaginations.
Myth: As an adolescent John visited northwestern Mongolia in 1974 and enraged the locals by claiming that Genghis Khan was overrated. He was only able to redeem himself after defeating the village's best wrestlers and overcoming two large bears in hand to hand combat.
Fact: Actually, it was 1987, and John was five.
Myth: Reading boerishbwoy can cure the common cold.
Fact: If you read boerishbwoy for twenty-four hours it may actually work. Your headache and nausea, however, may continue to manifest themselves.
Myth: Criss Angel is better than David Blaine.
Fact: Harry Houdini has never been surpassed.
Myth: John has a big head.
Fact: John's body is small, his head is normal-sized.
Myth: John is a member of MENSA.
Fact: John exceeds the MENSA's maximum I.Q. requirements and is, therefore, not allowed to join as it would adversely affect the egos of the membership.
Myth: John has a big head, as in he is full of himself.
Fact: John cannot understand that idiom.
Myth: Despite claiming to be too smart for MENSA, John can't understand basic idioms.
Fact: John was merely dodging.
Myth: John is a coward.
Fact: John received an award for bravery from the Royal Society of Chimeras.
Myth: John is a coward and a liar.
Fact: No, he isn't.
Myth: Yes, he is.
Fact: No.
Myth: Yes.
Fact: No.
Myth: Yes.
Fact: No.
Myth: Uh huh.
Fact: Uh uh.
Myth: John is childish.
Fact: I'm rubber and you're glue and whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.
Myth: That sophomoric little saying proves that John is childish.
Fact: You just admitted that your sophomoric little saying proves that you are childish.
Myth: What?
Fact: I'm rubber and it bounced off of me and stuck to you because you're glue.
Myth: Yeah, but I used the third person singular which means that I just observed to myself that John's sophomoric little saying was childish.
Fact: Whatever you observed it wasn't absorbed on this end.
Myth: What a genius this John is!
Fact: Sarcasm is the last refuge of the scoundrel.
Myth: Perhaps I wasn't being sarcastic. After all, it is fairly difficult to detect sarcasm in writing.
Fact: Not for this guy right here.
Myth: Whatever.
Fact: This apathy reveals an attitude which won't get you anywhere in life.
Myth: I am only apathetic about what John has to say.
Fact: You care very deeply about what I have to say.
Myth: N-
Fact: Ye-
Myth: Alright, that's enough now, John.
Fact: You're enough!
Myth: Okay, really, you have made your point.
Fact: No, I haven't.
Myth: Alright, you're just being a contrarian now.
Fact: So what?
Myth: You're not even giving the pretense of following the myth/fact dichotomy anymore.
Fact: Yes, I am.
Myth: *Sigh*
Fact: You are not as exasperated as you are pretending to be.
Myth: John is balding.
Fact: John's hairline is making a strategic withdrawal.
Myth: Boerishbwoy is written by four mysterious gnomes whose other activities include sock-stealing and high-pitched giggling.
Fact: Gnomes belong in gardens and in volumnious picture-books authored by two Dutchmen with overactive imaginations.
Myth: As an adolescent John visited northwestern Mongolia in 1974 and enraged the locals by claiming that Genghis Khan was overrated. He was only able to redeem himself after defeating the village's best wrestlers and overcoming two large bears in hand to hand combat.
Fact: Actually, it was 1987, and John was five.
Myth: Reading boerishbwoy can cure the common cold.
Fact: If you read boerishbwoy for twenty-four hours it may actually work. Your headache and nausea, however, may continue to manifest themselves.
Myth: Criss Angel is better than David Blaine.
Fact: Harry Houdini has never been surpassed.
Myth: John has a big head.
Fact: John's body is small, his head is normal-sized.
Myth: John is a member of MENSA.
Fact: John exceeds the MENSA's maximum I.Q. requirements and is, therefore, not allowed to join as it would adversely affect the egos of the membership.
Myth: John has a big head, as in he is full of himself.
Fact: John cannot understand that idiom.
Myth: Despite claiming to be too smart for MENSA, John can't understand basic idioms.
Fact: John was merely dodging.
Myth: John is a coward.
Fact: John received an award for bravery from the Royal Society of Chimeras.
