Two young boys with two small toys.
Both hold a dollar bill.
first, says a boy, hold my hand!
his tricky plan is to grab a bill from his pal!
But that chap is not so dumb.
So that chap says, you can't nab it!
I want it too, and I'm big!
too big and too tall for you to hurt.
So, says boy two, you must show it!
with that, a punch!
straight to his arm.
ow! you can't hit!
it isn't good!
it isn't kind.
It isn't right!
And so young Gorby took it all!
No fighting is bad for Gorby's pal!
For now that bill is lost.

Lately it's become a popular fad here to swap your general profile picture for an attractive female profile pic. A number of prominent xangans are (or have been) conducting experiments on the differences in traffic that come with an attractive picture, and unsurprisingly, content turns out to be fairly unimportant in the popularity of those blogs. So, I decided to mess around with something myself. Not a profile picture swap, that'd be derivative. Something bigger. An entire blog swap!

Swap!

So, yesterday Shimmerbodycream and I wrote blog entries for each other. Mine, A Boy and His Dog, was published on her blog, and hers, I'm Only Gay When I'm Drunk, appeared on mine. I don't know what her motivations were for participating (and she'll probably elucidate on her own blog) but I wanted to see whether reader reactions were more based on expectations, or content. Obviously, a few of my readers were pretty confused by my entry (I just don't know who you are anymore! or I'm so confused.) Otherwise, though, the responses were pretty subdued. Shimmerbodycream's readers, on the other hand, were much more enthused about her entry. Apparently, she's "funny as fuck!"

So in the end I'm left somewhat unsure. I'm pretty certain I would not have received the same responses had I put A Boy and His Dog on my blog, but that could simply be because we have different readers. The question of whether xangans respond to posts based on the writer's reputation or based on the content itself is still somewhat unsatisfactorily answered.

Nevertheless, I thought the experiment was an interesting one, if for no other reason than switching things up every once in a while helps reinvigorate the system. Try it yourself.

Do you think you respond to a blog entry based on the content, or based on what you (think you) know about the writer?

So I was at the casino.

I had like 5 drinks of vodka and coke because it was cheap but it tasted like shit.I wanted beer but beer was fucking 4 dollars. What the fuck. Anyway I had these guys hittin on me. This one dude was like "holla"

So for some reason when I drink I become a fucking lesbo because apparently I was hitting on this one hot black chick in a pink get up. Later they said it was a hooker. Whatever. They were jealous.

So after some white dudes and black guys hitting on me I was mostly checkin out the fuckin fine ass chicks. and then I ended up barfing and it sucked ass.

Oh well, fun night.

note: not the actual helicopter. You can tell because there's no tricolour. 

I can't believe I didn't know about the hover comments behind xkcd comics until now. How many jokes have I been missing?!

Here's one for the road that's actually not xkcd at all. Why? Just to confuse things, that's why!

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

My keys are all in the wrong place. It's hard for me to type. I rearranged them all to the dvorak format, but then never bothered to shift them back when I stopped trying to learn to type in dvorak (it was shaping up to be a lot of effort). So now I have to type entirely from memory of where the letters are. Which is fine when my hands are in the right typing position, but causes some problems when I absentmindedly try to type a few letters.

 

So, basically, I shifted the keys and the interface software to dvorak. But then, I got lazy, and shifted the interface software back to QWERTY, but left the keys on the keyboard in dvorak. So things don't quite align.

On the other hand, this has only served to reinforce my stellar typing capabilities in QWERTY. I should get totally blank keys. They'd be just as helpful, but they'd look 10x as bad-ass.

