Spewing out the goods

Latest (non-blog) update: March 6, 2006

3/6/06 -- Celebrate the Resurrection with elevated blood sugar levels!

March is here, and I love it. Since I moved to Texas, I've grown more fond of springtime each passing year. It could be that March in north Texas reminds me of early June back home in Manitoba. Or it could be because I'm developing into a big baseball fan as my years down here go by, and as every hardball nut knows, March means full rosters in training camp, exhibition games and every team has a magic number of 162. And while the Festival of the Undead Messiah is still six weeks away, March is usually heralded by stores rolling out their Easter candy.

As far as holidays go, Easter has all comers whipped when it comes to sweets. Christmas has candy canes (which I, as evidenced by the Ziploc baggie in my closet still full with candy canes from our tree, could take or leave). Valentine's Day has chocolate in its various heart and rose-shaped iterations. Even vaunted Hallowe'en is only remarkable for the sheer mass of candy consumed, but little of it is more than midget portions of full-size chocolate bars. But Easter has all sorts of tasty goodies that remain unseen throughout the rest of the year.

Topping the list is a favorite of mine dating back to the first or second grade: Cadbury's (Easter) Creme Eggs. I can't remember the first time I had one, but I do remember forgetting one in my pocket (that my sister Holly had bought me) while going to a movie on the last cold day of Spring 1981 or so , only to discover the crushed, melted and gooey foil remains of it the next fall. Good times. (I still sucked on the foil to get the stale, creamy remnants.)

A recent addition to the aisles is the Whoppers Eggs. I've always liked Whoppers. In fact, when they were a quarter a bag -- compared to 60 cents for other candy bars -- in the late 80's, they were a staple of my lunchtime diet (along with Pizza Pops, 7-Eleven cheeseburgers and Big Gulps). And now, they've coated my beloved malted balls in Eastery pastel colors! Yippee!

Of course, there's the old standby: the chocolate bunny. When I was young, before the complete and utter dissolution of my family, we'd have Easter candy treasure hunts in our house. Chocolate bunnies of varying sizes were stashed all around our living room... wedged between LPs, hidden under sofas and inside cabinets. And any kid who's gotten a chocolate bunny is familiar with the physics of candy. Specifically, it's pretty easy to tell by the density of the bunny if it's solid, filled or (EGADS!) hollow. A hollow Easter bunny is a bunny without a soul. And for the record, I used to be an ears-first guy, but now I eat them from the feet up. I like to think, in my crooked little mind, that if they could scream in pain as they were being eaten alive, that it would only be fair for them to hear their own shrieking.

And Peeps. I was ignorant of these marshmallow critters until I read about their use in scientific experiments, so I suppose Peeps aren't marketed (well? at all?) in Canada. They do warrant mention, however.

Finally, there's jelly beans. Always include some of these classics in any Easter basket. I'm giddy when Easter candy hots the stores, because of the readiness of Skittles jelly beans. A recent, but underwhelming, addition are the SweeTarts jelly beans, which replicate the taste of their candy parentage, but with much less impact.

And now, I feel like rolling around in a giant was of shredded green cellophane

10/7/04 -- And the Molson Cup first star...

Le premier étoile... Last week, ESPN Classic showed a game from the 1993 Stanley Cup Finals. The series itself is notable for so many reasons. It was Wayne Gretzky's last chance to play the role of playoff hero, albeit in a Kings uniform. It featured Patrick Roy putting together perhaps the greatest postseason ever played by an NHL goalie, notching TEN overtime victories. It marked the last time (to date) that a Canadian team skated away with the Cup. (And, as a side note, that year was the last the the Winnipeg Jets had a winning record and made the playoffs. But I digress.)

I only watched the game for a few minutes, but for those few moments I was transfixed. But it wasn't by the game itself, it was the Montreal Forum. But even the Forum, for all its history and prestige, was drawing me in. Nor was it the rabid Habs fandom. What stayed my thumb from guiding the remote control onward were the ads on the arena boards. Just like baseball geeks can tell the location of the game with a glance at a stadium's outfield walls, Canadian hockey fans can pinpoint an arena by its ads. The Forum didn't disappoint, with placards for Harvey's and AUTOPRO.