Myth: John is a coward and a liar.
Fact: No, he isn't.
Myth: Yes, he is.
Fact: No.
Myth: Yes.
Fact: No.
Myth: Yes.
Fact: No.
Myth: Uh huh.
Fact: Uh uh.
Myth: John is childish.
Fact: I'm rubber and you're glue and whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.
Myth: That sophomoric little saying proves that John is childish.
Fact: You just admitted that your sophomoric little saying proves that you are childish.
Myth: What?
Fact: I'm rubber and it bounced off of me and stuck to you because you're glue.
Myth: Yeah, but I used the third person singular which means that I just observed to myself that John's sophomoric little saying was childish.
Fact: Whatever you observed it wasn't absorbed on this end.
Myth: What a genius this John is!
Fact: Sarcasm is the last refuge of the scoundrel.
Myth: Perhaps I wasn't being sarcastic. After all, it is fairly difficult to detect sarcasm in writing.
Fact: Not for this guy right here.
Myth: Whatever.
Fact: This apathy reveals an attitude which won't get you anywhere in life.
Myth: I am only apathetic about what John has to say.
Fact: You care very deeply about what I have to say.
Myth: N-
Fact: Ye-
Myth: Alright, that's enough now, John.
Fact: You're enough!
Myth: Okay, really, you have made your point.
Fact: No, I haven't.
Myth: Alright, you're just being a contrarian now.
Fact: So what?
Myth: You're not even giving the pretense of following the myth/fact dichotomy anymore.
Fact: Yes, I am.
Myth: *Sigh*
Fact: You are not as exasperated as you are pretending to be.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Laurianne and I went to Hamilton for her aunt's wedding this past long weekend. I've been to more than a few weddings, but there is always something special about Burundian weddings. Dancing at Canadian and Dutch-Canadian weddings is either non-existent or reserved for the young, the adventurous, and/or the slightly inebriated. The graceful dance I've witnessed at Burundian weddings is a pleasure to watch and a powerful symbol. The dancers urge the bride and groom to dance and gradually invite more and more of the guests to the floor. Soon, it seems, almost the entire wedding is dancing around the bride and groom and there are broad smiles all around. The community is united in the joy of the newly married couple. Now, if only I didn't look so awkward when I danced.
Monday, May 07, 2007
The Hitman
The bar was dimly lit by dusty yellow lights and a blue neon sign advertising a discontinued brand of beer. Dark wooden panels covered the walls, making the room appear that much dimmer. Several faded black and white photographs of James Dean hung crookedly from the grey stucco above the panels. Two tables sat empty, their trays overflowing with grey ash and cigarrette butts. The bar was nearly empty except for the bulky figure of a lone man sitting on a high stool of the seedy bar. His massive head rested comfortably on a flabby arm as he nursed a pint of dark beer.
His name was Diego and he was known for his simplicity, complexity, imbecility, and occasional flashes of brilliance. He was a fat man with a chronically bad temper. His jowls tended to shake when he got angry afterwhich he would launch into a stream of verbosity repleat with words he had mined from intense dictionary reading. Often, however, he merely memorized the word's pronunciation without paying much attention to its actual meaning. He was highly skeptical, and believed neither in a creator nor in destiny. When he was at his most critical he would pompously attack the perceived lack of grammar in his target. He often fell into lapses of memory which made him repeat questions that had already been asked. He was a gullible man and was often taken in by the most ludicrous of claims. Diego was brooding deeply on some events that had indelibly changed his life forever. Events so dramatic that they could only be described as . . .
"Excuse me, sir," a man in a fedora and a dark trench coat tapped Diego on the shoulder.
"Yes?" Diego appeared startled by the sudden appearance of the man, who seemed to have emerged at the very moment he had spoken.
"I've been sent to eliminate you, so if you'd kindly oblige by coming this way," the man's words, despite their politeness, were clipped and almost brusque in their delivery.
"Eliminate me? Why?" Diego peered at the man's fedora quizzically. Until this very moment, he had been fairly sure that no one wore fedoras anymore.
"It's been determined that your character adds nothing to this story, so come with me," the man nodded towards the door.
"What story?" Diego raised an eyebrow in utter confusion."This one," the man made an effort to encapsulate the bar, Diego, and the situation in one gesture.
