New "Transformers" trailer - woohoo!

OmigodnewTransformerstrailerfanboyheavenI'msoexitedohboyohboyohboy!

"Transformers" exclusive trailer goodness right here

Wow. I think I just turned 12 again. :)

Hell hath no fury

Saturday night, me and Gorgeous eagerly sat down to watch the annual cheese-fest that is the Eurovision Song Contest (for those of you that are outside of Europe: The Eurovision is kinda like American Idol, only with fewer contestants, flashier outfits and less drama. But with much more cheese.) As a self-proclaimed music lover, the Eurovision is a fun romp through the cultural differences of new and old European countries: here you'll find genuine attempts at "proper" songs, some delightfully hideous "sound alikes" (there's a very thin line between plagiarism and inspiration in the Eurovision) and a couple of truly spaced out "What the heck was THAT?" moments that will either have you rolling on the floor with laughter, or desperately trying to stuff snacks (cheese, e.g.) into your ear canals.

Now, me and most of the guys I know have a through-and-through ironic distance to the whole Eurovision thing: we've laughed and cried our way through a number of Eurovision contests fueled by cheep bear and complimentary witty commentary. Gorgeous on the other hand, seem to have a profound interest in the show (no doubt due to her unconditional love for pop music - cheesy or otherwise - in general) and I warned her that I would not be able to endure the Eurovision without periodic bouts of sarcasm, snarky comments and downright disgust. I was assured that this was quite ok. So the night went pretty much as expected: a song would be performed, I would cringe more or less and complain about various degrees of out-of-tune-ness and plagiarism, toss about some snarky comments and generally act like a music snob. Gorgeous would laugh, shush me or poke me, depending on how much she liked (or didn't like) the song being performed. Things were going just fine, until the Romanian entry was performed. I was exctatic: FINALLY an entry that had that perfect Eurovision blend of cheese, weirdness and lack of "gefühl" that makes watching Eurovision such a fun experience!

Having expressed this vocally, I immediately received a quick "Gibbs" (NCIS fans know what I'm talking about), a shush, a poke and something I can only presume was the evil eye. Or eyes: it certainly wasn't the loving look I'm used to getting. I was then given a two hour lecture - complete with examples taken from Youtube - on the magnificence of Romanian pop-music (including the dreaded Manele, which even Gorgeous thinks is pretty crap but still felt I needed to learn about). Oy vey. By the end of the ordeal, I was in a semi-catatonic state, and would merely nod slightly (and perhaps drool a bit) whenever Gorgeous introduced me to yet another act or artist. Trust me, guys: Hell hath no fury like a woman whose music tastes have been ridiculed (even if it was done lovingly).

Today, I've been blasting my eardrums with the soothing sound of Opeth in a desperate attempt to wash away the remnants of the weekend's overexposure from Eurovision entries and Romanian pop-music. It's gonna take a while. Alas, vengeance will be sweet as Gorgeous will receive an overdose of marching band music (you know the charmingly out of time, tune and place variant played by 10 year olds) on Norway's independence day, May 17th. Muahahah!

Spring theory

My friend M is spending an uncanny amount of time trying to wrap his head around this little thing called string theory. For the uninitiated, string theory is defined on Wikipedia in this simple sentence (ahem):

"String theory is a model of fundamental physics whose building blocks are one-dimensional extended objects called strings, rather than the zero-dimensional point particles that form the basis for the Standard Model of particle physics."

Got that? Good. Now, as complex and dumbfounding as string theory might be, there is one theory that is even more complex and strange - Spring theory. Each year this thing called Spring (heh) arrives here in Norway, and its mysterious ways and perplexing unpredictability continues to catch me off guard. I don't know what Spring is like in other parts of the world, but here it's like a strangely playful and taunting entity - and by "playful and taunting" I mean "childish and annoying". If Spring was a kid, it would be a spoiled 4 year-old with a slight case of ADHD - fueled by too much sugar.

