• I am unbelievably sick of people who always say things like, “Well, what are you doing about it?” It’s one of those cop-out phrases. Like how you can say “lighten up!” as a way of being a jerk. Or how you can say “deal with it!” as a way of avoiding having to deal with it. Either you agree or you don’t. If you say “put up or shut up!” then you follow your own advice.
• How do you know when you’ve drunk too much coffee? Where’s that point where you say enough?
• I’m having one of those days where everything is terribly busy and nothing seems to get done. Yeah, I’m blogging for a minute, but the rest of the day seems to be filled with doing things and more doing things, only when I look back I don’t see the results of having done any of those things.
• Laura and I had tacos for dinner last night. A simple, cheap, and delicious meal. I think we might do that more often.
• There’s a writer’s strike going on in TV land right now, in case you didn’t know. That means that all our favourite shows are over and done with, maybe or probably for the season. No more How I Met Your Mother, no more Big Bang Theory, no more House, no more Scrubs, no more Pushing Daisies. Sad times. But we can go back and watch things we missed, like 30 Rock, and… that’s about it. It’s one of my favourite new shows now.
• I would like my desktop to be able to follow me anywhere I go. Why is that not possible? Why can’t I call my desktop up securely on a public terminal? I know, the staggering technical hurdles and the nightmare of implementing this idea. But… super cool, right?
• I’m away from the Rumour Forum for a while, guys. Except for the boards I have access to, and they’re not much. But when I come roaring back to the fold, my pockets stuffed to overflowing with cash money dollars, it’ll be a day to celebrate.


Attribution / License

Well, I finally broke down and saw the movie Serenity. As well I should have, as it turns out, because it’s an amazing film. And unbelieveable film. Maybe the best scifi film I’ve ever seen, bar none. Certainly the best scifi-western. I would urge you all to go out sometime and see a matinee showing of it in a nice uncrowded theatre, just so good films that deserve to be winners actually are.

You know what’s interesting? Hollywood funding distribution is funny, that’s what. How so many banal films are made with money ranging into the hundreds of millions of dollars is beyond me - and why people go to see them is even further. In fact, so much of the movie-going populace is turned off by what HWood is producing these days that they don’t even bother to watch those top-ten grossing films anymore, if they even watch movies at all. I, for one, haven’t watched a single “blockbuster” movie this year unless I was with friends and had to seek the lowest common denominator in what movie would appeal to everyone.

Which is part of the industry’s problem. They cater to big audiences and leave the small ones behind. But is it so strange to imagine that you’d make the same sort of money with four small films that cost $25m in lieu of one film that costs $100m+? Not only that, instead of having hugely expensive films that go bust, you’d have minorly expensive films that go bust, and sleeper hits that basically cost only a tenth of what they’ll gross in theatres alone. Even out the money distribution. It doesn’t work anymore. We don’t like your stupid movies that focus on making us covet lifestyles while ignoring plot. We’re not drooling idiots with money flowing out of our pockets, waiting to spend it on whatever film has “adrenaline” or “octane” in the description.

Well, most of us aren’t.

dan (hates movies. loves movies)

Nothing to see here. Move along.

There’s something about people, as they say, and that something always seems to kick me in the back of the head when I’m not looking.

It’s motivation. Everyone has them. Generally, I think, people’s motivations are good. In Christian circles more than anywhere else. Mine certainly aren’t always good, but I like to judge other people - or try to - with a degree of love.

But you know what? Motivation is not the litmus test for the fitness of an idea. That’s like trying to tell something is a sheep because it has four legs.

When a person says “I meant well!” I usually like to ask why that should matter: once you’ve determined you have good motives you can just go ahead and never look back? No. Once you’ve determined you have pure motives or a reasonable faximile thereof, you come up with a good idea, a sound plan. In fact, in an entirely effective way, your motivations don’t really matter.

dan (the road to hell is paved with… well meaning people’s bones)

You know what bugs the crap out of me? Here’s what, and pardon me for sounding off about such things on my blog of all places. People that suggest you do something, and when you actually decide to do it, they go “Oh ho ho! Betcha can’t do it!”