"I'm not in a story," Diego scoffed, "I'm in a bar."
"Actually sir, you're in a bar that is in a story."
"I am?" Diego looked about the room as if the walls would suddenly collapse and reveal a story, whatever that looked like.
"Yes," the man once again gestured impatiently towards the door.
"I see. So why are you here?" Diego took a sip of his beer and smacked his lips.
"As I stated before, I've come to eliminate you from this story," the man adjusted his coat.
Diego frowned and leaned forward, trying to get a glance of the man's face, shrouded beneath the wide brim of his hat. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, shook his head and said, "I don't believe you."
"Do you have any memory of anything happening to you before you entered this bar?" the man's voice had an edge in it.
"I couldn't really say," Diego shrugged indifferently.
"Exactly, that's the narrator's job," the man asserted.
"Who?"
"The narrator, the one who introduced you," the man said impatiently.
Diego shook his head slowly, "I'm sorry, but I really don't see any narrator in this bar."
"Just come with me," the man's voice was tight and curt.
"If this is a story then we're the only two characters in this story, aren't we?" Diego peered about the dingy bar, "There's not even a barman behind the counter for some odd reason."
"I never said it was a good story."
"You know, if this is a story then you don't have to read it if you don't like it."
"Well, actually I do. You see, I'm from the Society for the Elimination of Gratuitous Literary Characters," the man reached in his pocket and displayed his badge proudly, "It's in my job description to read all stories, no matter how bad they are, and eliminate superfluous characters. And I'm sorry, but this looks like it's going nowhere."
Diego glanced at the badge doubtfully, "If this were a story, wouldn't it be a little presumptuous to eliminate a character before he's had a chance to develop?"
"Usually yes, but you're a dull character with such startling contradictions built into your personality that you're basically untenable."
"Contradictions, what contradictions?" Diego's eyes narrowed.
"Well," the man answered, "you can't be both highly critical and extremely gullible."
"You can't, can you? You're absolutely right." Diego nodded while shaking his head, "Of course, you're also wrong because you're using such atrocious English and yet claim to be some kind of literary hitman."
"You see? You just agreed with me and then promptly contradicted yourself," the man's face was still hidden by the shadow of his fedora, but Diego still thought he could make out a thin smile.
Diego gritted his teeth, "what on earth are you talking about?"
"Come, come, I'm sure the audience is getting quite tired of your antics," the man placed a hand on the Diego's shoulder to guide him towards the door.
"I have no time for your acataleptic jobation!" Diego swatted the man's hand away.
The man seemed bothered neither by Diego's incomprehensible outburst nor by his quivering jowls, "Interesting, it seems that inveterate temper and penchant for the pretentious use of obscure words is kicking in."
"What kind of supposed literary character assassin uses the words 'kicking in'?" Diego harrumphed."Yes, yes," the man raised a gloved hand in dismissal, "I understand your objections, but I was not created to engage in flowery language. No, I merely communicate the wishes of the SEGLC. And before I get distracted by your obtuse questioning I shall continue with my purpose."
"Which is?" Diego had a perplexed look on his face.
"Ah, and there's your poor memory." The man adjusted the brim of his fedora, "I am here to eliminate you as a character from this story."
"Isn't that tantamount to murder?" Diego's hands were shaking as he took a gulp of beer.
"Well no, because you actually don't truly exist. You're in a work of fiction."
"I do exist," Diego looked at his hands disconcertedly, as if they would start fading into non-existence.
"Yes, you do, in a way, exist, but I would really like to remedy that."
Diego bit his bottom lip nervously and thought for several moments, "I speak, therefore I am."
"Yes, yes, Oro ergo sum, but you only speak because your creator gave you a voice."
"I don't believe in a creator." Diego scoffed.
"Oh, that's right, I should have paid more attention to the introduction," the man sighed.
"The what?" Diego asked in confusion.
"The introduction, the beginning of this atrocity where the narrator laid out the setting and described your character."
"The introduction of this fictional," Diego placed imaginary quotation marks around the word fictional, "story by the narrator created by some all-powerful creator. Right," sarcasm dripped from his voice.