And so it was that with a bang of the native drum, and the flash of three quarters of a forty million dollar torch, the 21st winter Olympics officially began. Canada's biggest show to date, and the second most expensive Olympic opener ever (behind only the 2008 opening ceremony in Beijing, although at 40 million CAD it was a good deal cheaper than the 100 million USD put out by the Chinese), won a global audience of more than a billion people (and one third of all Canadians). Unfortunately, by the end of the three and a half hours most of that audience was fast asleep. Those not entranced by the dancing intricacies of a thousand performers (whose stamina is admirable, but whose excitement level would have difficulty rousing a Geiger count no matter how many irradiated green feathers they wore) were surely knocked soundly out by the rambling oral contributions of the glorious leaders of the event, John Furlong of the Vancouver Organizing Committee, and Jaques Rogge of the IOC, the former of whom spoke his French lines about as intelligibly as my (admittedly non-existent) cat, and the latter of whom managed to speak that flowery language rather well, without making eye contact with the camera once. Or, at least not long enough to maintain the spell the rest of the ceremonies managed to cast over the audience (at least, I'm assuming they were under some kind of spell, given their nearly complete lack of reaction to anything but the entrance of the Canadian team to the Stadium).

Starting off,  Nikki Yanofsky's rendition of the Canadian national anthem, by the pretty though rather mediocre jazz singer (perhaps the qualifications that won her the job) was questionable in taste (as a person watching with me said, "What is this?! You don't mess with an anthem!") and set the stage for a modern, edgy performance, promptly followed by every Canadian cliché in existence. The flag was raised by a group of Mounties in their instantly recognisable Red Serge and Stetsons (one of whom, I couldn't help but notice, was rather portly). We were welcomed to the city by the four aboriginal groups whose ancestral land the games are apparently being held on (I say apparently only because it seems to me that an effort to be inclusive and politically correct helps gloss over any territorial shifts that might have taken place even prior to European control of the region).

The dancing of these various native groups, accompanied by the erection of four unquestionably phallic statues, apparently representing just how glad they were to see us, continued throughout the ceremonies (hey, I did say I respected the endurance of the dancers).Thence, athletes streamed in to the 60,000 person stadium in nearly alphabetical order (naturally, tradition demands Greece begins the procession and the host nation ends it).

See? Did I lie about that?

None of which isn't to say the show wasn't a bit interesting, though. Certainly, there were a number of high points, both in the ceremonies and in the people. The introduction of the 82 athletic groupings (some of which included but one paltry athlete, though I'm assuming that's because traditionally temperate equatorial countries have yet to discover the marvel of artificial snow and air conditioning) was cleverly rearranged so as to allow for the athletes to make their entrance prior to the show, rather than after it as traditionally happens. Apparently, this is the first time somebody thought they might like to see more than the parking lot of an Olympic venue before performing. Of course, a number of nations paid tribute to the Georgian luger Nodar Kumaritashvili, killed in a tragic accident only hours before (and the remaining seven members of the Georgian team marched with understandably stony faces). What I found especially interesting about the national introduction of the teams, though, were those of China and Japan (or... South Korea. I can't remember now. Send me a letter if you know), both of whom carried both their national flag, and the flag of Canada. Other nations marched proudly under their own patriotic emblem, but it seemed to me a particularly gracious and sporting gesture for the Chinese and Japanese (or... South Korean) athletes to carry both flags as they marched. That's sportsmanship.

And, of course, the entrance of the Canadian team elicited a somewhat subdued cheer, the noise of which, those not particularly deafening, was only even vaguely approached in volume by the cheers for the American team (which the NBC announcer claimed, rather amusingly, was because of the length of the US-Canada border). Canada, as the stereotype goes, are unfailingly polite, but have decided that their previous record of gold medals won on Canadian home soil (currently: 0) must be beaten. Thus, as I sat to watch the cultural narrative about to unfold, I was sure all ethnic profiling boundaries would be broken. Here would be no tired metaphors, no over-used stereotypical Canadian characters, paraded about like some kind of old Dudley Do-Right film. This would represent the new-found dedication and ambition of the proud and vast nation that was our host. However, and luckily for those Dudley Do-Right producers, I was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

The athlete's introductory song "Bang Your Drum" by Nelly Furtado and Bryan Adams was poor, in my opinion. Yes, I get it. You want me to bang my drum. Stop asking me, already. I can't do that in public. The only small mercy was the film crew responsible for the American video coverage who spent half the performance featuring the faces of random and now seated American athletes (as opposed to the Canadian coverage, which decided to actually look at the singers). Thus, even if I had to hear Adam's voice the entire time, I was spared the continuous sight of Furtado's shoes, which somehow managed to appear as even more an eyesore than the peacock spread of neon yellow costumes covering various native dancers.