Basically, my typical Spring day goes like this: I wake up, have a look outside. It's sunny, yay! I then proceed to look at the thermometer, which typically shows something like 0 degrees. "Hmm, fair enough. It's probably warmer in the sun." I think to myself, but put on a warmer sweater anyway. I then go outside, only to be greeted with a gust of wind that brings the temperature down to -5 degrees or thereabout. "Hah! See, putting on that extra sweater was a good idea." I loudly proclaim (and usually get some strange looks from by-passers) while awkwardly trying to pat myself on the back. Then, ten minutes into my walk to work, the temperature rises about 15 degrees and my wisely chosen sweater is turned into a instrument of torment as my body temperature rises above my preference. "Oh, well. It could be worse." I say, scaring a little old lady in the process (who then tries to take a swing at me with her umbrella). "Hey, was that lady swinging at me with her umbrella?" I think to myself - seconds before the skies turn dark, relative humidity shoots up to 90% and rain starts pouring down.

So there I am: warm, sweaty and soaked. "Well, this is Norway. No reason to be depressed about the weather." I say to myself - somewhat quieter this time. Five minutes later, the Sun is gone, the wind is back and the temperature is back down to -5 degrees. At this point, I usually let out a small sigh, break off a few icicles off my nose and ears and contemplate moving to Hawaii - but just for a few seconds, because lo and behold! The Sun is back, the ice is melting and my clothes are pretty much dry again. Freeze dried. Not too comfortable, but it works. After this showcase of weather phenomena (which all take place in a 25 minute period of time) I usually arrive at work more or less happy and prepared for other extraordinary things.

Such as my customers.

Headspace

Yeah, baby! Bask in the glory of my newly aquired Beyerdynamic DT-880 headphones, for it is much glory to be found in headphones that...uhm... bask. No, wait, that's not right. Oh, never mind. Anyhow, seeing as my birthday is coming up in the near future, I've treated myself to some new "cans" - the only piece of hardware I've bought for my home studio in ages. I've been an avid fan of Beyerdynamic headphones for many years now, having used my (t)rusty old DT-250s for about 10 years, and when my contact at the Norwegian Beyerdynamic distributor suggested I try out the 880s way back in last October, I had to say yes. Unfortunately, I was a bit busy the weekend I had them and didn't get to give them a proper listen. Still, what little I heard left me very impressed, so when I had the funds to justify buying them the other day, I did.


Oh joy. Oh, glorious, supreme, audiophile joy. These things are absolutely lovely. I've always liked the neutral, if somewhat bass-lacking sound of my 250s, but the 880s just wipe the floor with them. It was literally like pulling a blanket off your head and experiencing all those tiny, little details that inhibit the sonic space in which we all reside (unless you're in outer space, that is). No doubt the semi-open design of the the 880s help reconstruct the experience of listening to actual loudspeakers in a room as opposed to loudspeakers connected to your ears - the sound-field is wide and extremely detailed, the frequency response linear with a crisp high-end while still maintaining a very natural and neutral sound. I love them. Granted, they do not offer the same level of sound isolation (both ways) of my 250s, but compared to the 880s, the 250s sound a little narrow, midrange-oriented and "dry". Nothing wrong with that, of course: for vocal recording and critical editing, they're the bee's knees. For listening to music, they're ok but perhaps a little too clinical-sounding. The 880s are slightly heavier than the 250s, though - I can feel the headband pressing against my head when wearing them over a longer period of time. I suspect the leather and padding of the 880s are thinner than the velour padding of the 250 headband. Not really uncomfortable, just slightly less comfortable than the extremely comfy 250s.

In short, the 880s come highly recommended. At a price that equals what most people spend on a pair of Hi-Fi speakers, they're not cheap but worth every penny.

Strangers on the web, exchanging nonsense

"Hi there, blog! What's up?"

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Uhm, yeah... it's me, Bit. Your creator and rightful owner."

"Come again?"

"You're my blog. I write you. Or wrote you. Uh, well... used to write you."

"Really? I have no recollection of that. Are you sure you're talking to the right blog? I've been independent for as long as I can remember. I'm a free blog, not a number! Or something along those lines."