"Whether he is all-powerful is dubious. He is limited by the shallow depth of his own imagination," the man responded with affected patience, "Of course, if you don't believe in a creator then how did you come to be?"
"I just evolved."
"From what?"
"A thought."
"Whose thought?"
"Why does the thought have to belong to someone?" Diego asked snarkily.
"Well, thoughts don't just exist for no reason."
"I suppose the thought was spontaneously generated by a great explosion of dense particles of genius."
"Where did those dense particles of genius come from?"
"Well, we could discuss cosmogony all day or you could just leave me alone."
"Sorry, you just aren't interesting enough to keep." The man made an attempt at a magnanimous gesture towards the door, but merely ended up appearing impatient, "Please come this way."
"Don't you have worse characters to assassinate? I mean isn't there some dyslexic adolescent with a persecution complex and a typewriter creating a truly abominable character as we speak?" Diego queried.
"Perhaps, but I do my job one pulpy character at a time."
"I can't be the worst." Diego insisted as he peered longingly at the bottom of his empty glass.
"You're not. You really are rather unremarkable except for the fact that you're the last of the day."
"Have you ever eliminated anyone significant?" Diego shifted his tack.
"I took the emu out of George Orwell's Animal Farm," there was a note of triumph in the man's voice.
"There is no emu in that book."
"Exactly."
Diego scratched behind his ear with a sausage-like finger as he pondered this, "Mm. It's difficult to argue with that."
"It is, isn't it?"
"No, it isn't," Diego asserted defiantly and then added, "Yes, perhaps it is."
"Come on, I must take you away before the contradictions built into your character come to full realization and cause a rupture in the fabric of the believability of this story," Diego noticed a quiet desperation in the man's voice.
"I believe we passed that point when the literary assassin entered the picture," Diego intoned dryly.
"As a trained literary assassin, I try to be silent and deadly but the plot of this story is so flat that it is impossible to approach you from any angle without being seen or heard."
Perhaps it was not desperation but exasperation, Diego decided.
"It's exasperation," the man said.
"What?"
"You were wondering if I was exasperated or desperate and I would have to say that I am exasperated," the man explained.
"How did you. . . ?"
"I'm just listening to the narrator, that's all."
"So, I'm just supposed to get up and follow a guy who hears voices and claims he wants to kill me?" Diego shook his head and sniffed disparagingly.
"Not kill, eliminate. Remember, you're not a real person," the man explained with a hint of indignation.
"If I were fictional, wouldn't it be possible for me to be resurrected whether you eliminate me or not?" Diego questioned, rising from his seat.
"That's why after I excise your from this story I will attempt to edit the entire manuscript." The man's body relaxed, he seemed to take Diego's movement for a surrender to his wishes.
"So why must you take me away in order to off me?" Diego challenged.
"I really don't want to create a gruesome scene right here in front of everyone."
"But we're alone."
"No, actually, there are people who are presumably reading this claptrap." The man looked upwards as if the eyes of the readers were bearing down upon him.
"How did you know where to find me?" Diego looked rather intimidating when his hulking form straightened out to its full height.
"The narrator laid out this crude setting rather conveniently for me," the man took a nervous step backwards.
"The narrator?"
"You know, the third-person omniscient who said that your jowls shake when you're angry," the man appeared to have recovered from his nervousness.
"My jowls?"
"Yes, those fat . . ."
"I know what jowls are, you pachycephalic quinquagenarian! I expostulate with you in order that you might not torture me with your matutolypea!"
"I have no idea what you just said."
"Pachycephaly is abormal thickness of the skull. While I realize this may not apply to your situation, a quinquagenarian is between the ages of fifty and sixty. Expostulate . . . "
"I know that one. What about matutolypea?"
"Matutolypea is the state of being in a bad mood in the morning."
"Has the time of day even been set in this story?" the man's eyes swept the room for a clue as to the time of day, "I mean, what on earth would you be doing in a bar in the morning?"
"Ah hah! So you have found something interesting about this story after all!" Diego crowed.
"Do you know what time it is?" the man prompted.
Diego frowned, "I have no idea.""This is ludicrous."
Diego shifted his weight on his feet as he thought for a moment, "How about the narrator, why don't you go after him?"
