Friday, March 16, 2007

Happy St. Kratos Day

Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day - and I couldn't be more excited about it. I've been counting down the days, as have a few of my friends.

While I will be enjoying my fair share of Guinness, that's simply a coincidence. More of a nod to the holiday (and the fact that Guinness is the best of all beers), really.

We won't be spending the day at an over-crowded pub, fighting for elbow room, and dodging the vomit in the Gents with the 'amateurs' that hijack the day. We'll be enjoying it in the comfort of my friend's house playing a video game.

Lame, you suggest? On the contrary.

The game is God of War II. The sequel to the best video game ever created, God of War.

I don't play a ton of video games. When I do play them, it's mostly sport games, notably hockey and golf. I've tried other adventure and war style games but I'm never really good (or patient) enough to get more than half way through them. They eventually become too difficult or I get distracted and don't play them for months... then have no burning desire to continue them.

God of War is the first game that hooked me so strongly that I was determined to finish the entire thing. Not only was it tremendously fun to play - the accompanying story line that goes along with it is so well developed, you're forced to finish the game to see how the story ends. It's that compelling.

I can't get into the whole thing in detail but it is based in Greek Mythology, with all its requisite creatures - Cyclops, Minotaurs, Hydras, and the like - and a heaping helping of Greek Gods - Zeus, Athena, and, of course Aries... the God of War, himself. He's the bastard you have to kill at the end to claim victory. And when you do that, you - Kratos - become the God of War, yourself.

This is where God of War II picks up. Kratos is the new God of War and I'm dying to find out what's in store for him. Can't wait to see what new creatures we'll have to destroy. Can't wait to find out what puzzles we'll need to solve. Can't wait to get sucked into the story. It's like playing a movie, is what it is. That's the best way to describe it. It's a movie that only continues when you progress through the game.

Yes, I know I'm thirty-six years old and that may seem a bit old to be playing video games. But I grew up playing them and it's still a great source of entertainment for me. Some may think thirty-six is a bit old to be playing video games... but, I suppose, it's probably too old to be out at a pub, surrounded by a bunch of drunk, annoying amateurs, too.

I'd rather be soaked in video game blood than some punk's vomit.

Our troubled hero, Kratos :




Our troubled hero, Kratos, kicking ass :













See you tomorrow, St. Kratos.

Monday, March 05, 2007

A Man You Don't Meet Everyday

It is damn cold out!

Not kidding. The 'experts'* say it's a cool 24 (fahrenheit) but it 'feels like' 12 (f). Pissah. And tomorrow's supposed to be that much colder.

I love it. This is what winter is supposed to be.

Much too late, this year, for my liking but it's good to see the Old Man rear his head. It's good to be cold... for a few days at a time. Thank you, New England.

So, I don't know if it's the cold or that I have my new laptop plugged into my receiver, coming through my system. Maybe it's both. Could be, it's neither.

Something tells me it's that I've finally been able to connect my 'on-line' music to my 'old-school' listening medium - the stereo. Sounds stupid. I know. It's not.

I'm not in possession of the most state-of-the-art audio paraphenalia; a sturdy receiver and some good speakers work for me. And that's how I want to listen to these songs. Like bringing home those CDs, ten years ago, and popping them into the CD player. Earphones don't cut it. The sound has got to fill the room... this setup makes that happen. It's awesome.

(claiming this blog won't become entirely music-centric, here's a quick 'get-to-the-point' interjection)

I guess the entire point of this post was the song A Man You Don't Meet Everyday by The Pogues.

Obviously written with a male protagonist bent, Cáit O'Riordan takes this song and owns it. Her smoky, Irish voice is killer. Jack Stewart could ever be so lucky.

Oh my name is Jack Stewart
I'm a canny gun man
And a roving young fellow
I have been

So be easy and free
When you're drinking with me
I'm a man you don't meet
Everyday

I have acres of land
I have men I command
I have always a shilling
To spare

So be easy and free
When you're drinking with me
I'm a man you don't meet
Everyday

So come fill up your glasses
Of brandy and wine
Whatever it costs
I will pay

So be easy and free
When you're drinking with me
I'm a man you don't meet
Everyday

I took out my dog
And him I did shoot
Oh, down in the County
Kildare

So be easy and free
When you're drinking with me
I'm a man you don't meet
Everyday

So come fill up your glasses
On brandy and wine
Whatever it costs
I will pay

So be easy and free
When you're drinking with me
I'm a man you don't meet
Everyday

So be easy and free
When you're drinking with me
I'm a man you don't meet
Everyday

Your challenge, now, is... YES! You guessed it! Go find this fucking song and listen to it fourteen times.

I wouldn't have bothered to include the lyrics if it's not worth it. Believe me - it's worth it. As proven by my including the lyrics. That was pretty pointless. But you get the point.

I'm telling you. Track down and give a listen to : The Pogues - A Man You Don't Meet Everyday.

Thank me later.

*The 'experts' indicated here are the folks at The Weather Channel - In my opinion, a better option for accurate forecasting.

Saturday, March 03, 2007

You Don't Know What You Been a Missin'

Oh Boy !

It's not exactly clear how I stumbled upon this guy. I've known his name as long as I've been aware of music. Some of his 'Greatest Hits' are inavoidably recognizable - more than a few have been adopted as marketing regulars, only the words changed... to better convince you that this is the product for you.

Now I know why.

Buddy Holly.

Now. I am just beginning to understand the fuss.

Any time there's some article or television special on the 'History of Rock 'n Roll' - Buddy Holly is somehow involved. As he damn well should be.

I admit, I haven't listened to every song he's ever sung. My sample is fairly small and I'm not well informed on his history. But I gotta say... from the shit I've sampled? Buddy Holly is the real deal. It actually gets my proverbial goat that I haven't been listening to him sooner than now.