I watched that game from the Dry Mess at CFB Wainwright. I had been taking a recce course, but that was cut short by a broken metatarsal. Instead of sending me home, the Brigade saw it fit to have me hobble around, selling chocolate bars and t-shirts by day and nailing toothless women by night. By all accounts, it was a wasted summer. For me, at least... but not for Patrick Roy.

5/9/04 -- Introducing the new Chevrolet Crassus

I am not Spartacus, dammit! Flipping through the channels two nights ago, I happened upon USA Network's remake of the story of Spartacus starring ER's Goran Visnjic and the unconventionally-beautiful Rhona Mitra. I hunkered down on the couch for a watch.

For those of you unfamiliar with the generalities of the Spartacus story, here's quick briefing. (Both the original 1960 film version and its 2004 made-for-TV namesake are based on the novel by Howard Fast, so the stories are mostly parallel to each other.) Spartacus is a slave who lived in the Roman Empire in the 1st Century BC. He is sent to a gladitorial school and trained in the art of man-on-man bloodsport. In time, he rebels against his decadent Roman slaveowners, escapes to the countryside and amasses an army of escaped and freed slaves. After a few early victories, his army is trapped between two or three Roman armies and massacred. The unlucky 6000 slaves who survived the battle were crucified.

USA's version was sponsored in part by Chevrolet. Chevy is undergoing a major rebranding this year, adding such new vehicles as the Malibu Maxx, the Aveo and the Colorado to its line. The slogan for this attempt at revitalization is "An American Revolution," a tagline that is supposed to invoke images of Chevy "turning things around" as well as the traditional American values of liberty and self-determinance that inspired the patriots to rebel against Great Britain in the 1770s. The thing is that by sponsoring a movie about a revolt that ends in the wheezing death of nearly all of its participants and that set the stage for a dictator (Caesar) to seize control of a powerful republic, the folks at GM are making a subconscious connection that undermines the whole campaign.

But oddly enough, this isn't the first unintentionally bad Spartacus metaphor to which I have borne witness. Some six or seven years ago, I accompanied my friend Sarah Lyttle to a Christmas party put on by her union. Sarah worked at the Delta Hotel in downtown Winnipeg, and at the time, the union was preparing to enter a new round of collective bargaining talks with hotel management. The union's relationship with the hotel was, to put it mildly, acrimonious. After the meal and the awarding of door prizes (I won a small Tonka truck), the union's regional representative took the podium. In a speech meant to rally the troops, she chose the classic 1960 version of Spartacus to make a point. In Stanley Kubrick's classic, Spartacus (Kirk Douglas) survives the final battle (Visnjic's Spartacus is killed by legionaries while trying to reach his archenemy, Crassus). The Romans herd the capitulating slaves onto a hillside and demand the surrender of Spartacus. Just as their leader was about to rise to identify himself, random members of his army jumped to their feet and claimed to be Spartacus. Within a minute, all 6000 were on their feet yelling "I am Spartacus!" This communal fervor, argued the union rep, would keep the local strong and unified during negotiations and, quite possibly, a strike or lock-out. As she finished her point, I leaned over and whispered to Sarah "Yeah, but in the movie, they all were crucified." The irony wasn't lost on Sarah, who burst out in a series of snorts and muffled guffaws. Something tells me that the union rep didn't watch the whole movie.

3/21/03 -- Gulf War II...Dubya's Reckoning

And Iraq. Iraq (So Far Away). This started as a bitch session on my blog (the Ramblings link, above), but grew in scope. So I moved it here, where it belongs. This is all I have to say on Iraq, Kuwait, Saddam and Uday, WMDs, nutbag protesters and all of the other sideshows and sidebars to the battle. After this, I will only mention the conflict in Iraq in passing, so consider this to be it. Make it last.

If there's one thing about war in the information age -- if an uncontested invasion with minimal casualties can be accurately described as "war" -- is that it tends to dominate the media. Favorite television shows are preempted, news sites drop coverage of subjects deemed to have less importance (look at CNN.com's new format, complete with a broadsheet-style headline) and even niche media outlets like MTV News and Entertainment Weekly change their focus. I'm still waiting for HGTV's feature "Bunker Magic: How To Turn Corrugated Steel and Sandbags into a Soldier's Paradise."