"There is no way to go after a third-person omniscient narrator, and even if I could I wouldn't," the man made a half-hearted gesture towards the door once more, hoping that Diego would finally follow him.
"Why not?"
"Because if I get rid of it, the entire story collapses," the man appeared to be getting uncomfortable in his heavy jacket.
"Since I'm the only character, don't you think this story will collapse if you get rid of me?" Diego offered hopefully.
"I really can't see it getting any worse."
"You're just scared," Diego decided.
"Of what?" the man's face was reddening.
"If you criticize the narrator, then you just might find yourself shot, crushed, stabbed or beaten to death."
"That narrator is really a creature of the creator."
"I don't believe in the creator."
"I know."
Diego was lost in thought for a moment again, "If the creator did exist, would he not be able to manipulate the situation in order to get rid of you and save me? In fact, would he not actually be responsible for inserting you into this so-called story in order to create this ludicrous dialogue?"
"I suppose," the man's fedora lifted slightly to reveal a gaunt face, red with frustration and warmth. His grey eyes appeared drawn and tired and there was an expression of self-doubt and bewilderment in the odd way his eyebrows were raising and lowering on his forehead.
"So you are just as much at the mercy of this creator as myself. In fact, you really don't exist beyond the artificial realms of this strange fictional universe." Diego pressed triumphantly.
The man sighed, removed his hat and scratched his balding head in continuing befuddlement. "I suppose . . . you're right." With that, he vanished.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Update:
- Last week Laurianne was hired as an MP's assistant and so there will be no more middleman taking money from every paycheque.
- Sunday was my sister Linda's 22nd birthday. We had a nice conversation which left me very happy.
- The middleman is one of the many enigmatic men society loves to assign blame to. These men include: the middleman, the sandman, the man, the taxman, the bogeyman, the foeman, the gunman, and the strawman.
- I should clarify that Laurianne had absolutely nothing against the middleman because the middleman got her the job in the first place.
- I was perusing some of my old posts and was amazed and a little embarrassed at the number of spelling and grammar mistakes.
- I should make a spelling mistake in this bullet, that would be funny.
~ I bought some chocolate muffins which were far too soft on the outside to be considered real chocolate muffins. Disappointing.
~ Perhaps you notice that the hyphen I am using for the comment above is not a hyphen at all, but a tilde (or squiggle or twiddle.) I think it looks rather sophisticated. Too bad I have nothing sophisticated to say.
~ I thought about using an asterisk for the bullets, but then I thought that maybe people would start looking at the bottom of this post for footnotes.
~ I'm not sure how to put the tilde on top of a letter. The internet informs me that the tilde that goes on top of a letter and the tilde that is used as an approximation sign in mathematics are supposed to be different from eachother.
~ Why are they the same then? The internet tells me that it is because of the ASCII (the American Standard Code for Information Interchange.) The internet has also informed me that the the AACII only has 128 numerical values and no time for assigning separate codes for very similar symbols.
~ What is your favourite obsolete letter in the English alphabet? Mine is thorn (Þ, þ).
~ I finished Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment on the weekend. The book was very long, very descriptive, and very good. I'm looking forward to more Russian novels in the future.
~ I used the word "very" quite a few times in that last sentence.
~ Here is that sentence without "very" written so many times: The thick tome was highly descriptive and an excellent read.
~ Here is that sentence written backwards: .doog yrev dna ,evitpircsed yrev ,gnol yrev saw koob ehT
~ I perused some reviews of Crime and Punishment on Amazon. Most people liked it, but the few people who gave it a one out of five either didn't like the translation or were angry at their teachers or friends for recommending it. Those in the latter category usually had a statement in their review similar to this: "The crime was this book being written, the punishment was reading it." *guffaw* Whether they were angry at their friends or at their teachers, the reviewers commonly committed many spelling and grammar errors, despised Raskalnakov, and used the word "boring" copiously throughout their reviews.
~ Laurianne said that I sounded depressed in the post where I apologized for my prolonged absence. Depressed people do not relish chocolate milk and yogourt the way I do.
~ Laurianne secretly reads my blog so as not to feed my inflated ego.
~ We're off to Ingersoll this weekend to celebrate with Matthew Byl and Tiffany Crandall as they join together in marriage. We are looking forward to it.
