WARNING: MAY CONTAIN MOVIE SPOILERS. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Things I noticed about Troy:

• Achilles really likes to point his sword sideways at people and look down the blade. Someone should have mentioned to him that you don't need to aim a sword like a gun.
  
  
• In one scene, the Trojans appear to roll gigantic balls of yarn down onto the Greek encampment. They should have followed that by unleashing the gigantic kittens. "Cry Havoc! and let slip the kittens of war!"
  
  
• They keep starting massively violent battles, only to stop them suddenly, saying something like, "Well there's been enough killing for one day."
  
  
• Is it really necessary for the men to have shorter skirts than the women?
  
  
• Maybe if they wore thigh armour instead of shin armour they'd have fewer leg wounds.
  
  
• Achilles, of course, gets an arrow in his heel. A nearby audience member whispered to another, "His Achilles tendon!" No, that's not why it's ironic, you doofus.
  
  
• Achilles manages to woo the lovely Perseus into his bed, despite her being the cousin of Hector. Fortunately, Achilles has a Trojan on him.

In the words of the immortal Homer: "Doh!"

Well it's here. After many days eyeing my mailbox eagerly, the first four copies of Raised by Penguins arrived today. I carefully brought in the box and opened it up to find the four shiny books inside. They were indeed rectangular, as Café Press had promised. And also as Café Press had promised, they each contained 352 pages. I chortled merrily as I flipped through said pages...

... until I noticed a strange feeling of déja vu. Hadn't I seen that page before? Why yes, that was page 60. What was it doing in the middle of the book? As I kept flipping, I encountered the same 80 pages four times over.

I checked the next book. Surely the first was just a fluke and the others would be fine. But alas, this one contained pages 81 to 168, repeated four times. The other two copies were similar, but contained a different page range in quadruplicate.

How could they do this? Did their printers not even look at what they were binding? Did it not seem odd that the first page of each copy of the same book was different and each one started on a different page number? *shakes fist in the direction of Hayward, California*

Well after a little chat with the friendly Café Press representative, they've agreed to resend four copies. If I promised to give you a copy, I'm sorry but it will be delayed another week or so, unless you want to read it in 80-page installments.

Federal election? Did someone call a federal election? It doesn't feel like an election. After all -- and I don't think I'm alone when I say this -- I have no idea who the local candidates are. I don't know their names or what they stand for, beyond grasping for more power.

Sure, I've seen the party leaders in the news. Who is there? Let's see... For the so-called "Liberals", there's Paul Martin. He's the prime minister who was appointed after the last guy retired. For the NDP, there's um... is his name Jack? Yeah I never heard of him either. Heading the newly transmogrified Conservatives, it's... well it was Joe Clark wasn't it? Now it's some other guy? I don't know. Stephen? Good ol' right-wing, Steve. Yeah, we needed another right-wing, pro-Bush, pro-business candidate to choose from.

Paul, Jack, and Steve. Is this the election of the generic male names?

As for the local candidates in my riding of Vancouver East, it's a greater mystery. There are no signs out on the lawns (that I've seen), and no news coverage. It's normally an NDP riding in a sea of Liberal ridings, which gives you an idea of the importance of the area in a federal election. We're the disposable and neglected riding.

I've only lived in East Vancouver since 1996, on and off, but still I don't know who our local MP is or who the candidates are. I guess they're not big on campaigns.

In the end, it's not important. The Liberals will probably win again, or if they don't, another party will transform themselves into carbon-copies of them and continue the rampage through the public coffers.

That's not cynical, is it?

Right, well the first thing you'll notice is that my website looks just a little bit different. That is, everything is missing. If there's a good reason for it, I don't know what it is. Lately, I feel like Bob and/or Doug in search of a topic (eh). Normally you just can't shut me up, but now I really don't have much on my mind, I suppose.

So I thought I'd stop blogging. Then I changed my mind. Then I stopped again. Then I tried a minimalist approach and removed everything. Now I don't know what I'm doing with this thing.

Until I decide what to do next with this blog, please enjoy the lack of features on this page. I'd suggest visiting the archives or links, but I seem to have misplaced those.

Edit: the entire blog is now published with a prefab Blogger template. The links to other blogs are still missing. I'll re-add those later.

Edit: More wishy-washiness. I've restored the old template. Now... someone tell me what to write about.

At last, it's here. The long unawaited-for book that critics have hailed as "rectangular" and even "a book". Yes, now you too can have your own copy of Raised by Penguins, the compilation of selected entries from this website.