Historical context does not, in the short run, translate into juicy ratings. And just like we stopped caring whether or not Gary Condit really did off good old what's-her-face once those jets slammed into the WTC, we'll similarly forget all about the bearded freakazoid who abducted Elizabeth Smart. Fuck her, she's back home with her creepy father, I want to see "the CNN M1 Tank Show live in Camwhore-vision"! (Well put by Ken from Corporate Mofo, as said in the Fark forums.)

The point I'm trying to make is that this isn't World War II, nor is it Vietnam. Hell, at this point, Gulf War II (or "Operation Iraqi Freedom," both are unimaginative and clunky names) ranks in historical importance somewhere below its prequel and a little above the incursion into Panama to capture Manuel Noriega. And unless the Republican Guard makes a defiant stand in Baghdad and the death toll mounts, that's how this will be remembered -- as a very expensive offroading trip for the 7th Cavalry which culminated in the capture/flight/death of a desperate despot. (That last bit rhymed. I'm clever.)

I'm starting to think that the whole build-up to this invasion will lead us to an anticlimactic result. It'll be like biting into a chocolate Easter bunny, only to find that it's hollow and not solid...

"Where's Schwartzkopf and the video game stuff, Dad?"
"No son, not this time. We're going to leave G.I. Faud alone and go after the Baath Party bigwigs."
"The Batparty?"
"Never mind, son. Let's watch the Rangers drop 13 runs to the Mariners."

There, that's it. That's my Iraq rant. Now fuck off.

10/30/02 -- Shirts I've Owned #4

Winnipeg Jets Jersey. Of the all the holidays I spent alone with my father (roughly between Summer 1983 and Winter 1987-88), Christmas 1983 alone sticks out in my head. That year, we left our decrepit house behind and housesat for friends. After living in a cordoned-off section of a falling-down house and eating McDonald's for every meal, this semblance of normal life was very welcome.

That Christmas, my father went all out. I received a few books, a Tony Dorsett autographed football, a subscription to National Geographic (which never arrived, probably because my father forgot either to remit payment or to mail the subscription card) and a few other presents, now lost to the fog of memories. He also gave me a Winnipeg Jets away jersey, which I wore constantly.

Back in the early- and mid-1980s, the Jets wore some butt-ugly uniforms. Blue, red and white were decent colors, but the team seemed unable to match the shades of blue used for the helmets, jerseys, hockey pants and socks. On top of that, the team's logo at the time looked, as my friend Devon described it, like a "Picasso smiley face." But I digress.

I prized that jersey, even though it was probably a last-minute gift (my dad was unable to find the home jersey, which would indicate that the store was sold out), more than any other shirt I owned in my pre-teen years. I wore the thing ragged. Within a year, the sleeves had frayed, spilling polyester threads down from my wrist in a cascade of white...uh, white thread.

Even though I had outgrown it by the next Hallowe'en, I wore it as part of my costume to my fifth grade party, frayed sleeves and all. Somewhere, there's a picture of my chubby head, crammed into a too-small, borrowed helmet and out of a battered jersey that was too tight for its own good. I was happy in that picture, which wasn't a common thing that year.

6/20/02 -- Another radio rant.

Corporate radio blows chunks. I found this article intriguing: CNN.com's analysis on why FM radio sucks today. It does. Trust me.

According to the article, there are seven Clear Channel stations in the Dallas market and two of them -- 102.1 The Edge and Mix 102.9 -- happen to be among my favorite stations. Earlier this year, Clear Channel's market dominance helped to kill another of my then-favorite stations (Merge 93.3, see my blog entry from January 5, 2002 for details).

I listen to the radio constantly during my 45-minute commute to work. I'll try to listen to one station (usually The Edge, until it plays a song which is completely overdone -- right now the list includes Nickelback's "Too Bad," blink -182-'s "First Date" and P.O.D.'s "Youth of a Nation" -- then switch to another station. I'll tune to this station until they play a crappy commercial, of which there are many (Stolichnaya's derivative "Should I stay or should I go" ads immediately come to mind), at which point I change the channel again. I'll keep listening to the new station until they repeat one of the mistakes above, or until I get annoyed with the DJ -- Wild 100.3's Joey Deee gets on my nerves very quickly these days. Repeat this process ad nauseam. Eventually, I'll get bored enough and start singing (loudly and poorly) to myself. Thankfully, since the demise of Orville II (my poor Pontiac 6000), I now have the option to listen to CDs while in the car. Take that, Clear Channel!