- Last week Laurianne was hired as an MP's assistant and so there will be no more middleman taking money from every paycheque.
- Sunday was my sister Linda's 22nd birthday. We had a nice conversation which left me very happy.
- The middleman is one of the many enigmatic men society loves to assign blame to. These men include: the middleman, the sandman, the man, the taxman, the bogeyman, the foeman, the gunman, and the strawman.
- I should clarify that Laurianne had absolutely nothing against the middleman because the middleman got her the job in the first place.
- I was perusing some of my old posts and was amazed and a little embarrassed at the number of spelling and grammar mistakes.
- I should make a spelling mistake in this bullet, that would be funny.
~ I bought some chocolate muffins which were far too soft on the outside to be considered real chocolate muffins. Disappointing.
~ Perhaps you notice that the hyphen I am using for the comment above is not a hyphen at all, but a tilde (or squiggle or twiddle.) I think it looks rather sophisticated. Too bad I have nothing sophisticated to say.
~ I thought about using an asterisk for the bullets, but then I thought that maybe people would start looking at the bottom of this post for footnotes.
~ I'm not sure how to put the tilde on top of a letter. The internet informs me that the tilde that goes on top of a letter and the tilde that is used as an approximation sign in mathematics are supposed to be different from eachother.
~ Why are they the same then? The internet tells me that it is because of the ASCII (the American Standard Code for Information Interchange.) The internet has also informed me that the the AACII only has 128 numerical values and no time for assigning separate codes for very similar symbols.
~ What is your favourite obsolete letter in the English alphabet? Mine is thorn (Þ, þ).
~ I finished Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment on the weekend. The book was very long, very descriptive, and very good. I'm looking forward to more Russian novels in the future.
~ I used the word "very" quite a few times in that last sentence.
~ Here is that sentence without "very" written so many times: The thick tome was highly descriptive and an excellent read.
~ Here is that sentence written backwards: .doog yrev dna ,evitpircsed yrev ,gnol yrev saw koob ehT
~ I perused some reviews of Crime and Punishment on Amazon. Most people liked it, but the few people who gave it a one out of five either didn't like the translation or were angry at their teachers or friends for recommending it. Those in the latter category usually had a statement in their review similar to this: "The crime was this book being written, the punishment was reading it." *guffaw* Whether they were angry at their friends or at their teachers, the reviewers commonly committed many spelling and grammar errors, despised Raskalnakov, and used the word "boring" copiously throughout their reviews.
~ Laurianne said that I sounded depressed in the post where I apologized for my prolonged absence. Depressed people do not relish chocolate milk and yogourt the way I do.
~ Laurianne secretly reads my blog so as not to feed my inflated ego.
~ We're off to Ingersoll this weekend to celebrate with Matthew Byl and Tiffany Crandall as they join together in marriage. We are looking forward to it.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
My sincerest apologies for not updating in such a long time. However, I have been rather busy with other things.
'What other things?" you ask with a note of anger in your voice, "what could possibly be as important as your blog?"
Introspection.
"Isn't introspection what blogging is all about?" you ask incredulously.
Well, somewhat, I guess. I mean no one really reveals their innermost thoughts in a public space do they?
"Well, yes, they do John. They do, in fact, reveal their innermost thoughts for all to read," you insist fervently.
I'm pretty sure they don't.
"Yes, John, yes they do," you prompt.
Anyhow, I apologize. I have been caught up in a few things and did not have the time or the inclination to update.
"What have you been thinking about?" you bang your fist angrily on the desk in front of you, demanding my attention, "what on earth has been occupying your thoughts so relentlessly as to draw you away from your blog for such an extended period of time?"
I would only disappoint you if I were to reveal what I've been thinking about.
"Fine. I don't care anyways," you say, although there is a deep disappointment bordering on resentment in your voice.
Oblivious as usual to the intricacies of human social interaction, I am completely unaware of your anger and assume that all is well.
Time for some yogourt and chocolate milk.
'What other things?" you ask with a note of anger in your voice, "what could possibly be as important as your blog?"
Introspection.
"Isn't introspection what blogging is all about?" you ask incredulously.