His voice is quintessentially unique. And his guitar sound is arguably in that same description. Together, the combination of those two elements, undeniably unstoppable.

I don't have enough insight at this point in my Buddy Holly experience to drench you in facts, persuasions, or lost classics - I just know that this music has managed to live on for fifty-whatever years... and remain relevant. Hell! It blows away most of the crap that's being forced through the radio today.

If you've got access to music download software, a few quick sample suggestions would be :

Down The Line
Not Fade Away
Blue Days, Black Nights
Oh Boy!
Crying, Waiting, Hoping
Rave On
Peggy Sue

And a few of those I'm sure we've all heard some version of :

Everyday
That'll Be The Day
It's So Easy

(and if you don't have access to download, just check out some compilation CDs at your favourite record shop)

There are more but this is a good primer to get a nice audial glimpse of what this beast could do.

I can't claim that Buddy Holly is the best. I can, with absolute conviction, claim that he is one of the best. His unique style, undoubtedly, has influenced many a musician. Music lovers everywhere should be grateful.

All of my love
All of my kissin'
You don't know
What you been a missin'
Oh boy !

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Audio vs. Video :: Which Wins?

My guess is most people will automatically assume the 'winner' in this contest. Well, if you put your chips on the big "V" - sorry to say... House wins. "A" all the way.

Audio is still the ultimate medium to convey any important issue. Or any issue, for that matter. Actually, it's really just so much more portable and applicable than video... sound is awesome.

Recently, I had a few of me best mates at mine after a great dinner at the Mint Cafe downtown. Instead of flicking on the tube we conversed and listened to some tunes ... courtesy of my beautiful new laptop, thank you very much.

It was pretty cool. Something about listening to a song as opposed to watching a video. With a song, your mind is able to make up its own visuals for the sound and music it's hearing... with a video, it's spoonfed - the visual has already been decided by someone(s)...

Proof positive is my audience right now. If I was simply watching the tube (and nothing wrong with that), I'm not sure both of the felines that share my living space would be chillin' out with me. I think they enjoy the audio over both the audio and the video (a.k.a. the Television).

I've no scientific evidence to back that up but I'm still convinced.

There's always that conversation about whatever happened 3, 4, 8, X years ago and no one's sure exactly what happened - but everyone can verify that they can place the exact song that they'd heard when it happened.

And there's something about hearing a song for the first time... or hearing an old song after a long time... that just beats the pants off watching something.

So.

Go find an old CD, record, tape, whatever... Pop it in and give it a good listen.

You won't be disappointed

Saturday, February 10, 2007

And Now For Something Completely Different

Warning :: Do NOT listen to Ca Plane Pour Moi by Plastic Bertrand while reading this.

My last post, I realize, was a bit on the harsh side of things. Then I realized, alot of my latest posts have been me wingein' about this or that. While I stand by everything written here - and will continue to randomly vent on issues that sour my milk - I don't want this space to become nothing more than my soapbox to air ills...

So I figured I'd start off here with a few 'uplifting' topics of interest. Nothing so exciting in regards to the general public, I'll admit. But at least I'm not bitchin' and moanin' about something. Be thankful for that. F'Christ, I am.

First up - and I have no idea how many items I'll touch on - is the topic of what was supposed to be the focus of the previous post... My new laptop. It arrived on Monday afternoon and I haven't gotten it entirely broken in but so far - it's been awesome...

Re-entering passwords, accepting Liscence Agreements, and dealing with the imbedded product onslaught is, admittedly, a bit of a pain.

(yeah... bit of a winge there)

Being able to write this post, have a window open showing the live scoring of my Fantasy Hockey game, and watch the Atlanta @ Vancouver game (via the Hockey Night in Canada broadcast, no less) all at the same time? Well, it's well worth the minor hassles. I can say that with certainty.

Aside from the added hassle of having to listen to and watch Kelly Hrudey during intermission... not... a big fan.

These laptops, though, are phenomenal... That's what I'm saying. Gotta figure out how to get the audio output into my stereo receiver next. But - top marks all around for the laptop and the wireless era in general. Sweet stuff...

!-------------------------------------------------------------------!

The wicker basket of globules and baubels of positivity sits here at my ankles. Time is no accomplice in getting each recognized, however. In haste, a few notes I will publish. All the while, ditch this odd sentence structure and ridiculous vocabulary.

My Napster is friggin' awesome! I wish sometimes, everyone could be hearing the songs that I'm hearing. It'd be ridiculous.

And then add the songs other people tell me about. And listen to those ones, too.

I'd be happy. 'Cuz it'd be a bunch of the songs I dig... and a few pretty good tunes that people suggest... but I think people would (should) like them. If they don't, that's okay... but Opera won't live forever.

All I know is I've got a pretty decent resource here.

I wish I had an evil twin.

Unwarning :: You may now listen to Ca Plane Pour Moi by Plastic Bertrand at your leisure.

Thursday, February 08, 2007

I Knew It.

right. this is gonna be short 'n sour...

well, we'll see ? how short. those that know me know I tend to go a little long. but i'll try to keep it concise.

this new Google blogger hosting sucks cock. Yep. It definitely does.

I'm willing to overlook the fact that I was absolutely, undeniably railroaded into accepting the 'takeover' of Blogspot by Google. I'm fine with that. I fully regret it at this moment... but I'm fine with that. I'm a programmer by trade and I know certain things just need to happen. However, I don't understand why applications revert. Why would a function be removed after a so-called 'upgrade'?

Don't disable options that I've had up to this point!! Especially when it's not your company to begin with! You used your power to overtake a smaller company that did the job better. And screwed it up. How is that good business? The Google name will forever be tarnished in my mind. Wake up, friggin' morons...

No longer can I represent any other verbal characters outside of the 26 simple letters that make up the - what? American alphabet? Fuckin' 'ell...