Why would anyone pay good money for words they can get for free, you might ask? I have an answer for that, which was supplied by my friend, Christine: It's for the toilet.

That is, unless you have a notebook computer with wireless networking, you can't take this website with you when you... uh... do your business. The book, on the other hand, is entirely portable and doesn't require any special hardware for you to read it -- except maybe glasses. Also, each entry takes only a minute or two to read -- timed perfectly to whatever you happen to be doing. So that's one good reason why you want Raised by Penguins. Christine has a very sensible head on her shoulders... and probably has an entire library in her bathroom.

I should add that it's also good with coffee breaks, bus stops, sushi stands, park benches, elevator rides, and salad bars. I don't recommend it for use with fast food because you'll get greasy fingerprints on the pages.

The real reason for printing this book is this: I don't trust the web. Formats change, browsers change, and we can never be certain that the format we write in now will be readable in a few years. I've posted many thousands of words to this blog, and I'd like to keep some of them.

Paper, on the other hand, is never obsolete. So I've decided to go the route of so-called "vanity publishing", which means that I bodged together the entries into a PDF, slapped a cover on it, called it a book, and sent it to Café Press, who can print copies on demand. I don't expect to sell (m)any, but should you decide to order a copy of Raised by Penguins, then thank you, and I hope that you enjoy it and whatever activity you're doing when you read it.

View some sample pages from Raised by Penguins: Raised_by_Penguins_sample_pages.pdf (PDF, 3.35MB)

For me -- and I imagine for a great many cubicle dwellers -- my coffee mug is the single most important personal item in my cubicle. It comes with me to meetings. It sits beside my monitor and watches over my work. I provides me with a bit of comfort in an otherwise sterile veal-fattening pen. This is why I proceed carefully when I need a new one.

My last one suffered terribly in the dishwasher -- the hot water flaked off most of the outer glaze, leaving it sad and disfigured. I respectfully retired it and set about letting another one choose me.

The coffee mug -- the right coffee mug -- will be the one that unexpectedly appears in my life and feels right. I feel the same way about pets and plants too. They have to just fall into my world and thereby choose themselves.

While in Steveston recently, I visited a little café, where I found myself standing in line for a bit. There, beside me on the shelf, was an array of plastic and aluminum beauties. They were two-layer, thermal mugs with the café's logo on the side. It was fate. I grabbed a box, and without checking the colour inside, I bought it.

When it turned out to be red, I sat and frowned over the result. Sure my mug had to pick me, but why did a red one have to pick me? I'm not enchanted with red things in general -- I drive a red car but it too chose me and not the other way around. Should I accept fate and keep the red one or should I exchange it for the silver one?

In the end, I exchanged it. I wonder if it makes a difference, and does it care that I rejected its sibling in favour if the colourless one. It's not the one that chose me. The mug that was destined for me is now in someone else's hands. And this one -- maybe this one was destined for someone else. I've meddled in things that are greater than me. I yanked this mug from the hands of fate and will inevitably pay the price.

If something starts to go terribly wrong with my current projects, I'll know what to blame for it.

Disaster strikes! CBC reports that there's a problem with beer distribution in BC! I'll begin stockpiling right away -- buying up all the beer I can find!

Oh. Hold on. It only affects Molson's and Labbatt's. No problem then. I never drink that pissy stuff anyway.

Link: CBC.ca: BC could face beer drought

About a year ago, I posted this entry on a temporary blog for my first blogiversary contest. Since that blog is no longer online, I might as well post it here. It's a scene called "A Matter of the Utmost Urgency". I should warn you -- it's painfully bad.

[Exterior, space. S.S. Interesting travels at hyper speed. Intro music.]

TURK [voice over]: Captain's log, stardate two three four five... uhhh... six. Whatever. I just make those up anyway. We're on course to rendezvous with Starbase 69 — a personal favorite of mine for R-and-R. And maybe a little S-and-M. Yes, that old starbase is home to the best sardines-and-mayonnaise this side of Rigel Four.

Or is it Rigel Five? Why do they number those damn planets anyway? In a hundred years of colonization, couldn't they think of a name for their planet?

Anyway, I've called a meeting of the bridge officers to discuss a matter of the utmost ugency.

[Interior, meeting room. SPORK, BONER, and O'HARA sit around the table in silence. TURK enters and sits.]

TURK: Gentlemen.

O'HARA: And lady.

TURK: And... lady, of course.

O'HARA: I think you'd better start the meeting now, Captain.