I mean, what the fudge? Is that supposed to be a motivational technique of some sort? Is that supposed to give me the impetus to actually do it? Goodness gracious, affirmation is not the hardest thing in the world. If you make a suggestion and someone follows it, you pat them on the back and maybe offer to help in any way you can. The end. This is not a very hard thing to do, at all.

Imagine being at a praise evening planning thing, and suggesting that instead of some vapid worship chorus you play a hymn. Then, when the leader says, “Hey, that’s a good idea. Let’s do that!” you’re like, “betcha can’t play that hymn because you’re too used to that other crap!” How far do you think you’re going to get? Yeah, maybe it’ll produce some result because the guy’s going to want to prove you wrong, but in the process, you’ve made yourself into a gigantic ass, and any further suggestions you give are going be like a fart in a tornado.

There. I’m done.

dan (a little frustrated here)

Here I am at 123 Computer in Brampton, waiting for them to get my stuff together. It’s taking a while. But really, I should be out of here any time.

Tonight, in my search to find good Linux setup, I’ll be setting an Ubuntu box, a distro I’ve only ever heard good things about. We’ll see how that goes, but I’m going to see if I can set up a cron job to backup from a Samba share, roll it all up into a tarball, and save it in an autonamed directory. Time for some script-fu? Or am I going to find a program with a nice GUI somewhere in the midst of the 16,000 packages that I can get for Ubuntu? Who knows. An adventure this shall be, says Yoda.

So… I’m still waiting, and it seems like it’s taking forever. Not only that, but I don’t really have anything to write about. Okay, so I drank less coffee today than I have for a while - so what? Big deal, you say, except that I’m starting some sort of ripple effect at the shop and now Jerry is vowing to stop the black liquid as well. Cue flying pigs. (rimshot)

I’ve done something wonderful and artistic every night this week. Monday was photography, Tuesday was a story song. Tonight - well, who knows what tonight may bring? I certainly don’t. Whatever boils to the surface, I suppose.

My financial situation has never been wierder. I’m still in debt, but recovering fast. The odd thing about getting out of debt is that it’s like a snowballing sort of endeavor - the more you do it, the faster it becomes to actually get it done. Which is cool, because it may be difficult now, but eventually it’ll come easier, at which point I may also have some spending money. You know, to spend on stuff I don’t actually need.

You know what it’s like to live a workweek with five dollars in the pocket, a quarter tank of gas, and barely any food to help you make it through? Well, I do. But then, you might say I’ve made my own bed and it’s time for me to sleep in it. Fair enough. On the other hand, I have an interesting story to tell those children I plan on having one day, should God be so gracious as to grant me children.

Please, Lord, let those children not just magically drop down from the sky. I want them the old-fashioned way. Thanks.

I don’t mean to make mockery. I’m just thinking out loud.

My car… is interesting. I’m glad I bought a Focus. I’m also wishing I had gotten the windows tinted instead of ingesting massive amounts of crack cocaine. Hah. Fooled you! I’ve never sampled the stuff, or pot, or really any other halucinogen. Am I sheltered? I like it that way.

What’s up with people who can’t handle eccentricity? It’s what makes life delightful and quirky. Some people don’t like lumps in their pudding; and I for one have pity on that condition.

I like puzzles and figuring them out. I’m pretty good at it, too. I’ve sometimes wondered if I should have perhaps been a detective or a doctor, but I think the blood and guts might freak me out a bit too much.

What about you? What are you good at?

dan (is asking a question of his readers)

I was listening to the radio earlier this morning, and an advertisement struck me as odd. The announcer tells me that “ReMax will get you the very highest price for your home. List with us.” Or something like that.

I occurs to me that if ReMax gets sellers that highest price for their houses, wouldn’t a home sold with a ReMax realtor raise flags in your head because according to their ad, it’s bound to be more expensive?

dan (of course… people don’t think like that usually…)

This morning was Lord’s Supper, except that it was more like Lord’s Lunch, since we never actually eat it as a supper. But the I guess to sup doesn’t mean so much dinnertime as it does just to sit down and eat. Or chew for a few seconds and swallow. I don’t know.