It, however, could be much worse. On the whole, the radio in Dallas-Fort Worth is far superior to that of Winnipeg. Of course, the market here is ten times larger, but that's not the only reason. In Canada, the CRTC regulates and licences radio stations, playing roughly the same role as that of the FCC in the United States. CRTC regulations, in comparison to the FCC, do have some major differences. It is far more difficult to get and keep a radio licence in Canada, keeping competition down. In general, advertising dollars in Canada are more difficult to come by (again, reducing the financial viability of stations down and reducing competition). Canadian radio stations also are required to have a certain percentage of Canadian artists and songs in their playlists. While this process has fostered quality Canadian talent -- it helped to give rise to international stars such as Rush, Bryan Adams, the Barenaked Ladies, Celine Dion and Shania Twain, as well as newer artists like Sum-41 and Avril Lavigne -- it has forced many artists upon the listening public that can only be described at best as mediocre. (I see you hiding there, McMaster & James, Choclair and Killer Dwarfs.) It's a double-edged sword.

I should get me one of those XM Radio tuners for my new car...

4/23/02 -- Shirts I've Owned #3

Mininationals T-shirt. When I was in the first grade, I became jealous of three of my classmates at St. Vital's Windsor School -- Lori Palano, Scott Holden and a third whose name escapes me (Ed. note: Now that I've had two years to think about it, I think it was Danny Miller.) -- who were excused from class early one day a week. No, they weren't dumb kids who required remedial reading; they were among the brightest kids in my class. They were, however, members of an extracurricular singing troupe called the Mininationals. Seeing an opportunity to get out of class early, I joined the following year.

The Mininationals were a novel idea: we'd go to old folks' homes around the city and sing to the residents. The whole thing was sponsored by CJOB's Shut-Ins Club. Our repertoire consisted mainly of oldies. No, not old time rock 'n' roll, but real oldies: "You Are My Sunshine," "This Land Is Your Land" (a Canadianized version), "Old Blue Bonnet" and a series of skits and songs from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves (I played Happy and was treated with a solo).

When we performed, we wore matching banana yellow t-shirts with a blue maple leaf. Ugh. In retrospect, the things were hideous. I, however, loved performing and the attention it brought, so I ignored the ugly shirt. Besides, it was the early 1980s, and yellow t-shirts weren't that uncommon.

The following year, the music teacher at my school, the bug-eyed Mrs. Enns, merged the Mininationals into her church's youth choir, and our M.O. changed slightly. We now practised at her church and, after a while, began singing in the Sunday services. Despite my burgeoning crush on Pam, one of the girls from the church choir, I quit the group early the next year. Even when I was seven, my faith was beginning to falter...

4/18/02 -- Shirts I've Owned #2

Property of San Diego Chargers t-shirt. When I was six -- approximately when I owned this shirt -- I had a vague idea where San Diego was. I could, unlike most six year-olds, locate California on a map and read well enough to find San Diego, if necessary. I certainly didn't know who Dan Fouts was, even though it was his number on my shirt. Hell, I lived in Winnipeg, Canada, which hardly was a hotbed of support for the Chargers.

I hardly knew about the Bolts' rise from obscurity to challenge for AFC supremacy, nor about the epic battles being waged by Fouts, tight end Kellen Winslow and the wonderfully-named Rolf Benirschke while this shirt sat in my dresser drawer. Nor did I care -- I had a football shirt and was happy with it.

All things being said and done, however, I'd have preferred a Dieter Brock or Joe Poplawski "Property of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers" shirt.

4/15/02 -- Shirts I've Owned #1

Navy blue and red zip-up sweater. Looking back at my kindergarten class photo, I didn't appear to be a happy fellow. I'm not sure why I was upset, but I'm sure I had a good reason. Maybe it was some typical four-year old petulance. Maybe it was the first signs of adolescent depression caused by the recent break-up of my parents. Besides that picture, most of my memories from kindergarten are happy ones, especially those of Jodi Doerksen.