TURK: Of course. I called this meeting to discuss a matter of the utmost ugency.

BONER: What is it, Tim? Hostile aliens?

TURK: No, Boner, it's—

SPORK: Has Space Command given us a dangerous mission?

TURK: Uh... no. No, it's not that—

O'HARA: Is it a tear in the space-time continuum, leading back to a time in our past, which will inevitably invoke a quantuum paradox?

[silence]

BONER: That was last week's episode, O'Hara.

O'HARA: Oh. I took last week off, remember?

BONER: That's right. How was the crab nebula? Is it as good as they say?

O'HARA: Well it's mostly imitation crab now.

BONER: That's a shame.

O'HARA: I hear the quality hit rock-bottom when they made a deal with the Hake system. Then the market floundered.

SPORK: Would anyone like some coffee?

[General assent. SPORK pours cups of coffee all around.]

TURK: I'm afraid that we have a very serious problem on our hands. We are running out of coffee.

[a collective gasp is heard]

We really have to get that air vent fixed.

Now, I understand your feelings, and I realize that we're still weeks away from Starbase 69. But there's no denying it: we have only enough coffee to last five more hours. In fact, these cups may be the among the last you'll have. We need to explore some alternatives. Suggestions?

SPORK: We could synthesize a mild stimulant by fermenting Mr Fugu's underpants. We could survive on Fugupants-extract for several days, and go without coffee altogether.

TURK: Altogether?

ALL OFFICERS: [together] We could survive on Fugupants-extract for several—

TURK: [cutting them off] Gentlemen! GENTLEMEN!

O'HARA: Ahem.

TURK: Gentle...uh...persons. Heh.

O'HARA: [under her breath] Oh, for crying out loud.

BONER: Tim, I respect Mr Spork's expertise in this area, but... well, quite frankly, I'd rather throw myself into a pit full of bamboo spikes and Celine Dion cross-dressers than consume Mr Fugu's underpants. Dammit, Tim, there's got to be another way.

SPORK: Fugupants-extract is quite safe, doctor. As a matter of fact, I add some to the coffee every morning.

[everyone does a spit-take]

BONER: Damn you, you purple-blooded Uvulan bastard.

SPORK: [breaking into tears] I hate you! I hate you all!

[SPORK runs from the room, sobbing.]

TURK: Easy on the racial slurs, Boner.

BONER: Sorry.

O'HARA: I may have an alternative, sir.

TURK: That's officer thinking, O'Hara.

O'HARA: I haven't told you what it is yet.

TURK: Yes, O'Hara: officer thinking.

O'HARA: I recently intercepted a transmission from Fowlia, captain.

TURK: The planet of hyper-intelligent space-monkeys?

O'HARA: Penguins. Hyper-intelligent space-penguins.

TURK: Really? What happened to the monkeys?

O'HARA: There are no space-monkeys, captain. There never were.

TURK: That's a shame. I like monkeys.

BONER: So what was in the transmission, O'Hara?

O'HARA: The space-penguins are in our sector, and on an intercept course with Starbase 69. They're after the sardines-and-mayonnaise.

BONER: You knew they were going to attack the starbase? Why didn't you mention this earlier?

O'HARA: I was waiting for a gap in the banter.

BONER: Fair enough.

TURK: So. The penguins are after some S-and-M. What does this have to do with our coffee shortage?

O'HARA: Um. Not a lot. I thought maybe we could intercept the space-penguin ship and—

TURK: [interrupting] And confiscate their supply of coffee! O'Hara, you're a genius.

Gentle... officers, we're about to take a step into the unknown. We're about to boldly go where no m—... person... has gone before. The mission could be dangerous. We could die a horrible death. The space-penguins may blast our hull asunder like a ballpein hammer on an apple strudel. We may be exposed to the brutal vacuum of space. Our eyes may explode in their sockets. Our blood may boil away through our skin. Our skin may freeze in the icy embrace of interplanetary space. We'll be boiling and freezing and exploding, ALL AT THE SAME TIME! But will we be afraid? Will we retreat from danger? Will we cower behind a rock like little boy when a big, scary clown is at his birthday party?

BONER: "Yes"?

TURK: No!

[presses intercom button]

Mister Fugu! Lay in an intercept course with the space-penguin craft. Ahead twisted-factor seventeen.

FUGU: [over intercom] We only go up to twisted-factor five, captain.

TURK: Well get Spotty to have a look at the engines. Oh, and Fugu... we won't be needing your underpants anymore.

FUGU: [over intercom] Thank you captain.

[end of scene]