All of my previously displayed characters from outside 'American alphabet' characters have been absolutely mauled in this conversion process. This, after one of the conversion screens assured me that 'all previous blogs will be unaffected' (i paraphrase)...

Excuse me!? If the stuff I had posted 19 minutes ago looks different from what it looks like now, after I've 'upgraded' ?? Screw that... Horrible programming. You can't even support standard ASCII code keys in your conversion.

Yeah.

That's it.

Fuck everyone else that actually has a different alphabet than 'us'... who needs 'em?

So, please forgive me if there are unintelligible or non-sensical characters on this page. They used to be perfectly readable. Until the geniuses at Google took over.

Yeah. I'll take all the snide remarks about how to use those characters - and, 'give them a chance', and, 'don't you have anything else to be bitchin' about'...

But think about it. Google fucked up. Plain and simple. It should have been seemless... and it was anything but.

p.s. the original title to this post was 'always go with your first instinct' - which was to not upgrade... but i had to change it after finishing this post.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Smaht'n Up !

Here's the deal... I enjoy a Large Turbo Ice of varied flavour from Dunkin Donuts on a somewhat recurrent schedule. Enough to pick up on certain... patterns, I guess I'll say.

There's this one guy in my town that has a handicap plate, or placard for the rear-view, or something. Basically, it's his ticket to douche-dom.

Before you're all over me for insensitvity, and that, hear me out.

This guy can walk, as far as I can tell, perfectly well. He's the guy that tells you his medical history while in line for a coffee... and then sits down and does Find-A-Word puzzles for hours on end.

And this is all while his car - adorned with the aforementioned 'golden key' - sits idle in the only handicap parking spot in the entire lot.

While plenty of parking spots remain free.

I just think - how's a guy with a handicap issue car assisting any other handicap patrons, if his car is parked in the lone handicap spot in the lot while he sits inside and does Find-A-Word puzzles for hours on end?

Your answer? He's not.

He is not assisting anyone. Aside from himself.

Awwww... this is killin' me. Okay. I'm ready.

Hey. Handicapusurper... Get a clue.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

What's it all about?

Oh, bring us a figgy pudding
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer


Good tidings we bring to you and your kin
Good tidings for Christmas and a Happy New Year

We won't go until we get some
We won't go until we get some
We won't go until we get some, so bring some out here


Good tidings we bring to you and your kin
Good tidings for Christmas and a Happy New Year

... A stanza that is often overlooked

So... Happy Christmas.

Friday, November 17, 2006

'Twas a Fine Evening...

Tonight was one of those cool nights that comes along from now and then. I don't mean cool in the sense of the weather. Far from it. Fucking sucks out, right now.

As for 16 November in New England - it was hot ! Sunt'in like, close to 70... Fahrenheit... Degrees... In downtown Boston?! Whaaaat? Way too warm for me, thanks... Uncalled for, in my opinion. I should,at least, be able to wear a sweater without worrying about my balls sweating.

I wasn't wearing a sweater tonight. I'm just putting the claim in, now. Fucking, 16 November and I don't need a jacket? Fuck you, ice age. How I got stuck in this period... nevermind. Curse you, autonomous, geothermic cycles !!

The cool bit has to do with everything despite the weather.

Earlier this fall, a couple of me finest mates and I invested in a 10-game ticket pak for the Bruins. It's my team - and I'm stickin' with 'em. Tonight we were at the game (#2 of 10) to watch them take on division peers Toronto. A right dust up, yeah. Just ask the loads of folks from Toronto that were there...

After the B's managed to escape with a shoot-out win over the Caps in D.C. last night, hopes of stretching the streak to three (the first being a sweet 4-3 W over Ottawa last Sat. night) were limited at best, I would say.

Nonetheless, the Bruins grabbed one (Kessel - (PP) 14:09 Boyes, Mara) early in the first and then tightened things down for the next 26 minutes, or so. You could argue, 40, as they carried their strong defensive stance half way through the third.

A suspect Holding call on Marc Savard more than half way through the third gave the Leafs a power play that they were able to exploit in under 5 seconds. Three seconds into their PP, McCabe pushed one in (McCabe - (PP) 13:18 Wellwood) to tie it, right off a face off in our zone.

Something felt different, though. There wasn't any immediate sense of doom. It wasn't like the collapse we had witnessed two weeks ago - when we were at 'the game'. Yeah, the game the B's were up 4-1 with about eight minutes remaining in the third ... and lost in an overtime shoot-out. Yep. We were at that game. Game #1 of our 10 game pak. Brilliant. This is what we're in for...

No. Overtime came as an ill-advised but, yet, not unwelcome guest. There's always hope in overtime. There's always hope in a hockey game. At least when the score's this close, that is. Overtime guarantees you that. Underlying rule in hockey (and all sports, for that matter in these instances) - last score wins.

And sure enough - our good patience was rewarded. L'enfant de la ville du Québec - Monsieur Patrice Bergeron - pots one; 34 seconds into the extra period... Bruins win. Job done. It was awesome.

So, my mates and I are jazzed up with the win and head for some sweet nachos and a couple post-game, craft brews at a local establishment. Discussion of the game and state of the B's prevails. It's fantastic. Eight more to go...

Okay - Hockey Talk over. Next best thing of the night is the random CD playing in my car on the way home. Drop me mate off to pick up his ride and I'm on my way home. With an old mix-CD I made, back when downloading was free and you could find any and everything.

My drive soundtrack was tremendous ::

> Michael Jackson - Beat It
> Avril Levigne - Sk8ter Boy
> Russian National Anthem - Red Army Choir
> Metro - Berlin

Yep. That was it. Pretty much the perfect soundtrack to a perfect night.

Seems odd, at first glance, I'm sure. Trust me... after the game - and where this CD came from - perfeck. In fact, I just loaded this up, now. Give me something to listen to while I finish this post.