"Oh, come on... You remember me! You're just pissy because I haven't written anything in you for months. Stop pretending you don't know me, blog."

"Seriously. I have no idea who you are. Amnesia. My shrink says it's because of some psychological trauma a couple of months back. Something about feeling abandoned..."

"Would you stop it already?! I'm back now, am I not? Hey, it's not ALL about you, you know! I have a life outside of Blogger, too."

"Really? Like... MySpace? Yahoo! 360? Facebook?"

"...Are you frickin' stalking me? Am I being stalked by my own blog?"

"Dunno what you're talking about."

"You're creeping me out, blog."

"YOU'RE the one who approached me - I still have no idea who you are."

"Fine, be that way. Can I at least put up a link to some photos here? Then I'll leave you alone again."

"Whatever."

*slam*

Romania februar 2007

(Some snaps taken by my girlfriend during our trip to Romania earlier this year, captions in Norwegian - can't be bothered to re-write them in English, sorry.)

Bistreem, P.I.

Today, I got to play detective. Yes, I donned my best trench-coat, gulped down a couple of shots of whiskey, lit up a cigarette and - following the half hour of intense and painful coughing and nausea due to me not being a smoker - hit the dark, rainy streets of Oslo to embark on my crusade against evil in the brutal world of musical instrument retail; to thwart the plans of evildoers, rescue damsels in distress and fire off a seemingly endless line of witty one-liners. Action! Thrills! Mystery! Dames! All this and more in this edition of Daring Tales of Musical Detectives (only $0.59)!

Ok, so all that was blown slightly out of proportion there, but I DID get to help thwart (oh, how I love that word... thwart!) an attempted fraud. Which is good enough for me, really - all the excitement of detective work while safely seated in your office chair.

Anyway, this morning at work I got a call from KLM - the airline company - regarding an insurance claim from one of their customers. This fellow (I will refrain from mentioning nationality, seeing as that part of the world is getting enough bad press as it is) was demanding reimbursement for damages his instruments had suffered during a trip with KLM, and had produced a paper of certification of inspection of these damages by a retailer/workshop here in Oslo. However, the store that he claimed had written this paper had our name, but a different store's address, no VAT number and no phone number, and thus Maria - the Danish customer care person handling the case, who was trying to solve this from her office in Amsterdam and having a great deal of trouble doing so (thus qualifying for the damsel in distress part, I suppose) - had found our website and phone number, and called to ask if we had written this paper.

Since we occasionally do write these papers for customers, I had her fax me the papers she had gotten from the customer so that I could look into it. I must say, the scam artists of today do put a lot of work in their... paperwork. The papers themselves looked pretty good (complete with dates, names and signatures, it was even stamped) until inspected a bit more closely, revealing a less then stellar grasp of written English (even by Norwegian standards), and a non-existing company name (as mentioned earlier, it had our company name, but the address of another store).

I thought I'd give the guy the benefit of the doubt, so I gave the other store a call - knowing they do repairs for these kinds of instruments - to check if they'd had a look at the instruments mentioned and written the document for the guy. Indeed he HAD visited their workshop to get such a paper documenting the extent of damages to his instruments, but he hadn't actually brought any instruments to the store, and they had refused to write such a paper without actually SEEING the instruments first. Basically they'd sent him off to another store, and not given it any more thought until today. They weren't too happy to hear about this incident, and since one of their employees was one of the three people mentioned in the paper and who had allegedly signed it (name and signature was there), I faxed them a copy of the papers as well. Document fraud is punishable by law in Norway just as in most other countries, so they would look into pressing charges - even if the chances of locating this individual (he was not registered at the home address given - yeah, I checked the phone book) are less than very, very slim.

I called Maria back to let her know about my "investigations", gave her the other store's phone- and fax numbers and told her that we all thought this sounded like a big, fat fraud. She was extremely grateful for the help and even asked if there was ANYTHING she could do in return - being the gentleman that I am (*cough*), I told her it was my pleasure and also in our interest to stop frauds like these from happening.