Well, somewhat, I guess. I mean no one really reveals their innermost thoughts in a public space do they?
"Well, yes, they do John. They do, in fact, reveal their innermost thoughts for all to read," you insist fervently.
I'm pretty sure they don't.
"Yes, John, yes they do," you prompt.
Anyhow, I apologize. I have been caught up in a few things and did not have the time or the inclination to update.
"What have you been thinking about?" you bang your fist angrily on the desk in front of you, demanding my attention, "what on earth has been occupying your thoughts so relentlessly as to draw you away from your blog for such an extended period of time?"
I would only disappoint you if I were to reveal what I've been thinking about.
"Fine. I don't care anyways," you say, although there is a deep disappointment bordering on resentment in your voice.
Oblivious as usual to the intricacies of human social interaction, I am completely unaware of your anger and assume that all is well.
Time for some yogourt and chocolate milk.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
A Story with a Complete Lack of Thought or Direction Rendered as Quickly as Possible in a Sort of Stream of Consciousness
There was a man who bought an apple from a politician who had once met a Swede who had given him a very similar fruit. The politician swore that this apple had special properties which would render him strong and wise beyond his wildest dreams. The man felt that was difficult, because the man had some fairly wild dreams. In one of his dreams he had deconstructed an entire house using only his eyelashes. This, of course is impossible, but the man wondered if this apple would indeed give him the ability to deconstruct a house using his eyelashes. Or, he wondered further as he remembered a particularly bizarre dream, he wondered if eating the apple would put him back into the embarassing situation of walking in slow motion over a wire on top of Niagara Falls while clad entirely in nothing while on international television. He hoped not. This was why he hesitated before buying the apple. No, he did not hesitate because it seemed ludicrous that an apple could fulfill his wildest dreams. He hesitated because he was afraid of his wildest dreams coming true. The apple looked much like a Macintosh. In fact, the man could have sworn that it was a Macintosh. The politician, sweating profusely as he swore up and down about the magic properties of this apple, was very gifted with his tongue. The man asked the politician why he was selling such a valuable apple and the politician insisted that it was because he had the best interests of the working class in mind. A class, the politician added, which you are clearly a part of. The man wondered why the politician thought it was permissable to end a sentence in a preposition and then promptly turned to the question of price. The politician remembered how the Swede had charged him several thousand crooners or kroners or whatever currency it was and so he muttered something about the price being negotiable. The man offered four dollars, reasoning that an apple was relatively inexpensive - usually only costing a few cents. A magic apple, therefore can only be so much more. The politician sneered and all thought of the working class seemed to have been forgotten. The politician insisted that the apple would cost approximately ten times as much. The man offered forty dollars and the politician scoffed once again. When the man pointed out that forty was ten times as much as four the politician pointed out that he had been speaking figuratively. The man then offered forty-five dollars and the politician said that he would have to withdraw the offer of the apple unless he received a more reasonable offer. The man then offered one hundred dollars and the politicians nodded and then, thinking twice, scoffed once again. The man decided to leave because he was not all that hungry for an apple and the idea of the apple fulfilling his wildest dreams still scared him. The politicians reiterated that the apple would give him strength and wisdom beyond his wildest dreams. The man suddenly realized that all of his fear about his wildest dreams being fulfilled from eating the apple had been for naught. He had not thought about having such wisdom or strength before. He decided to bid four hundred dollars for the apple. The politician nodded, considered the offer, and then gave the man the apple. The man handed over the money and, with perspiration dripping from his face, took the first bite of the apple. It was a little tart, but over all very good. He tried to think wise thoughts but nothing particularly wise came to him. He tried to lift a nearby dump truck, but merely looked ridiculous. I suppose, he thought, I suppose my wildest dreams never touched these concepts. At least the apple was juicy.