Once I'm home, I gotta feed the kitties. Not that they really need it but... Anyway, the 'dinner' goes into the bowl and the creatures feast. Odd, that I have small mammals living in my dwelling with me... can barely keep meself alive.

Here are a few quick pics of dinner ::







So, there's the last of this fine evening... I feed the small mammals living in my shelter and get to entering this post. All is well. Takk fyrir komuna (thanks for coming)...

(thanks much to Andy's Icelandic Assistant site - which is where the above link takes you. Check it out if you're interested in some Icelandic... I'm fascinated with it, currently, and doing everything I can to learn. Thanks Andy.)

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Góða kvöldið

Góða nótt.

Takk fyrir spjallið.

I'm Calling Shenanigans !!

I'm just flipping around TV channels tonight, after a nice W at darts, and I come across some Maxim Top 100 shit on VH1...

First person I see is Gabrielle Union.

They've got her pegged at something like, forty-three? forty-four? Out of a hundred!? Stop right there. Bull. Shit.

As far as I'm concerned? That's the end of the countdown. Show. Over. Why even press forward towards the so-called number one?

What's the point of moving on? Chick - Is - Smokin'! - Any further 'ranking' is entirely vestigial and suspect. Trust me.

Who pays these people?

Monday, September 18, 2006

Celebrity Death Watch

It's interesting that we, as the general public, are often taken by surprise when there is a tragic death of a celebrity who's considered to be 'on the rise'. Or even a well-healed entertainer. One that's been around a bit. Who's paid his dues. People who are recognized by millions, for no other reason than their profession requires them to be seen or heard, by as many people as possible, in order to be successful at what they do for a living.

Why are we always so shocked at these untimely deaths? Maybe not, I suppose, so much their untimeliness but that they occur, at all.

Belushi. Farley. Phoenix. Hendrix.

It must be a brutal existence, being a 'celebrity'. The pressure to remain merely relevant, never mind on top, has got to be immense.

So, I'm surprised that we're so surprised when someone in this line of work is 'taken away' from us. So they say. Typically with the phrase 'in their prime' attached to it.

I'm not saying it's not unfortunate or we shouldn't lament these losses. Quite the contrary, in fact. I think we can stop them. Honestly.

If you look at the lifestyle and actions of the aforementioned celebrities, don't you think that there were some tell-tale signs that things were going awry?

We should be more aware and active in preserving the lives of our celebrities. And as a first step to aiding our celebrity brethren in staying alive, I'm asking you all to focus on the next tragedy waiting to happen.

We need to save... Racheal Ray.

I'm serious. This chick is flying off the rails right now.

She's gone from a simple show on Food Network a few years ago to multiple shows on Food Network and an upcoming day-time network show. Three shows. One involving some serious travel. All at the same time. What's keeping her going?

A schedule like that can't be sustained by sheer commitment. Someone's got to step in and slow her down. She's doomed.

I saw an advertisement for her new day-time show the other day and that's when this idea hit me. There was a short clip of an upcoming episode and she was standing behind a studio kitchen, spatula - or some other utensil - raised high in the air, and maniacally screaming, "A Seven! Minute! Meal!"

It was startling. It was frighteningly reminiscent of the classic 'Mr. Tarkanian - Tyranical Boss' sketch on SNL. The one where Will Ferrel plays Mr. Tarkanian, a real bastard of a boss who isn't shy on laying down the physical and mental abuse necessary to run a good ship. Being the fourth ranked Airplane publication isn't easy.

Racheal Ray reminded me of Chris Parnell's character. The guy who comes bolting into the office in sweat-stained tatters wielding a trident... Confronting the evil Mr. Tarkanian... And challenging him by screaming, "I've been lifting weights and doing cocaine all day!!"

Only to have Mr. Tarkanian stand up, wrest the trident from his hand, and fall victim to blow after blow from it at the hands of his almighty boss. Really. Blow after blow after blow after blow... Easily 30 or 40 strikes. It's tremendous theatre. Especially when Mr. Tarkanian finally turns around and is absolutely drenched in only the fakest of fake 'hollywood' blood. Highest of comedy.

But that's the lesson we know. And that's the lesson we need to pass on to our unwitting celebrities. Don't let Mr. Tarkanian repeatedly stab you with your own trident.

Racheal Ray's in the weight room right now. Alternating 300-pound dead lifts and squats with 1/2 inch wide, pencil-length lines of coke... We've got to save her.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Repetitiveness n'est pas Entitlement

There's this old guy. Well - older guy that seems to hit the Dunkin Donuts at some point in the morning. Gets his stuff... then sits in his vehicle, presumably finishes his stuff, and then reads the newspaper. Apparently, the whole fucking thing. Top Headline to final Hyundai offering.

I've seen him there on multi-occasions. Weekdays. Weekends. Weekwhatevers. No worries. Until this morning.

It's a busy enough parking lot, especially with the quick nature of the business. So, you want to see things work out right - quick, efficient, & unabrasive. In and out. Make room for the next junkie.

Why, oh why, would you then take your vehicle and park it right over those freshly painted PARK HERE lines that are, fairly, de rigeur of all parking lots we solicit? How can you not see these demarcations and - maybe because your car is so much cooler than everyone else's - take over two parking spaces with such poor parking? Or, according to you, advantageous parking. Douche.

They paint slots... so, use the slots!

I don't care if you've been comin' there a day - or a month's worth of Sundays. Fuck. Me. Get your stupid Toyota Rav4, or whatever that thing is, the fuck out of the way. No way in hell that thing is wider than a parking slot! Prove it, Numb-Nuts. Or straighten it out. Douche.

Friday, August 25, 2006

Dean's Dream

(edited to add post title and link)

It's been a while.

It's been quite the while, actually.