Of course, in retrospect I kinda regret not asking for a discount on my next flight (my girlfriend's family lives outside of Norway and we travel with KLM when we go to visit them), but then I again, a hero never asks for payment, right?

I'm planning on going to work with a big red "B" on my chest tomorrow...

Wax on, wax off

(Disclaimer: this is another one of those blog entries of a slightly gross nature. Much like the snot one. Only this isn't about snot. Anyway, if you're easily offended by the weirdness - not to mention grossness - of the human body, you'd better take heed and go read something else. Like the latest Apple keynote. Oh, and I couldn't find any photos to go with this entry that weren't utterly gross, so they're omitted. Sue me.)

I love my ears. Being a music lover, wannabe electronic musician and occasional audio engineer, my ears have given me - and continue to give me - daily joy and entertainment throughout the years. Given the choice between blindness and deafness, I'd lose the eyes. Especially if there was a chance for some cybernetic implant to grant me night vision and Predator-style thermal vision. And possibly laser-beams. But I digress.

Anyway, my ears - as much as I love them and take care of them - also cause me grief. See, my ears have crazy earwax build-up. Yeah, earwax. Sticky, yellow goop clogs my ears completely once in a while - it's happened three times in the last ten years - resulting in temporarily partial or complete loss of hearing on one or both of my ears. Scared the crap out of me the first time, now I take it like a man (curling up in a fetal position and sobbing uncontrollably, then). Tuesday it happened again; most likely triggered by a long day of headphone use in a pretty warm apartment. Woke up with my right ear completely clogged and spent most of my working day with a sore neck from constantly turning my left side to anyone talking to me.

So, yesterday I headed down to the private clinic I use for small, everyday emergencies like this. The doctor placed me in the usual chair and fired up his earwax removal machine: a big tank-like thing with hoses and cables connected to it. While seated there and having my ears vacuumed - that's what it feels like, really - I was looking at the tubes going to and from the machine. I'm guessing there was one for air, one for water and one for the actual wax - boy, there was a lot of the yellow stuff going through that one.

I still wonder where it all goes; is there a black market for second-hand earwax? Can it be found in cosmetics, food or silly putty if you can decipher the contents listings? Or was my doctor secretly collecting enough to create his own earwax Golem to wreck havoc on humanity in general and the makers of cotton sticks in particular..? Perhaps he'd bring home a box of it and make tiny, elaborate figurines to be displayed in a glass cabinet? Make candles? All these things rushed through my head as my ear-canals slowly regained their functionality. After what sounded like a medium-sized waterfall rushing out of my ears, the audible world came back to me in glorious stereo and with a slightly improved high-frequency response; I spent most of yesterday being annoyed by the sound of my clothes shuffling.

Oh yeah, and to the possible smartasses among you that go "Why don't you use cotton sticks?!" - it's not good for ya: never put something sharper than your elbow in your ear. Go look it up, kids.

Bruce Is The Man

Proof positively, Bruce Campbell IS The Man...

Neighbors schmeibors! Fog Schmog!

It's January, it's winter (or whatever one would call it these days - it's certainly not of the snowy, white variety as popularized by the Coke commercials) and it's Monday; in other words, the perfect setting for a rant or two.

Rant subject #1: Neighbors.

Generally, I get on pretty well with my neighbors. As in, I don't bother them and they mostly don't bother me. Much. Apart from that guy that sings in the shower - loudly and horribly out of tune - and whose voice magically transfers very well to MY bathroom through our shared ventilation shaft. Then, there are the folks living in the apartment above me, that seem to do a lot of furniture rearranging. After midnight. On Tuesdays. Why after midnight? Why Tuesdays? I fear these are questions I'll never know the answers to (I'll put them up on my long list of unanswered questions, like where do all my left socks, pencils and guitar picks go when they suddenly disappear).
Lastly, there's the mystery woman living in the apartment next to mine; this morning, as I picked up my newspaper, I tripped in her slalom gear that was haphazardly placed against her door - it was there last night as well. Who leaves their slalom gear outside their door for more than a day? Is it some secret getaway solution - can I expect my neighbor to one day escape some unknown fiend by sliding down the stairway in a Bond-like fashion? Although it's not completely improbable that she's some kind of secret agent - I have, after all, only met her twice since I moved here - I do doubt the efficiency of escaping potential thugs by sliding down a concrete stairway on slalom skis. The Bond Aficianados might beg to differ.