I drove home early today: I wasn’t feeling well, in case you wondered. This entire weekend has left me feeling sort of queasy, and I couldn’t put my finger on it if you asked. But then, you haven’t, so I won’t go any further.

This week will be different. I swear to it. I haven’t the time anymore to sit around and watch the dust collect on my few posessions; instead I want to explore something, although I’m not sure what it’ll be that gets found, or where I’ll find it waiting.

There’s coffee at Starbucks, and it’s waiting. Or weighting, like the dead-end conversations I always find there. It’s a place to go and outline simple facts, to make rational decisions as if they’re called for.

Why isn’t life more like a movie? Well, I know all the answers, but none of them seem satisfactory right now. Life is a whole lot more like the book of Ecclesiastes, and that’s a none-too-cheery little bit of inspiration right there.

Maybe I should have been a cowboy.

I realize this blog has been without a salient post in a great while, and I feel it my duty to the public, proper, to once again regale you with more of my real-life adventures. Not the ones I made up on the way home from work that involve either pirates or ninjas. Speaking of which, I wonder this quite often: which is cooler, to be a pirate, or to be a ninja? The answer to that question might indeed be the glue that holds reality together, due to the overwhelming influence that ninjas and pirates have had on popular culture and the armed forces.

I digress, however. I should be talking about my day at the beach, and instead I have begun to ramble about pirates and ninjas. Although the topic is fascinating, and I’d like to see more research time taken from scientists who study the effects of global warming on the flow of Heinz ketchup from a bottle, and instead given to those that study the effects of global warming on the perceived coolness of ninjas versus the perceived coolness of pirates.

I trigress. This Monday was Labour Day, a time to celebrate the fact that we can work and receive regular paycheques by spending said paycheques on our day off in various restaurants and parks whose workers celebrate Labour Day by labouring so they can receive a regular paycheque and possible tips instead of living in a cardboard box and eating the cast-off tuna sandwiches of the middle class. One must wonder - how do they celebrate Labour Day? Do they dream of starting a union and picketing? Would they, perhaps, picket on Labour Day to protest that they have to work on Labour Day, thus poisoning the well for everyone else? It’s a good question, and the answer could possibly prove once and for all whether or not labour unions are indeed a good invention that have been corrupted by Satan and should all be gathered into the Texas desert and converted to an alternative energy source. I, for one, would drive a car that accepted biodiesel created from union labourers. Except, of course, if the byproduct of a unionized worker was also terribly inefficient and would stop my car at random times to demand job security and a pet monkey. I kid, of course. Unions don’t typically ask for pet monkeys.

I quadragress, if there’s such a thing. This Monday, Labour Day, I spent hours at the beach in much the same fashion a lobster spends time in a pot of boiling water. That is to say my tiny screams of horror were not heard over the sounds of water and wind, and by the time it was all over I was a delicious shade of red and several hungry children were gnawing on my leg. Or, that’s just the way it feels thanks to the fact that I didn’t imagine I would need sunblock on my legs of all places! What a silly concept! The sun doesn’t go that far down!

Apparently it does, considering how painful it is to walk. Mental note: buy sunscreen and avoid beaches. I brought my guitar to the beach, as is my custom that I started this year, realizing that I would have to play a eulogy for my nine years of attending the Labour Day Modest Beachwear Party. Nine years! I’m far too old to be doing such things. In fact, I spent most of the day giving life lessons to the younger denizens of our little beachfront stakeout. Little jems such as, (to the girl who didn’t know what to play on the guitar), “When you’re holding a guitar on the beach, there are only three things; you, the guitar, and the beach. The beach does not care what you play, nor does the guitar. So play.” And to the guy who was playing in a manner I can only describe as “brave”, “Kurt Cobaine is already dead. Please don’t kill him again.” And to the people who were intent on killing every form of creeping or flying life no matter how remotely threatening, “A bee is an itegral part of creation. Every bee that exists is there for a reason, and that reason is not so you can decide whether or whether not to bring it’s life to an end. Not to mention that the bee you agitate is not likely to sting you: it’s more likely to sting someone around you, and as such, you are causing needless potential pain for other people.” Of course, humans never listen to other humans unless those other humans are grinding up their gold and making them eat and drink it. As it was, several bees died needlessly because the Beach People decided to drink things that attract bees.