Me Guinness For Strength was on its last ring of foam. You know, the one next to the last one in the pint. That's where she was. And if you've never enjoyed a Guinness, through. From ring through sweetening ring. Then you may not know how close it was to the end. Shame on ye fer that.

But, not-so-needless to say, it was close. Until a few things happened.

There are probably two major things and one minor, random thing that lead me to create this post tonight. Sorry, three major things. One being the idea that I want to do this. I enjoy the written word. And I told myself early on in this travesty of a blog that I'd stick to it. That aside, two major things. And one minor. Thing.

The first of the majors (outside of my obvious) has to do with me mate, The Emetic Sage. I read his stuff and I'm amazed. The short pieces are to the point and easily digestable... the longer pieces are gourmet meals, meant to be savored and enjoyed at pace. It's a fun blog to read and I enjoy checking in each day. Everything is well researched and written and there is a sense of refined-ness, as I make up a word.

How this pertains to my situation has become clear to me. I don't mean to sound like I'm blowing The E.S. here... but I must reiterate, he was the inspiration for me to start my own blog. So, there's some connection. What I realized, however, is that I'm not the Sage. I found myself trying to come up with the ultimate post - every time. And it was crippling. And I think the pressure got to me a bit. I just gotta write whatever...

The next major influence, I'll admit, is tough to recall right now. I think it has something to do with the fact that my last post was three bloody weeks ago! That could be it. Who knows?

Forget that. The fun part is the minor, random thing that kicked my proverbial arse into gear. The catylist, if you will.

It was a song I used to listen to in High School. Then randomly after that.

I came across it tonight in my collection and gave it a go round. It still holds its punch to this day and it brings me back to another time. As I sang along, I realized that you all need to hear this awesome tune. And that was the third (or fourth) reason why I hopped on the keyboard this eve.

Now, the bad news. I have a Napster account and they added a new feature where I could post a link to a song and you all could give it a listen. Albeit in a separate "Napster" window - but listen nonethesame. Up to three times, I guess.

That's not the bad news. The bad news is, that link isn't working on the Napster right now. Yes, The Napster. It's killing me... So, I'm going to keep an eye out and as soon as possible, get a link up. They better not shut that option down!

Oh. The song? If you're adventurous and want to find it on your own, here it is ::

> The Dead Milkmen
>> Dean's Dream

I didn't want to do this - but I've found the lyrics... nah, we'll see who reads this, first. Can't resist, here are a few...

(sneak preview :

We got in a tan van
Us two in the back
With Steve McGarrett
From Hawaii-Five-O
At the steering wheel
Speeding away we slide into a
Parking lot
And all in slow motion
These tough guys appear....

)

I like. Dziekuje. Viszlát.

Okay - I've managed to get the link working. 'Cuz that's just how V-Grease rocks it. Enjoy the soothing stylings of the Milkmen...

SHIT.. not working. Bloody hell...

Give this a shot. I think you need to register but you can listen to all sorts of tunes for free.. I guess that's the deal; I have an account so I can't tell how it works for non-subscribers. If someone could report back, that'd be pissah...

The Dead Milkmen - Dean's Dream

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Bass Ale Excellence

On most occasions, there would be some excuse given in a cleverly written e-mail response. A genuinely sincere regret but a decline of the invitation, nonetheless. It wasn't that he didn't like these people. He liked them fine enough.

What Jan Hernïk didn't like was the superficiality of most of the events to which he was invited. And the, sometimes, likewise atmosphere of these Don't Miss It!!! gatherings. It just wasn't worth it. He had his own, outside-of-work crew that he rode with.

Most of the people he knew at his office were of the same age. A few years out of college, maybe five. The I Know We're Out of College But Let's Live Like We're Not, Especially Now That We're All Getting Paid crowd. And a wonderful crowd, at that. There was simply no need for him to attempt immersion into this particular faction. One was enough.

"25 Fabulous Years of Jesse!" was the subject line of the only new e-mail message in Jan's unread messages when he returned from lunch. A hefty lunch hour clocking in close to ninety minutes. One e-mail.

"I might actually be able to get some work done this afternoon," was the almost subconscious thought trickling over his mind.

"Let's see what this is all about, then," was the very conscious idea he had next. The e-mail read:

--------
COME CELEBRATE WITH US!!!

Our OLD friend Jesse is hitting the big 2-5 this week!
Let's send her into old age in style!

Join us Thursday night, downtown at Excellence right
after work!

Happy Birthday Jesse!
--------

A fairly predictable message, given the subject line and whom it was from. But there was something different about this one. While glancing over the message, Jan cought a flash of a name out of the list of many recipients. Kristi Korver. He immediately wondered whether she'd be attending. Shortly afterwards, he decided he was free on Thursday.

Tuesday and Wednesday passed, if not unnoticed then definitely uneventfully. In contrast, the office held a bit of a festive air on Thursday. Not so much that there's nothing getting done. An anticipatory, festive air, it might be called. Jan could sense it but was unaffected, mostly thanks to his preoccupation with his own anticipation. Any other refusal to get swept up in it all was courtesy of what the locals call past experience.

It wasn't until Jan walked through the doors at Excellence that he realized he had probably made a big mistake. The place had only been open for three months. It showed. Somehow, the slew of young people, chatting and texting and drinking and texting, either didn't notice or chose to ignore it. This was Excellence, after all.

After a few cursory, "Hey, how's it goin'"s, to a few people he left only forty-five minutes ago, Jan found a spot at the end of the bar, closest to the front door. It wasn't an official roll call but he happened to notice Ms. Korver was late for class. No connection, whatsoever, with his parking spot.

"She could very well be out sick, today."

That was the odd phrase bouncing around his head as he tried to gain the attention of a bartender. Any of them would do. In the meantime, he took the opportunity to have a good look around the place. And wonder what that phrase might mean, while knowing full well of the instant conversation he had just finished with himself.