There was a man who bought an apple from a politician who had once met a Swede who had given him a very similar fruit. The politician swore that this apple had special properties which would render him strong and wise beyond his wildest dreams. The man felt that was difficult, because the man had some fairly wild dreams. In one of his dreams he had deconstructed an entire house using only his eyelashes. This, of course is impossible, but the man wondered if this apple would indeed give him the ability to deconstruct a house using his eyelashes. Or, he wondered further as he remembered a particularly bizarre dream, he wondered if eating the apple would put him back into the embarassing situation of walking in slow motion over a wire on top of Niagara Falls while clad entirely in nothing while on international television. He hoped not. This was why he hesitated before buying the apple. No, he did not hesitate because it seemed ludicrous that an apple could fulfill his wildest dreams. He hesitated because he was afraid of his wildest dreams coming true. The apple looked much like a Macintosh. In fact, the man could have sworn that it was a Macintosh. The politician, sweating profusely as he swore up and down about the magic properties of this apple, was very gifted with his tongue. The man asked the politician why he was selling such a valuable apple and the politician insisted that it was because he had the best interests of the working class in mind. A class, the politician added, which you are clearly a part of. The man wondered why the politician thought it was permissable to end a sentence in a preposition and then promptly turned to the question of price. The politician remembered how the Swede had charged him several thousand crooners or kroners or whatever currency it was and so he muttered something about the price being negotiable. The man offered four dollars, reasoning that an apple was relatively inexpensive - usually only costing a few cents. A magic apple, therefore can only be so much more. The politician sneered and all thought of the working class seemed to have been forgotten. The politician insisted that the apple would cost approximately ten times as much. The man offered forty dollars and the politician scoffed once again. When the man pointed out that forty was ten times as much as four the politician pointed out that he had been speaking figuratively. The man then offered forty-five dollars and the politician said that he would have to withdraw the offer of the apple unless he received a more reasonable offer. The man then offered one hundred dollars and the politicians nodded and then, thinking twice, scoffed once again. The man decided to leave because he was not all that hungry for an apple and the idea of the apple fulfilling his wildest dreams still scared him. The politicians reiterated that the apple would give him strength and wisdom beyond his wildest dreams. The man suddenly realized that all of his fear about his wildest dreams being fulfilled from eating the apple had been for naught. He had not thought about having such wisdom or strength before. He decided to bid four hundred dollars for the apple. The politician nodded, considered the offer, and then gave the man the apple. The man handed over the money and, with perspiration dripping from his face, took the first bite of the apple. It was a little tart, but over all very good. He tried to think wise thoughts but nothing particularly wise came to him. He tried to lift a nearby dump truck, but merely looked ridiculous. I suppose, he thought, I suppose my wildest dreams never touched these concepts. At least the apple was juicy.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Song of the Moment: Fugees featuring Stephen Marley - No Woman No Cry
Stephen Marley's vocals are uncanny in their similarity to his father's. Of course, the original live versions of this song by Bob Marley can't be topped. Stephen Marley, Wyclef Jean, and Lauryn Hill sing while Ziggy Marley plays the drums.
Stephen Marley's vocals are uncanny in their similarity to his father's. Of course, the original live versions of this song by Bob Marley can't be topped. Stephen Marley, Wyclef Jean, and Lauryn Hill sing while Ziggy Marley plays the drums.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Current conditions include heavy prophetic activity at 159 degrees on the Rapture Index. Be warned, a 160 degree measurement on the Rapture Index is a "fasten your seatbelt" warning for imminent end times occurrences. The Rapture Index is "a prophetic speedometer of end-time activity" which does not mean to predict the rapture, but is designed to measure the "types of activity that could act as a precursor to the rapture." There are, according to the Rapture Index website, two functions for the Rapture Index (from here-on referred to as the RI). The first is "to factor together a number of related end time components into a cohesive indicator" while the second is "to standardize those components to eliminate the wide variance that currently exists with prophecy reporting." The higher the number on the RI, the faster we are moving towards a "pre-tribulation rapture."
On this "Dow Jones Industrial Average of end-time activity," helpful categories such as globalism, Persia, ecumenical activity, and liberalism are complemented by measurements of floods, plagues, and earthquakes. It is nice to know that as American unemployment rates and American crime rates rise the entire world heads more quickly towards a rapture. Interestingly enough, although the overall crime rate in the United States fell, the fact that several key American cities saw a rise in violent crime means that that particular index goes up. Also interesting is that the Democrats taking control of the U.S. Senate raises the RI. Basically, any item of news relating to any of the seemingly arbitrary categories will raise the overall RI.
Ah John Darby, what have you wrought?
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