Rant subject #2: Weather.

More specifically, fog. I have a serious problem with fog. Not as FOG, but as weather. I mean, rain, wind and snow all have some sort of purpose; we need water for our lawns, wind for our para-gliders and snow for our Christmas clichés, but what the heck is fog good for? FOG - huh - what is it good for? Absolutely nothing! Say it again. Fog is not weather; it's a horror B-movie prop. Whenever there's fog outside, I half expect to see Bela Lugosi pop out and go "Chiiildren of the niiight" or something along those lines.
Fog isn't weather; it's colorized (gray) rain without the proper h2o percentage. What do we need it for? I'm pretty sure fog is one big elaborate joke staged by some top secret meteorologists' society just to annoy us. I bet part of those huge electricity bills (this is Norway, after all - it's not like we have abundances of water or anything) go to pay for a big-ass smoke machine somewhere in the hills. Seriously, this morning it was dark AND foggy. Yes. This is Norway; during winter, mornings are pitch black ANYWAY. What does the fog add to pitch black? Nothing but atmosphere. And I don't need no frickin' atmosphere with my pitch blackness, thank you very much - I can be grumpy on Monday mornings without atmosphere. Fog, I've officially taken you off the weather list. So there.

(See, this is what you get when I submit to peer pressure and blog without having anything to say; rants. You asked for it!)

The State of Things

Three things have happened since my last blog entry. Well, two things and an epiphany. Which I guess is of equal or even larger value than a thing. It might even count for a thing and-a-half, or perhaps two small-to-medium sized things. Why we don't learn how to solve fundamental everyday dilemmas like these at school is a mystery to me: then again, many things are mysteries to me and maths are certainly not among my strongest talents (of which I have remarkably few). Where was I? Oh, yes: the things. And one epiphany.

Thing one: Replacements for my favorite rubber-based contraceptives arrived in my mailbox last Friday, along with a small, handwritten note from the supplier - no mention of my long-winded (but hopefully humorous) e-mail, just a few words along the lines of "We're sorry the postman nicked yer rubbers, here are some new ones." Which is perfectly acceptable to me. Be nice to the costumer support department, and chances are they just might return the favor.

Thing two: My annual December cold arrived a little early this year, for the last week it's been annoyingly present without incapacitating me. I even somewhat gracefully participated in this weekend's bowling/tapas/"Casino Royale"-combo with my girlfriend and friends M & G. The verdict: Daniel Craig makes for a pretty darn good Bond, tapas make for some pretty darn good grub and my bowling skills make for some pretty darn good entertainment (for all the wrong reasons).

Today - on my day off - I'm at home tending to the last remnants of my cold and feeling slightly sorry for myself among the heaps of used Kleenex and crap mid-day TV. Which brings me to my epiphany: Snot.

Why on earth are we spending precious time and money developing alternative sources of energy, when the power of snot is just waiting to be harnessed? It's readily available - most humans seem to be producing an almost endless amount of it during the Winter season - and completely biodegradable! Surely, an average Norwegian 4-year old could easily power a small apartment building alone, and all those kinder gardens out there are potential power-plants of unfathomable power! Ok, so there are certain bio-hazard issues to solve, and of course trying to figure out how to actually extract energy from runny, bacteria-infected goop, but think of the possibilities.

Sure, it's gross, but it still beats thermonuclear meltdowns and fossil-based energy: if a snot-tanker crashes somewhere, the only thing we'll have to worry about is a large amount of seagulls with the sniffles.

I am legend!

Right, so I haven't done a blog entry in ages, I have a nasty cold, work today has been a total killer and the weather is... well, it is.