I'm not sure if I especially liked that sweater. It was a navy blue acrylic sweater, with bright red cuffs and collar. Ah, the collars of 1979: big, wide, pointy. If you weren't alive in the late 1970's, be thankful. I'm just glad I wasn't old enough to pick my own clothes, because I'm sure that would have left some psychological scarring.

As for acrylic sweaters, they are rarely comfortable. Usually, they scratch the skin -- imagine wearing fiberglass -- and get unbearably hot. That alone may explain my sullen look, that sweater probably was a bitch to wear.

3/11/02 -- Gord gets geopolitical.

The Middle East: Not just a NCAA Tournament bracket anymore. I originally wrote this rant a week or so ago, following yet another bombing in Israel.

Besides the usual feelings of horror associated with any instance of the back-and-forth religious/political violence that's been rocking the Holy Land the last year or three, that particular attack struck me as remarkable; it was only the second known instance of a female suicide bomber to date, the first preceding it by only a week. Previous to this, the fundamentalist Islamic organizations reserved the jihad for men. Does this apparent egalitarianism mean that Hamas and the other militant organizations are willing to commit women to the fight, sacrificing part of their patriarchy for fresh blood in the struggle against Judaism? Will this give feminism a nudge in Arab nations? Do female suicide bombers get a handful of virgin boys upon arriving in heaven at the completion of their mission?

We've also seen on, both on the various television news networks -- and in, of all places, Maxim Magazine -- images of Palestinian children chanting anti-Israeli/pro-Palestinian slogans and being taught the intricacies of detonating a suicide bomb. However troubling this may be, consider that a similar indoctrination of hatred and militancy occurs in some orthodox Jewish homes in Israel, through history and civics lessons, and through the same transgenerational inheritance of prejudices we see with the Palestinians.

Equally troubling is the recent spate of religious violence in northwestern India. Hindu radicals (not a concept easily embraced by deluded Westerners who confuse Hinduism with Buddhism) want to build a Hindu temple on the site of the 16th century Ayodhya mosque, which Hindus razed ten years ago. In response, Muslim extremists bombed a train carrying mostly Hindus, killing 57 people. In response to that action, Hindu mobs started torching Muslim neighborhoods. All of it reminds me of the Orthodox Serbs/Muslim Bosnian conflicts six years ago.

Nietzsche was right; God is dead. And if He isn't, then maybe He should be.

1/14/02 -- The first day of school.

Of freshmen, tardiness and bloody Phi Delts. The air is thick with freshman. Not freshmen, just freshman -- that identifiably distinct stench of too much cologne, jeans that were Christmas gifts from Mommy and/or Daddy, girls who slap on an extra coat of lipstick in their car prior to going to class. There isn't much I can do about it; for every useful geology course and semi-pertinent chemistry course I take, UTA is making me take useless drivel (as far as I'm concerned) like Expositional Writing.

As for Expositional Writing, my professor is late. By five minutes thusfar. (Rare for a rant, I write this with pen and paper, only to commit it into digital format the next day, between classes.) I've had all of two timings to meet here at Preston Hall, and both have wound up with whoever I was supposed to meet showing up tardy -- or not at all. Firstly it was my appointment to write the TASP test (as I grew up in Canada, I wrote neither the SAT nor the Texas-mandated TAAS test) and now this class. Hardly a brilliant start to the semester, eh?

For lack of anything else to occupy my time, I glanced over the shoulder of the suede jacket-wearing pretty boy sitting in front of me. Clumsily written on his notebook are the Greek letters phi, delta and theta. Great, not only do I have to endure this class, but I have to share it with a Phi Delt. I hate those guys.

1/5/02 -- Humph. Humph. Humph.

Ms. Pac-Man. The strangest thing happened at my local movie theatre a few weeks ago. They added a new video game. This is hardly a momentous occasion on its own -- there seems to be a 5:1 video game to user ratio at most theatres these days -- unless you consider the game that was added. The game was Ms. Pac-Man. Well, it's a 20th anniversary "reunion" re-release of Ms. Pac-Man and Galaga, two benchmark video games from the early 1980s,by video game maker Namco. The only difference, save for the games sharing the same console, is the addition of the manufacturer's Web site (ironically rendered in 90-some point font in vibrant VGA).

