Hard Time in the Internet Age

Apparently I've dodged a bullet, but I may be a wanted man. You might recall my abject failure in blogging from Europe last month. You may also recall my one small success in exchanging a few quick emails courtesy of a wide-open private wireless connection I encountered.

I broke the law, as it turns out. Using someone's WiFi signal without their permission is a crime in the UK. And the authorities are prosecuting. At first blush I thought this sounded a bit harsh. As I think about it a bit, I'm conflicted. It probably should be viewed as theft, but what is the best punishment?

Either way, I'm polishing my shiv.

David Tennant Saved My Marriage

For as long as I can remember, Dee and I have always had 'our show'. It's very seldom that we ever find ourselves sitting down in front of the TV at the same time, but we've always found 1 or 2 programs that we would make a point to watch together. Really, it's been an excuse to spend time with each other - and the fact that we always have a good snack and a good red wine only enhances the ritual.

Way back when, it was Twin Peaks (we're still pissed about the dancing midget ending). These days, we try to catch the Daily Show and we eagerly await the new seasons of 24 (aka Fucking Jack!) and Heroes. Lately we've been in a lull, however, as there really isn't much on the tube that we both agree deserves our limited, combined attention spans.

While our tastes are somewhat divergent in the general sense, I know she's a repressed geek. So I delicately introduced her to the The Doctor. As in Who. I have to admit something - I'm somewhat of a lapsed Doctor Who fan myself. This season I promised I'd watch every episode, with no exceptions. So one evening I casually popped in the latest epsiode that I had taped, and proceeded to watch The Doctor whilst Dee did a crossword.

Long story short - she's hooked. Now she's not content to wait 7 days between each CBC airing, so I've managed to.... ummmm.... 'find' a complete set of Series 3 that we can watch at our leisure. So now we have 'our show' again. Dee looks forward to each Doctor Who adventure, and has even wondered aloud what other 'stuff' David Tennant has done. I believe she's smitten.

I just don't have the heart to tell her there are only a few more episodes in a the current run. Maybe it's time to 'find' Series 2.

The Invisible Threat

In the not too distant past it would have seemed somewhat odd to talk about terrorist threats while leafing through your vacation snapshots. Sadly, the Bogeyman is our regular traveling companion anymore. I'd swear we know some TSA agents by name down in good ol' Orlando MCO. And the sight of National Guardsman (with serious firepower at the ready) is almost an unremarkable fixture in many tourist spots throughout the US.


But Europe was different. In the UK, the threat of the Bogeyman seemed more ominous; the feeling of safety more tangible.

• Salisbury Plain - tank crews patrolled the back-roads of Salisbury Plain as we casually strolled the walking paths of Stonehenge. Yes, the picture above is real.
• London - as London Eye riders exit their 'capsule', 2 attendants calmly enter the capsule with over-sized dental mirrors. Their goal: search under benches and above light fixtures for anything suspicious. Oh, and don't take video footage of this process - they don't like that at all. Trust me.
• Portsmouth - the current terror threat level is causally posted for all to see in this, the home of the British Navy. Two heavily-armed (i.e. automatic assault rifles) security officers stand watch over a group of burka-clad ladies and their children as holiday photos are snapped beside the HMS Victory. The security officers don't pretend to be doing anything other than watching these people. When the Muslim tourists move, so does the security detail.
• UK in general - We heard a statistic on the radio as we putt-putted down the M4. The UK employs more CCTV (security) cameras per capita than anywhere else in the world. While actual numbers are not known, the estimate is something close to 1 camera for every 12 people. That's over 5,000,000 cameras keeping citizens safe - or something. George Orwell sprang to mind as London police arrested the latest batch of terrorist suspects based on CCTV evidence.
  

France - or rather Paris - was another story. The only overt security we really saw were a few soldiers patrolling a railway crossing in the middle of nowhere as we sped by on the Eurostar. As well, the President's residence enjoyed the protection of a few dozen Surete and soldiers. Their job was mostly standing around making idle chit-chat and some occasional spirited blowing of whistles at rubbernecking tourists.

Beyond this, it seemed that the French are somewhat half-hearted about the whole idea of terrorist threats - no armed officers prowling tourist hot-spots, no posted threat levels. There were some very token bag inspections at the Louvre and Disneyland, but that was it. Our hotel was a stone's throw from the Saudi and Japanese embassies, but we saw exactly one rent-a-cop in the vicinity. His job: keep the illegal parkers from his part of the street.