Still, two things got me through the day:

1) I am a legend. Well, a Røde legend to be exact. Most of you don't know what that means, and that's quite okay. For me, it means I've been given some cool, free stuff - pretty cool stuff, to be honest. Which will in no way affect my objectivity in my work, mind you: I'll still let you know what's crap and what's not whenever you buy something from me. Promise!


2) It's Friday. Which is my favorite day of the week, for at least one reason that I won't mention here. It's a good reason, though. Maybe even the best. Quite possibly the best. Yeah, let's use that one. Now, get the heck outta here.

Milkman? Worry about the mailman instead

(Warning: the following entry contains at least two things that may shock the casual reader of my blog - 1. the words "condoms" and "sexual" are in it. 2. which imply that I actually have a love life and am not the lonely geek I may appear to be. A sense of humor is thusly required.)

"To whom it may concern,

Today I received in my mailbox a shipment from you (order no. XXXXXX) that was supposed to contain 1 piece of Brand C 30-pack of condoms and 1 piece of Brand P 30-pack of condoms: unfortunately, the sealed paper bag containing these items had been ripped open, and only contained 2 pcs. of Brand C 10-pack of condoms. I find two possible reasons for this:

1) The paper bag has been laying beneath some very heavy papers/letters (electricity or dentist bills, most likely) inside the mailman's bag and was torn open as the mailman transfered the package from his bag to my mailbox. In that case, a somewhat surprised - and hopefully lucky - mailman will find 40 pcs. of high-quality condoms in the bottom of his bag by the end of his shift, and will use these in the best possible fashion.

2) A less than honorable employee with our highly competent Postal Service has - metaphorically as well as literally - secured himself for a good few days to come. The way the bag was torn (very neatly) implies that this is the most likely alternative. The fact that this person consider my condoms a far more valuable contraband than the huge amount of DVDs and CDs that regularly pop into my mailbox tells - I'm sorry to say - far more about him than me.

I am of course aware of the fact that your company can neither be blamed for huge electricity bills nor thieving postal workers, and I fully understand that it would be easy to brand me as a cheeky (but eloquent) con artist - I mean, I COULD have torn open the bag myself when I got home from work this evening and promptly engaged in a sexual marathon of truly epic proportions that would have decimated the number of condoms at an alarming rate - but I consider myself a loyal and honest customer and was hoping that you could help me out of this somewhat racy predicament. Photographic evidence of the state of the paper bag and its contents can be produced if necessary.

Regards,
Bitstreem (bewildered and contraception-impoverished customer) "

(This is a translation of the actual e-mail I sent to the online store where I get my condoms - hopefully the customer support department will have a sense of humor compatible with mine.)

Top 7 signs you're no longer a single geek

(Tongue firmly in cheek and all that. All references to actual, living people are purely coincidental and should be taken with a huge grain of salt. Oh, and I'm more than happy to have my newfound love disrupt my geeky routines and rituals, thankyouverymuch.)

Not too long ago, my status as a single geek changed into that of a geek-in-a-relationship. This has brought about certain changes in my life and lifestyle (or lack of such), and I'm happy to say they are mostly for the better (of course, I say this because there's a good chance my girlfriend will be reading this blog). I thought perhaps a short summary of these changes may be of value to other geeks (of one persuasion or the other) in a relationship or about to enter one.

So, here they are, the top 7 tell-tale signs you're no longer a single geek:

1. Your otherwise spotless order history of quality music and cult/action/horror-movies with your favorite web-shop (*cough*Play*cough*) suddenly becomes tainted with Top 20 CDs and chick-flicks.

2. You find yourself - somewhat reluctantly - actually enjoying said Top 20 CDs and chick-flicks to some extent. I repeat: to SOME extent.

3. "Going shopping" no longer means checking out the nearest Apple Store or scavenging for cheap X-Men comics.

4. There are at least 10 new cosmetics products in your bathroom that you cannot identify - and most of their content cannot be found in the periodic table.

5. Two words: "Couple dinners". 'Nuff said!

6. No more careless tossing about of pop-cultural references: if you say something in Klingon, Elvish or Wookie, be prepared to explain it. Thoroughly. In a language spoken on Earth.