The popularity of the game(s) surprised me. Ms. Pac-Man seems as busy as the newest first-person shooter games, including the entrancing yet frustrating sniper game Silent Scope, and busier than most of the others (including that incomprehensible dancing game).

I remember playing the original Ms. Pac-Man on a table-top console at the Salisbury House restaurant that my father used to frequent. He would sit there with his motley assortment of friends: the Belgian couple, the Libertarian who drove an AMC Eagle and the spectacled investor who let us use his Blue Bombers season tickets one time. I would be left to my own devices (or sometimes was joined by the couple's daughter, with whom I had my first sexual experience at the age of 11), searching for ways to amuse myself. I would walk to the drug store next door to read comic books, throw water balloons at the plants, shoot spitballs at the kitchen or play video games. I remember most of those games vividly... Centipede, Ms. Pac-Man, Hat Trick, Mini Golf, Arkanoid and others.

I've discovered that my skills at both Ms. Pac-Man and Galaga have not diminished. In fact, I'm much better now than I was ever in my youth. Maybe it's the fact that I want to make sure I get my money's worth when I play, for the prices have been upped to 50 cents per play. Fifty cents! For Ms. Pac-Man? Christ-and-a-half!

Shit, I suppose it's still better than $1.00 for Silent Scope.

12/25/01 -- Christianity on the radio...

No, I can't take you higher, God-boy. Lately, the 'one true faith' has been a little too ubiquitous on the radio and tv. I expected to encounter this to some degree, seeing as how I've moved into the Bible Belt, but enough is enough. I can't even blame the religious nature of north Texas Christians - largely Baptists and Methodists - as the phenomenon seems to have swept the continent.

Creed bugs me. They really bug me. I found myself humming along to "My Own Prison" when it first came out�hey, it isn't a bad song by any means. I was put off slightly by the overt religious symbolism in "Higher," but was willing to let the matter lie. The next single, "With Arms Wide Open," pushed me too far. Lead singer Scott Stapp tries his damnedest to sound as much like Eddie Vedder as possible, all the while trying to look oh-so-earnest (as much as one can while resembling a badly-schnozzed Brendan Fraser).

Now, the first single from the new album, "My Sacrifice" is driving me insane. I thought long and hard about what it was about the song that made me violently angry. After careful consideration, I realized that it sounds far too much like its predecessor "Higher." Same thoughtless power chords. Same tempo. Although I'm not a professional musician, I'm sure that it's even the same fucking key. Maybe it's even the pseudo-Kashmir Zep rip-off strings at the end of the track. Jeez, Edwin (the lead singer from I Mother Earth, a Canadian alt. rock band) pulled the same trick with last year's "Alive."

I'm convinced that Creed's success is built as much on the guilt of failing Christian radio programmers and A&R people than musical talent. They've put a marketable face on Christian music and have become the poster boys for this new movement. I'm sorry, but I prefer my music without the moral and doctrinal sympathies of established religions.

And now a new batch of God-rockers is on the verge of advancing into the field of view of the public eye. The jury's still out on P.O.D.; I haven't heard enough from them yet. I'm sure other Mormon, Methodist and Mennonite church youth groups are quietly and efficiently grooming the next generation of stars in this abominable genre.

On another note, one of the holiday radio promos run by a local radio station, 102.1 The Edge, insinuated that the reason that all the trouble happening in the Middle East, including the events surrounding the September 11th attacks on New York and Washington D.C., was that Muslims (and Jews) do not celebrate Christmas. Typical Christian conceit. The promo, meant to be a comedy spot, even uses the phrase "heathen Muslim ass." That doesn't seem like a model message of inclusion to me. I must commend the station, as it seems the spot only ran for one day - angry listeners likely called in to express disgust. Just remember, more people have been killed by Christians trying to exert their dominance over peoples of other faiths�including other Christians. The Crusades, the Inquisitions (they weren't limited to Spain), the enslavement of African and Native American peoples, the Holocaust and Northern Ireland than a thousand 9-11's. That's simply a selection of the most well known incidents on a list thousands of entries long.