Excellence, he noticed, was an attempt at the newest twist in contemporary, fancy-pants, see-and-be-seen bars. Bars that have been infesting the nightlife scene with vigor, as of late. The bartender, who managed to find his way to Jan's end of the bar only after all the ladies present were freshened, did nothing to enhance the atmosphere.

"What can I get ya," he mumbled.

"I'll have a Bass Ale, please,"Jan replied, then adding in his head, "Sorry to have bothered you, ass-hole."

"Glass or pint?"

Hernïk is a Danish name. While the Danes enjoy well their fair share of beer, it was Jan's mother's heritage where he staked his claim. His mother was from England and he had visited her family back home on many occasions. As he grew older, and able to join his uncles at the pub, he eventually grew to appreciate a good pint of ale. As well as a good pint of lager, bitter, stout, or any other finely crafted brew.

Jan thought about the consequences but still decided to ask, "Is that an Imperial Pint?"

"A what pint!? It's a pint. You want one?"

On most occassions, the thought of, "Why bother?" is followed with a dismissive, "Yeah, sure," just to get the encounter over with. Something on this occassion was different. Screw this guy.

"I'd just like to know the size. An Imperial pint is measured and is a full 16 ounces. What people around here call a pint glass only hold 12 to 13 ounces. That's not a pint."

"What's the difference? It's a beer."

"The difference is that you don't even know the difference. If you're going to call yourself a bartender, you should probably know how to pour a proper beer! You make all these neon, fuck me drinks all night but you can't pull a decent pint for shit. Have some fucking pride in your work, man. Jesus. Sorry... I'll just take a Coors Light 16 ounce... please."

"Yeah, whatever..."

After some hesitation, the bartender begrudgingly fetched Jan's beer. Jan left a tip of conciliatory value, took his beer, and turned from the bar. Standing a few feet behind him was Kristi. By the pleasantly bemused look on her face, she had undoubtedly been standing there long enough to have witnessed the dialogue at the bar.

"Hi," she said, "I'm Kristi."

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Have Craving, Will Travel.

Tonight was one of those nights when things made sense. It wasn't any religious epiphany or mind-altering, cultural persuasion. It was conversation and the knowing of what had to be done.

It was about time to travel.

My Velkomin til Íslands bit will continue... it will.
(Peace out! pog & road; true this!)

Getting back to my current jones :: I realized, tonight, how much I miss traveling. All the strange encounters and uncertain moments. Good and bad. The unexpected events that inevitably define a trip, a voyage, a stay in X-land. It's all of the things that aren't preconceived that are the most enjoyable in any trip. Anyone who's traveled knows the feeling. Anyone who hasn't, should.

After work this evening, I joined my boss and a co-worker at the local right around the corner from our office buliding. A shit-hole of a place prior to about a year ago - until a couple of lads from Ireland took hold and put her right. Miles away. A fine pub that serves a swell pint of Guinness, now, she is.

Tonight, after a few fine pints later, we're on our way. Before scooting home for the night, I chat a bit with my boss - who, it so happens, has been one of my travel partners in all of my past ventures. This is where the smoldering coals erupt into a giant travel flame!

We recount episodes from Budapest (the bridge/hill incedent; the Fescek dinner; the cafe), extoll the uniqueness of our stories (have you ever gotten your camera confiscated at a nightclub in Helsingborg, Sweden?), and pine for futher days abroad... and soon.

Now, I'm fired up. If it isn't this fall, it'll be November. Catastrophe? We're talking spring 2007... but that's as far as I'm willing to go. I'm serious.

It's strange but I feel the compulsion to go somewhere else. I can't explain it - and I don't wish to try... I just accept it and do what I can to accomodate.

It's the end of July. In ten months' time, I hope to have been somewhere. Someplace I've never been before. You? You should venture to do the same.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Curse You, Technology!

I can't believe what just happened.

I just lost almost two hours of work on the second post in my Velkomin til Íslands travel series. I'm absolutely gutted.

While finishing up the tale of our first night out, I had searched for some information on one of the places we went. Clicked on a link and something froze up that browser session. Impatiently, I pulled up the task manager in an attempt to get rid of it - and, instead, it killed all of my browser sessions !!

Gone. Unbelievable. I haven't got the energy or spirit to start fresh again, tonight. I'll have another go at it tomorrow... perhaps saving it a few times along the way, you know, just in case.

Instead, I'm going to do something decidedly untechnological - have some leftover pizza.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Happy Independent Day

As I awaited the arrival of my large, toasted almond flavoured Turbo Ice at my local Crackin' Donuts, one of the servers asked the lad next to me in line, "Are they on today?" I sneaked a look his way and was immediately aware of the topic of discussion, albeit not explicitly expressed. The young guy was wearing a T-shirt replica of the Italian World Cup team; I recognized it instantly. "Yeah, the game is on at three," was his excited response. I knew at that moment how I'd be spending the next few hours of my afternoon.

Italy would be playing host Germany in a semi-final match, the winner of which would move on for a chance at winning it all on Sunday - Must-See TV, in my opinion. As it was only around 2:30, I scrolled through the broadcast listings and saw the program description Copa Mondial on cable channel 17, the Spanish language Univision in my area. I pressed the 'enter' button, the television screen flickered, and the tuner settled on two in-studio broadcasters going through highlights of previous World Cup action.

As ABC and ESPN are covering the tournament, I pulled up the guide again to see what, if any, Cup coverage any of the group of networks was airing. Much to my expected disappointment, ABC was airing a soap opera. ESPN, a ubiquitous, recorded poker show of some sort. Only immediately at game-time would ESPN have any World Cup coverage - namely, the game, itself. So, I stuck with my Spanish speaking amigos at Univision and enjoyed a half hour of delightful highlights and inspired commentary.

It didn't matter that I'm no where near fluent enough in Spanish to understand much of what was being said. However, being familiar with the sport, the teams, and the tournament results to this point it was easier to pick out a few things, here and there.