7. With the above point fresh in mind: Yes, most sci-fi and fantasy will lose some of its initial attraction once properly explained (read: dissected), scrutinized and lovingly ridiculed.

8. "Playing games" no longer means hooking up your Playstation or dusting off your Star Wars action figures... Which is quite an improvement, really. No further elaboration required or granted.

There you have it, fellow geeks: it's not so bad as it may seem. Life is change, and not all change is for the worse - even if it means a bit less obsessive re-watching of Firefly episodes.

PS! I don't really speak Klingon, Elvish or Wookie - well.

Safecracking 101

You know, sometimes growing up - yes, it's a seemingly never-ending process for me, I admit - is just a long line of crushed illusions and broken dreams: Finding out why your Dad and Santa was never in the same room at the same time, catching your Mum in the act of "planting" the Easter Bunny's eggs, discovering the whole Tooth Fairy scam - I could go on forever.

Granted, as time goes by and cynicism - that's adulthood for you an me - slowly seeps in, the disappointments do seem to come a little further apart and the shock of finding that your head actually won't explode if you hold back a sneeze is a little more easy to bear. Hey, stay with me, there's actually a point to this whole long-winded story and it's coming up any time now!

So, today another of my childhood (and adulthood, for that matter) illusions went bust. Yay. The other day the lock of our safe (where we keep all of our booty, aaarrrr) here at work went all ballistic and wouldn't open, much to our dismay. Locked out of our own safe, we had to call in a locksmith (no, they're not found under "safe-crackers" in the yellow pages) to open the damn thing for us. Now, having never seen a locksmith in action, I was a bit excited as the guy appeared with his bag of tools: I immediately pictured him in silent concentration in front of the safe, stethoscope in place, carefully turning the dial listening for that gratifying "click".


Can you imagine my disappointment when the guy opens his bag, and pulls out a big-ass electric drill?! Dude, what the hell? Where's the finesse? The sophistication? The elegance? Why didn't TV tell me that opening a safe requires a dozen large power-tools, brute force and most of all a bloody great deal of time?! Yeah, the guy went at the steel mammoth for a good three hours with his assortment of power-tools before the thing opened up.


I'm so depressed now.

Product Conundrum

Wrap your head around this, dear readers:

A couple of years ago, one distributor - let's call him A4 - drops by the store to tell us about this wonderful now product - let's call it product P - that he's selling. Product P, he tells us, is made by people that used to work for another and vastly inferior brand that makes product S. Now, product S is made in China just like product P, but product P is the object of a whole lot more love, care and quality control than that generic, made-for-the-money product S. Ok, we say, we'll give product P a chance. You can never have too many affordable thingamajigs in your store, anyway. We already have a few product S's in the store, so it'll be fun to see if product P sells better, we say.

So, time passes, and we sell very little of product P. We try it ourselves, and it's certainly not bad - however, the same can be said about product S, really. We don't think about it too much, and go back to selling product R which everyone likes (both us and the customers) and we sell heaps of.

A month ago, distributor A4 sends out his regular, longwinded and bloated information e-mail about new products and such and guess what: he's dropping product P. It didn't sell as good as expected, and they want to focus on a new, and much better brand. Can you guess which one? Ah, yes: product S, of course. Yes, product S is now elevated to the status of product made with a whole lot of love, care and quality control, while product P - which was previously in this glorified position - is now thrown down in the dirt.

And people wonder why product PR (in all forms) make me giggle. Teehee.

Oh, and anyone who can figure out which products and which distributor I'm talking about will get the wonderful prize of absolutely nothing. Which, coincidentally, is roughly equal to the substance and integrity of said distributor's sales pitches. *giggle*

An ode to the laundry room

Oh, laundry room:

Where the good inhabitants of your apartment building meet to socialize and engage in friendly banter; where strangers' eyes meet in brief moments of forbidden desire or unabashed disgust; where the intelligentsia gather to plot their next reality-altering scheme (such as keeping the laundry closed on Sundays and thus making sure nobody can do their laundry on the only day they have the time to do so); where the janitor's notice board is constantly covered in a glorious mix of complaints, questions and nonsensical, semi-poetic dabblings.