11/29/01 -- "Only you can set me free..."

I stand accuuuuuuused... I'm an MP3 whore. I have almost three thousand tracks, which I share freely with, well, whoever happens to be on AudioGalaxy at the time. Previous to AudioGalaxy, I used Napster (until Roy Orbison's widow shut me down), Scour, BearShare, WinMX, various IRC channels.

I keep an up-to-date index of all my songs using an Excel spreadsheet.Almost a year ago, I started using the same spreadsheet to keep trackof how many times I've uploaded each track to another user. I've been able to see a few trends, some of them disturbing...

I have bootlegs of two full concerts of my favorite band, almost all the tracks of which have been downloaded from me at least once.
Popular artists/genres: Nazi biker punk, old Stones, bands from my old hometown and Canadian country chanteuses turned dance-pop stars (no, not Shania...).
And, in a most terrifying development, the track that has been downloaded from me the most... "Love in The First Degree" by Bananarama. This track, not exactly the paragon of pop music craftsmanship, has been downloaded from me a total of 8 times, almost twice as much as its nearest competitor.

Yes, the song is a catchy little ditty, but it's sure no "Venus."

3/30/01 -- Got Gig?

Yet another low in advertising history. Last week, while watching one of the many crappy American channels (as opposed to the *really* crappy Canadian channels) we get in west Winnipeg, I saw an ad for Computer Renaissance. You may have heard of them -- they charge you 90% original retail value for two year-old computers and try to tell you you're getting a deal. The ad was shot from the computer's point of view, as its model owner was fretting about not being able to view the nekkid pictures of her that were posted to alt.pictures.erotica.fetish.sealclubbing by her vindictive ex-BF, or something like that. Apparently the computer didn't have enough RAM (understandable... PhotoShop is memory-intensive) or enough gig to do the job (whatever it was). Enough gig? Enough fucking GIG?

In my many (seven) years of being a closet Internet geek, I have never heard the word "gig" used in that context. Gigs of hard drive space. Yes. Gigaflops? Yes. GHz? Yep. Gigabits/second? Sure. But "gig" on its own? Uh...no. I was a computer tech support agent for two years. I built my own system from scratch. I surf for pornography daily! No gig for you!

Maybe what pisses me off the most is that adding more HD space (assuming that is what the ad meant, considering that the phrase was used twice) to a computer won't speed things up too much (unless your old drive was too small to have a large enough swap file, but that's getting too geeky for a rant). Sure, you would be able to squeeze more crap (MP3s, porno, warez, e-mail forwards, etc...). More doesn't mean faster.

An analogy -- getting a bigger fuel tank for your car to make it go faster ("Dude, my Fiero needs more gal!"). Fucking idiot ad copy writers.

8/27/00 -- Doing our absolute worst to promote free trade...

The filthiest toilet in southern Manitoba. You would think that Manitobans would do everything in their power to increase the number of American tourists and businessmen who visit our fair province. But this seemingly basic principle does not serve as a tenet to the fine people at the Emerson Duty Free shop.

For those of you who don't travel, duty free shops are located at points of departure at Canadian border crossings or airports. You can buy alcohol, cigarettes and other sundry items without paying international tariffs. Many American travellers stop at the Emerson Duty Free on their way back home from Folklorama, fishing trips, cockfights, etc. What they see there may prevent them from returning.

I stopped at the Emerson Duty Free on my way to visit my fiancee this weekend. I didn't want to buy sundry items; I just needed to take a leak. I've used this bathroom before, but I had never noticed just how filthy it was. Several strata of graffiti were carved into the shitter doors, which were painted over with mismatching spray paint. The tile grouting was spackled with blotches of mildew. Even the mirrors were marred with engraved markers from "Omega 631."

If I was an American visiting Winnipeg, I would tie a twist-tie around my cock, cross my legs and hold out for Pembina...or even the Stamart in Grand Forks.

8/19/00 -- The Kool-Aid Man says "Oh no!"

Just pennies a glass? I went to see the X-Men movie this week. I liked it -- it remained true to the original comic book series and it had a reasonably good storyline. What distressed me wasn't the movie, but the concessions. Apparently, a large cup of Kool-Aid costs Joe Moviegoer $3.50 (Canadian funds). If Kool-Aid is supposed to be "just pennies a glass," as the advertisements once claimed, then how big are these glasses?