Banging their Drums

Then, there was some kind of giant bear puppet, which I think we're supposed to assume is a 50 foot plug for Coca Cola (hey, these games don't pay for themselves, after all) and a bunch of fiddling by some punk east coasters (including Ashley MacIsaac, whose fan-base, I've heard, has only continued to grow since "unintentionally" showing his audience what a true Canadian wears beneath his kilt) who also engaged in a wee bit of kilted tap dancing. Or they were trying to shake off flees or something. I don't know.

Some way down the road (and I may be skipping some parts where I blacked out from lack of sufficient visual stimulation) there then appeared a Peter Pan-esque performance of some baby-faced guy flying around the stage on strings. Not sure what this was supposed to represent, exactly, but I've become certain that if I ever get a billion dollars, I'm going to install a bunch of wiring in my house so that I no longer have to walk from the sofa to the bathroom during commercial breaks, but can instead fly like a fairy. This promising display of aerial technologies (Canada is ever on the bleeding edge of performance arts, after all) was followed up by millions of suspended skiers and snowboarders (or... dozens, anyway), who twisted and turned their way down (and up) a large, projected mountain. These performers were either representing the promise of Canadian athletes to soar to victory, or, painted blood-red down to their ski-boots, were some kind of macabre reminder of the dangers facing athletes who make mistakes whilst performing (hence all their tumbling upside-down).

Either way, there were some more singing performances (by K.D. Lang and Measha Brueggergosman, both of which were very good), a few poetry verses by people I'd never heard of, and a semi-patriotic rant by a strangely bearded fellow the Canadian planners apparently found on YouTube.

What I want to skip ahead to now was the monumentally face-palm inspiring lighting of the Olympic torch. The well-guarded secret of the last torch-bearer (turning out to be a Canadian athletes Steve Nash, Wayne Gretzky, Catriona LeMay Doan, Rick Hansen, and Nancy Greene) worked out well. The various athletes marched ceremonially toward the centre of the stage, and stood there in their well-rehearsed positions. And waited. And waited some more. Steve Nash's grin remained steady, though his eyes shifted uncomfortably back and forth. Had something gone awry? Indeed it had.

Apparently, utterly focused on sprinkling millions of artificial snow-flakes throughout the stadium (the need for which is obvious in the first ever indoor ceremony for the winter Olympics), the Canadians had forgotten how to get the torch up from below the performance surface. Designed to rise in a similar manner to the native statues above (described as "penis-y" by a Canadian journalist) in four columns that would then meet in the centre, the hydraulic system apparently failed to operate effectively, and only three of the four pillars (eventually) appeared, much to the relief of the planners. You could practically hear all 25 million Canadian viewers shrug their shoulders and say, "hey, three out of four ain't bad, eh?"

"Three out of four ain't bad, eh?"

And that was it (aside from the ten minute car-ride that Gretzky took to get from the stadium to the out-door cauldron in the pouring rain, which is barely worth mentioning, really).  Not a bad show, overall, but nevertheless, lacking a certain ... something. The three and a half hours managed to pass by without ever feeling really inspired by all the pretty words and flashy lights. In the end, my impression of Canadian culture wasn't really altered. There are natives, mounties, and the occasional flying skiers and floating fiddlers. All pretty tame stuff, really. No boundaries were pushed. No giant floating footsteps in the air, I suppose is what I'm trying to say. And maybe in that it managed to actually be the perfect representation of what it means to be Canada. Not bad, per se, but so unremarkable in it's own quiet way that, for all the taxpayer dollars involved, it was actually pretty forgettable.