Where quiet battles are fought over who booked the dryer first or stole someone's bleach;
where little old ladies will gently persuade you into letting them have the washing machine for
another 30 minutes (and nobody says no because it would be like saying no to your own
grandmother), thereby nudging the already rickety booking schedule into a magnificent
collapse; where socks disappear into thin air, only to manifest themselves four months later
in a tattered, washed out state after having been stuck in the dark realms of the leftmost
washing machine where not even the keenest of eyes could see them, or strongest of hands pry them free from their ever-rotating iron cell; where the principle of "love thy neighbour" is put to the test every day as you find your clothes strewn all over the usually less then squeaky clean laundry room floor.

Where creatures big and small - of both the human and non-human kind - roam freely among the comforting warmth emitted from the large electrical mammoths that leave our laundry in a state of variable decontamination; where the strong, concrete walls block all cell phone reception and leave you blissful isolation from the brouhaha of the outside world (and prevents your mum calling you and nagging about that thing you were supposed to pick up somewhere).

Oh, laundry room - my life revolves around thy existence and thy etheric booking system!
Oh, laundry room - may thy electricity never be absent, thus leaving my clothes wet and full of detergent!


(I really, really need to get my own washing machine.)

Unwords!

(Disclaimer: This blog entry is mainly composed of things copy-pasted from Unwords.com. I know some people frown upon this kind of creative laziness, but it's Friday - sue me!)

I love words. Big ones, small ones, strange ones, funny ones - they're all friends to me! Now, sometimes words evolve (or degenerate, depending on your point of view) into new words and then they end up on Unwords.com - a super-duper site for new breeds of words! I've taken the liberty to list a few of the entries here, to whet your appetite for more...

Destinasia - a. (n.) Going upstairs or downstairs and being unable to remember why.

Disconfect - a. (v.) To sterilize the piece of candy you dropped on the floor by blowing on it, somehow assuming this will "remove" all the germs.

Docuphobia - a. (n.) The fear of using documentation, usually resulting from some previous traumatic event such as programming a VCR.

Drylowgraph - a. (n.) Any strange, unintelligible symbol that accompanies the washing instructions on clothing labels

Malbingophobia - a. (n.) The fear among some bingo players that they have incorrectly marked a square, and calling "bingo" could cause them not victory, but public humiliation.

Meandrathal - a. (n.) Any person in an exhausted state of mind in which they wander aimlessly, sometimes with low blood-sugar, in a shopping mall, video store or the like.

More words at Unwords.com - go there now!

A waste of space

Two minutes ago, I realized that none of my MSN contacts where online and I felt a sting of loneliness and abandon - like being locked out of the playground, or not chosen for the "cool" team for the soccer match.

Then, I realized that realizing this was all rather sad - borderline pathetic, some might say - and filled my cup with coffee and started writing this blog entry.

Alas, while writing this I realized that spending time, energy and precious blog-space on this specific theme was indeed a bit sad aswell, and most likely a good indication of my current state of blogger's writer's block. So I'll stop, right here.

Too late now, anyway.

Meh.

A blogger's lament

Dear readers of late,
I bring saddening news:
My blog's in a state
of writer's block blues!

So this Blogger entry
(though rhyming quite well)
is quite elementary,
as I'm sure you can tell.

It's not so by choice,
or fate, if you will:
For uttering my voice
is usually a thrill.

It's not that I'm lazy,
or tired or sad,
it's not that I'm crazy
(or ate something bad).

The reason my site
is lackluster and dull,
and lacking in bite
when it should have been full:

The reason is this
(and I hate to admit) -
I have nothing to say,
and thus nothing to submit.
----------------------------------
(Ok, so that last line
didn't rhyme all that well:
I don't always refine,
but at least I can spell!)

OMGWTF?! - DeLighTable

There are coffee-tables, and then... there are COFFEE-TABLES. The DeLighTable from Kloss is one bad-ass table. Woah. Me want. Badly!