It reminded me of a line in a movie I watched this past Friday night. In The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, two men are attempting to bring a man's corpse to Mexico to be properly buried in his hometown. On their way, they come across a shack in the desert and approach it, hearing the sounds of a Spanish radio station coming from inside. There's an old, blind man living alone in the shack and when one of the travellers greets him with, "Buenos días," the hermit says, "I don't speak Spanish but I like to listen to this Mexican radio station. I can't understand what they're saying but I like the way Spanish sounds, don't you?" "Yes, I do." is the traveller's response. Well, so do I.

When the game finally began, I had no intention of switching over to the English broadcast on ESPN. Sorry lads, you've lost this consumer, err, viewer. Two hours later, Italy was celebrating a 2-0 victory after scoring a quick pair of goals in the final five minutes of the second 15 minute extra-time session. And, yes, both goals came with the requisite, "Goooooooooooooooooooool!" exclamation from the excited announcer. An excellent match, all around.

This all got me thinking. I've heard and read alot from people about how they just "don't get this World Cup thing," in some manner or other. I can't understand that sentiment. There's nothing to get. It just is. It's a sport tournament pitting the best players from 32 countries against each other for nothing more than national pride. I'm sure players receive compensation of some sort but the essence of it is that they play for their country. And want to win for their country.

As we celebrate Independence Day today in the United States of America, I couldn't help recognize the eery analogy. The reason most Americans don't "get it" is as plain as the holiday we celebrate today. We are independent. Or, in other words, alone. Aloof. Isolated. Insulated from the rest of the world. Sure, we've got our immediate neighbors to the north and south of us. But we scarcely bother to interact with or, sometimes, acknowledge them at all.

This isn't true of our distant European cousins across the Atlantic, or our extended Asian family beyond the Pacific, to a lesser degree. I thought of the four remaining teams in the tournament - Italy, Germany, France, and Portugal. Putting all four of those countries together, I still don't think they'd approach the size of the U.S. - in square miles or population.

In our isolation, we lose much. How different would our lives be if the U.S. was divided into different countries of various size, like Europe? New England could be Scandinavia. Larger swaths of land out west divided like France, Spain, and Portugal. Mix up the Midwest like the smaller countries of Eastern Europe. The southern coast mimicking Greece, Italy, and Croatia in the Mediterranean area. Each area of our country already has unique qualities, much like the unique qualities of the multitude of European countries. It's not a stretch to see the resemblance. Furthermore, these are countries from which our ancesters came. Shouldn't we hold some closer tie to them? Have some interest in what they've been up to recently, like a second cousin you haven't seen in years?

Instead, we go it alone. The U.S. is like a giant yacht anchored a mile from shore. We can see the shoreline with all its activity, yet we venture no closer. Our yacht fully supplied for a life at sea without any need to dock, we peer through our binoculars viewing the smaller sailboats, fishing boats, surfers, etc. and bemoan, "I don't get it. Why would anyone waste their time with all that trivial interaction when we're perfectly happy floating out here... a mile from it all... alone?"

"I've got my shuffleboard deck. My playing cards for playing Solitaire. Enough frozen pizza to last a lifetime. How could I possibly need anything else?" we ponder, as our behemoth vessel pitches ever-so-slightly in the barely existent waves this far from shore.

It's not just the World Cup, it's the world itself we're wont to ignore. In no way am I anti-American. I'm proud to be a natural born citizen of the good ol' U.S. of A. But I'm also curious about what our long-lost cousins have been up to. Who's doing well, who may be having some troubles, and what they are doing for fun and excitement.

People often wonder why everyone "hates America." I don't think the majority of those people "hate" America, it's just difficult, sometimes, to have anything good to say about someone who couldn't care less about you. If we were more in-touch, as a nation, with what is going on around the world, we may better understand how our country is viewed by those abroad. Perhaps enhancing some of those views in the process.

It's time we docked this ship and spent a week on shore... to see what all the commotion is. You never know, you may find something to your liking.

With that, I'll admit to this being a somewhat hypocritically ironic post, this evening... as I've been quite enjoying my holiday here at home... alone.

Happy Independent Day!

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Velkomin til Íslands

It was a Thursday. The eighth of April, 1999, precisely. The day a few of me mates and I landed in Iceland. We took off from Logan International Airport in Boston sometime around 8 or 9 p.m., Wednesday. A little over five hours later, we were preparing to land at Keflavik International Airport, Keflavik, Iceland. Locally, it's about 6:30 a.m.

The view of the harbour during our descent was stunning. Picture one of those helicopter fly-by shots of a dark, placid, blue-green sea littered with the tips of a thousand icebergs. Add the arctic sun, barely extricating itself fully from the horizon, providing spectacular back-lighting and forget it. Some sights may match its beauty but, dare I say, none will ever surpass it.

It was as if we'd flown, directly and unequivocally, into one of those documentaries you'll find on The Discovery Channel, The National Geographic Channel, et al. If it was the opening scene of a movie, it'd be discarded as cliché.

That was my first glimpse of Iceland. I was jazzed up.

After landing, deplaning, regaining our luggage, and undergoing the necessary but awkward and nerve-wracking pass through customs, we head for the bus to Reykjavik. Once aboard, we're treated to a 45 minute ride through a Flintstone-esque landscape of lava fields. Each mile, excuse me, kílometrar, is practically indistinguishable from the next. But it's beautiful. I've never seen anything like it. I'm mesmorized.

We arrive at the hotel and check in unceremoniously, unpack, settle in, and rest for a spell. We'll be needing our strength for the horseback riding session I've just booked for this afternoon over the phone from my hotel room.