Let's suppose that "pennies" refers to a maximum of 4.9 cents (any more would be termed "nickels a glass" or the like). The size of a large drink at Silver City movie theatres is about litres. Some rough calculation yields an amount of 18.2 mL costing 4.9 cents. For those of you who are unfamiliar with SI (the metric system), that works out to just over half of a fluid ounce. Considering that the "average" glass contains six to eight fluid ounces. Thus, a glass runs about 56 cents per glass, which should be considered "quarters a glass."

Somewhere, an anthropomorphic pitcher is crying.

7/13/00 -- After driving to Houston, TX and back, I have a bit of rant fodder

Missouri Highways. Most people don't seem to know that state highways in Missouri are not numbered (like the rest of the western world), but are instead lettered. Yes, if you have to find your way to Marmot Claw, MO, your directions may come out something like this: Take D down to Exit 54, get off on K and go for about 30 miles until you get to the junction with BB. Don't turn left, because you wind up on F... As if that wasn't bad enough, I actually saw a sign for the junction of Highways V and D. Oh, you wacky southern civil engineers!

2/22/00 -- Yep. Another rant. Wheee!

Genghis Khan. I saw Genghis Khan in the food court of Winnipeg Square last Wednesday. There I was, happily eating my Chef's Special from the Chinese place and reading my newspaper. I looked up to briefly see a cute girl a few tables away. I knew my break was nearly finished, so I decided to walk past to get a closer look on my way back to work. I finished lunch and got up to see that she had left. Dejectedly, I walked to the garbage can to drop off my tray, and who did I see sitting down? Yep. Genghis Khan. Now, you're probably thinking "Genghis Khan died in the 13th Century." Yes, he did. I doubt this was the Genghis Khan of note, but he certainly looked the part -- mongoloid facial features, untrimmed and scraggly fu manchu and beard, the "I just wreaked havoc on the Ukrainian steppes" look. He even had that pointy lambskin and wool hat. I fully expected Keanu Reeves to pop out and introduce him as Bob Genghis Khan. Back into the freaking phone booth with you buddy. Whoa.

12/29/99 -- Alright, you filthy donjeks, it's time for a bit of ranting. I have kept you waiting far too long for new rants. So here we go...

The Millennium. It's one thing that the bulk of the western world thinks that getting a new chequebook in the mail requires celebrations beyond the Dick Clark-scope to which we've become accustomed. It's not that the cognoscenti laugh -- both aloud and inwardly -- at the silliness of the world. Yes, the second *millennium*, by Christian reckoning, doesn't start for another, oh, 367 days, but who am I to shit on someone's 90-foot Woody Woodpecker balloon? Hell, I'll be celebrating, too. What pisses me off is the media's prostitution of the whole thing. It isn't enough that Christmas has become an orgiastic display of consumerism in my family (who apparently think that I need to become an alcoholic, and may just be right). It isn't enough that every holiday, no matter how secular or obscure, has its own set of e-greeting cards and FTD-fucking-floral arrangements. I can deal with all of that. But do I really, really need to have every TV and radio commercial trumpet the "Last Sale of the Millennium"? No, I don't. You would think that, just as New Zealand, Fiji and Tonga and every other Polynesian landmass are scurrying to be the site of the first millennial *anything*, some crafty Aleut has registered www.laste-commerceofthemillennium.com and will be selling frozen salmon online as the clock strikes 11:59 (complete with certificate of authenticity, of course). Fuck. I fully expect that, were I to walk the streets of downtown Winnipeg in the waning hours of New Year's Eve -- which I won't be, as I have better things to do, like plunge dessert forks into the fleshy parts of my calf muscles -- that some hooker will come up to me and offer the last professional rimjob of the millennium... or the first one of the new millennium. How's THAT for a t-shirt: I was the first person in the third millennium to pay a whore to tongue my arsehole. I'll pay good money to see that shirt on a person's back next year. Yes, I will... and it won't be me wearing the shirt.

Tongue *MY* arsehole!-- blandscotsman@hotmail.com