This, of course, brings up an interesting question. When one asks, “Do you catch more flies with vinegar or honey?” I tend to ask why the false dichotomy? Why would a person want to catch flies other than to destroy them as pests? How does that make a good analogy for any sort of human relational dilemma, unless one is a dictator of a small banana republic? In fact, it’s a great deal more likely that you’ll catch more bees than flies with honey, and bees are well known to defend the honey they have just found with a force that’s rather lethal to them and sometime also quite lethal to those they sting. The analogy, I think, is flawed in exactly the same manner as “too many cooks spoil the broth” is when contrasted with “many hands make short work.” It’s witty and partially true, but at the end of the day life is about more than attracting a set of handsome flies to mount on pins and show off to the underwhelmed general public. I’m just saying the inherent contradiction renders the supposed lesson of the proverb untenable.

We sang on the beach, too. Interestingly enough, we sang several slow songs really fast. Like “How Deep the Father’s Love”, which is most certainly a slow song. In fact, Kevin will agree with me here: it’s a very slow song and deserves the dignity of being played a tempo that graces its subject matter. Days of Elijah, on the other hand, deserves the opposite. I’m not trying to be overly critical, but here’s how it breaks down: if you’re leading on guitar and you slavishly follow one rhythm, it’s likely that rhythm won’t fit all or even most of the songs the populace would like to pick, and you’ll end up singing song way too fast or way too slow, or your strumming will be wildly out of sync with the song itself as you labour to keep up. You see, I may not be a guitar-playing genius, but I do know at least that much, and I would beg the world to at least make a mental note, should the world decide to pick up said stringed instrument.

We, and by we I mean my posse in general, ate at Kelsey’s afterwards, which is always a rewarding experience. And due to my exposure to massive amounts of sun, having not eaten anything yet that day, and several other extenuating factors I won’t bore you with, the double Scotch I ordered went straight to my head and caused me to act like a monkey. Although I can’t say that giggling uncontrollably about Kevin and his delicate treatment of our earstwhile waitress was unenjoyable. It was, in fact, great fun.

Speaking of waitresses, I generally enjoy my culinary service experience in Canadian venues, but this Kelsey’s was different. I’ll cut the waitress a modicum of slack due to the fact that we were all sunburned and happy while she had probably been treated like the Disaster Zone Food Ferry all day long, but please. At least fake a smile that looks like a smile not being faked instead of a fake smile that looks like someone just lit your hair on fire and called your mother a vulgar name! I mean, humour me. If only for your tip’s sake and for your own fragile sanity. The waitress we had was obviously not happy to see us. I understand, youths don’t generally tip very well, but let me explain something to you waitresses. If a certain subset of the population tips in a steriotypical manner and you give them service that fits with your presupposition, how are they likely to tip? Exactly. And if you didn’t follow that, I mean “not very well”. That is to say, you are perpetuation the steriotype by giving them bad service. The only way to break out of that rut is for you to do the honest, noble thing, which I like to call “your job”. Do it well, and I will tip you well. Don’t bother giving proper service, and I will tip you like a shoeshiner that spits on my leather and leaves it there. The end!

Afterwards, I drove Nick’s car to his house and took a certain female back to hers. And Shana, I have your stuff in the back of my car. If you have any need of it, I apologize profusely for having not dropped it off at the local coffee shop.

And also, I lied. This post was most certainly not about a day at the beach. I wrapped some other stuff in a day at the beach. I sideswiped your head. I’d apologize for that, but I’ve run out. Tomorrow, maybe?