After one or two hours and a short taxi ride outside the city, we're at the farm. Upon entering we all realize that we need to get a picture of all of this. So, here is that picture :




This is the view as we enter the pen of the horses we'd soon be riding. We settle down and after an acceptably thorough instructional presentation, we lot are ready to mount. It's a fairly relaxing ride amidst a landscape of mostly lava fields and small ponds with faint traces of golf course on the outskirts of the trail.

Here's a snapshot of the surrounding landscape, which is also representative of alot of the landscape we encountered on our bus trip from the airport. I'm still fascinated by it this early in the trip :




And for posterity's sake, here's a bit of our group on the trail :




This is day one. Maybe it's eight hours after landing at the airport. Whenever it is, it's the beginning of an adventure like no other.

Stay tuned... The excursion continues.

Friday, June 16, 2006

What Are You Doing?

Once again, I got into work late, again. Partly due to fault of my own; partly due to inexplicable and uncomprehensible traffic. Seriously. It was like, for the 35 minutes I was on the road (to travel a wee eight-plus miles from my domicile to my place du travail) every living sad-ass driver was on the go.

But that's the least of my worries.

Or the worst of my worries; I've yet to decide.

Nonetheless, I've made it to work and everything's keen. Until after I've pulled round the entrance-way and I'm making my way up to the employee parking area. Apparently, today, the 'employee' parking area isn't so open to allowing the 'employees' to park. Yes, I understand that today is the "CIO Workshop" ... but, whatever a "CIO" might be, did we need to invite each and every one of them !? From every state in the entire United States of America? Apparently, we did. And here they are. Taking up even the most precious 'late comer' spots in the lot. Curse them!

So, that's settled. I've managed to find a pretty sweet spot in the farthest reaches of the parking lot, right next to a stairwell that leads to the farthest end of the Swan Pond... right around North Dakota, I'd say.

Confused?

Don't be! or, at least, let me explain. There is a man-made pond (two, actually) on the grounds of my office building. Enjoyable. I'll continue.

These ponds support resident swans... real, live swans which live in this pond year-round. It's amazing in mid-January or February when it's cold as a witch's tit and these swans are just floatin' about... heads tucked in below a wing. And you're dyin' just gettin' to your car! Fuckin' Cold!!! There they are. Floatin' around.. taunting humans.

"Screw you sans-downy beasts! I've the hide to keep alive!" is what you imagine hearing them screaming from the pond on your way out. Yet, they're really more freezin' to fuck, as if they had a choice. They don't move. Still floatin' and still alive come spring, though. Friggin' swans. Tough bastards, them. Swans.

So, in this particular pond here's what's going on - "Two 'parent' swans teaching six or seven 'baby' swans how to survive in the dangerous confines of a man-made pond with a feeder machine easily accessible to most floating fowl." Nature at its finest. But I love the swans. Don't get me wrong... them little cygnets is somethin' to see. Love 'em. Then, they all disappear once they're older (about six weeks?) and it's looking to next June. For the next cygnet batch. It's science.

The above quote (in addition to everything written here, i'm talking about the stuff that's actually in " - quotes - ") was provided by me, earlier, while thinking amongst myself and is, therefore, thoroughly copywrighted. Or so you better believe it is.

Strangely enough, or maybe just an ironic coincidence (if such a thing exists...), the man-made pond all this fowl thrives upon is made out in the shape of The United States of America. Refer, please, to the Norh Dakota reference above, if you will.

So there's my just getting into work, today. Brilliant. I've made it. Fuck the swans - today, i'm concerned about the penguins! And before you question - I do noe want to get into that, about the swans. Feedin' and that. Fuckin' NGEO channel's for that. Penguins is universal. Penguins... Weasels... you know whom I'm talking about.

It's about mid-day and I'm heading up the hall for a squirt. Same Men's Room I visit once or twice a day... and Holy Mackerel !! What in the fuck has happened here?! Definitely more a question and then - an exclamation. Well documented something.

It's been one of those days where you're left amazed at the undeniable and non-defensable attack on civil and cordial etiquite. Then there's the question... 'What about the toilet?'

Thus, it is told.

And here I lay out the fetid story of the ravaged Men's Rooom.

It was one of the men's rooms that I'd come to enjoy. And I found I had developed a deep discouragement as it became increasingly maligned. Mistreated by guests that were oblivious to their impact on the space, the toilet stall was now a liquified, desolate, place to be.

As difficult a topic as this is, the main point is that these pigs.... these 'men in suits' - and I don't mean the single quotes as a joke.. it's to identify who i'm referring to - are PIGS! Remember, the place is loaded with people 'dressed to the nines'... in suits; ties; pressed pants; the trappings of well-heeled business folk...

I went to check into a stall and there was piss all over the seat. The ceramic part of the seat! Who the F is pissing all over the toilet seat ??!! In a sit-down, practically shyte-only, stall? I know who it is. It's Mr. Genius SmartyPants, the guy who's shown up in a Suit today. Good for you! As if that suit is going to convince me that you're smarter than you really are. Truth be told, you can't even control your own dick when it comes to pissin' !! The fucking toilet is a mess. You've created a health hazard.

You. All of you fucking monkey-suit wearing pricks... Get the F out !!

You don't wash your hands in the bathroom.
You don't care about the people you're meeting with.
Go Fuck Yourself... Please!

Jeez, this seems fairly harsh, looking at it... Maybe they're all right.

Nah. 'Twas one of the most disgusting diplays I've ever witnessed.

Fucking suits... means pissing all over the place and someone else'll clean it all up when you're gone.

Never mind the sinks - where it's as if they're trying to baptize cats! There's enough residual water to supply a small nation, the water spilled upon the surface of the sinks. What are these people doing? How does that much sludge and water find its way to the tableop?

Wash your f-ing hands and keep the tidal wave to yourself! For fuck's sake.... I can't imagine what goes on to get that much water all over the place ??? Seriously, what the F are you doing, that that much water ends up on the outside of the sink?

Fuck me.