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And, oh, how blessed is it thus to meet! To feel that vanished years have not estranged us,distance has not diminished love, that we are to each other even as we parted; to feel again the fond kiss, to hear once more the accents of a voice which to us has been for years so still,--a voice that brings with it the gush of memory! Past days flit before us; feelings, thoughts, hopes, we deemed were dead, all rise again, summoned by that secret witchery, the well-remembered though long silent voice. Let years, long, lingering, saddening years drag on their chain, let youth have given place to manhood, manhood to age, still will it be the same--the voice we once have loved, and deemed to us for ever still--oh, time, and grief, and blighted hope will be forgotten, and youth, in its undimmed and joyous beauty, its glow of generous feelings, its bright anticipations, all, all again be ours.

Love, by its very nature, is unworldly, and it is for this reason rather than its rarity that it is not only apolitical but anti-political, perhaps the most powerful of all anti-political human forces.

 

             I dreamed a thousand new paths. I woke and walked my old one.

  -Chinese Proverb

            If you want your dreams to come true, don't over sleep.

  -Yiddish Proverb

            If you have only two pennies left in the world, with the first penny, you should buy rice to feed your family. With the second penny, say the wise Japanese, you should buy a lily. The Japanese understand the importance of dreaming...

-Japanese Proverb, from Lilies Words and Music: Annie Walker, October, 1999

            When one of your dreams come true, you begin to look at the others more carefully.

  -Anon.

            He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it.

  -Douglas Adams

            Our dreams drench us in senses, and senses steps us again in dreams.

  -Amos Bronson Alcott

            He dreamed he was eating shredded wheat and woke up to find the mattress half gone.

  -Fred A. Allen

            The vision that you glorify in your mind, the ideal that you enthrone in your heart - this you will build your life by, and this you will become.

  -James Allen,

            Dream lofty dreams, and as you dream, so you shall become. Your vision is the promise of what you shall one day be; your ideal is the prophecy of what you shall at last unveil.

  -James Allen

            The greatest achievements were at first and for a time dreams. The oak sleeps in the acorn.

  -James Allen

            What if nothing exists and we're all in somebody's dream? Or what's worse, what if only that fat guy in the third row exists?

  -Woody Allen

            I have heard it said that the first ingredient of success -- the earliest spark in the dreaming youth -- if this; dream a great dream.

  -John A. Appleman

            O reason, reason, abstract phantom of the waking state, I had already expelled you from my dreams, now I have reached a point where those dreams are about to become fused with apparent realities: now there is only room here for myself.

-Louis Aragon, Paris Peasant, Preface to a Modern Mythology, 1926

            Because thou must not dream, thou need not despair.

  -Matthew Arnold

            When asked what he would do if he only had six months to live: Type faster.

  -Isaac Asimov

            A daydream is a meal at which images are eaten. Some of us are gourmets, some gourmands, and a good many take their images precooked out of a can and swallow them down whole, absent-mindedly and with little relish.

  -W. H. Auden

            Reverie is not a mind vacuum. It is rather the gift of an hour which knows the plenitude of the soul.

  -Gaston Bachelard

            Dreams have only the pigmentation of fact.

  -Djuna Barnes

            Let sleep itself be an exercise in piety, for such as our life and conduct have been, so also of necessity will be our dreams.

  -St. Basil

            For in the end it is Middle-Earth and its dwellers that we love, not Tolkien's considerable gifts in showing it to us. I said once that the world he charts was there long before him, and I still believe it. He is a great enough magician to tap our most common nightmares, daydreams and twilight fancies, but he never invented them either: he found them a place to live, a green alternative to each day's madness here in a poisoned world. We are raised to honor all the wrong explorers and discoverers - thieves planting flags, murderers carrying crosses. Let us at last praise the colonizers of dreams.

  -Peter S. Beagle, from the Foreword to The Fellowship of the Ring

            If there were dreams to sell, what would you buy?

  -Thomas Lovell Beddoes

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