Two countries. Two realities. And both different than ours. It's a strange old world, isn't it?

Checking Out

Because I work much too hard, I'm taking a week off for our annual pilgrimage to Dee's family cottage. I wish we could get an Innertube connection there. One can only spend so many nights playing Rummoli and dreaming of air conditioning and indoor plumbing.

Nevertheless, I shall be back next week with a few more self-absorbed posts about Europe. Brace yourselves.

A Meezer No More

We've lost a few friends in the past 12 months - both the 2-legged and 4-legged types. And just when we thought this particular planetary alignment had been re-shuffled towards chaos, it spent the last of its cosmic influence on the weakest among us.

We were compelled to commit little Maple to the oblivion of the veterenarian's needle yesterday. She had been a member of the family for a scant 6 weeks or so, but the last 10 days saw her change: drastically, rapidly. Within a few days of our return from Europe, Maple had become lethargic and her apetite was lacking. Even her favourite game of 'chasing the little plastic thing down the hall' could not hold her interest.

By coincidence, we received word from the Cat Breeder that there had been problems in Maple's litter, and that we should call her if we noticed persistent sluggishness. We called and learned that Maple's father had passed along a disease called FIP - Feline Infectious Peritonitus. This wasting disease has no cure, no accurate test beyond autopsy, and is always fatal.

Maple stopped eating. She stopped playing. She spent the past week just sitting in patches of sunlight trying to keep warm while she dozed. We brought her water and we sat with her. She seemed to like that and, sometimes, she'd summon the energy to crawl into someone's lap for a neck scratch. Unfortunately there was little else we could do and, with Dr. Sears' blessing, we decided to end Maple's suffering rather than commit her to a painful and sad end brought about by a full run of FIP.

The kids are devastated. This was the 'real pet' they had never been able to have in the house until they discovered the uniqueness of Siberian cats. Now she's gone. To their credit they put Maple first, however. JediBoy put her in the carrier, kept Maple calm during the car ride, brought her into the vet's office, and handed her over. There were (and are) lots of tears, but we all played the best hand with cards that had been dealt.

Under the circumstances, Cat Breeder has dealt with this well. Maple's father has been sterilized and removed from the cattery. The other cats have been isolated according to standard FIP protocol. We have the choice of a refund or a new kitten (apparently this not the case with all breeders, so our vet tells us).

We'll have to decide what we want. While she wasn't with us long, Maple will not be forgotten - or replaced.

White Knuckles

Part 1 in semi-regular series detailing Euro Tour 2007 highlights. While guaranteed to be interesting to the Author, it's likely and expected to be less so to Readers like you. All hail the Wankosphere, for it feeds my ego. Let's begin, shall we?

Phase 1 of the adventure was a 4-and-a-half day free-spirited driving tour of Southern England. The general plan for Day 1: land at Heathrow, pickup the car, visit nearby Windsor Castle, then drive to Salisbury for some R&R in a B&B we had booked. The theme here was to keep jet-lag at bay and quickly get ourselves acclimatized to UK time.

The plan generally worked, but not in quite the way we had intended.

Air Canada fulfilled all of our expectations and ensured our flights were late. The culprits, as always, were ominous mechanical issues followed by the tried-and-true 'bad weather in Toronto' gambit. This time, it didn't matter. We were getting into Heathrow at 6:30am anyways, so Air Canada could be late as they liked as far as I was concerned.

After an uneventful flight filled with boring movies, uneatable 'food', and free booze, we arrived at Heathrow (late) and spent almost an hour clearing customs. Because I don't sleep much on airplanes, I had already achieved a Zen-like state of fatigue and the customs lineup took on a slightly psychedelic tinge around the edges.

With some perfunctory questions from a customs dude with frosty-tipped hair, we found our bags, found the Avis shuttle, and - before I could think twice - we were standing in front of a gleaming blue 2007 VW Passat diesel wagon. Good news: it would easily hold our luggage. Bad news: the steering wheel was on the wrong side.

According to Google Maps, Windsor Castle is but a mere 18 minutes from Heathrow. Armed with these instructions, a traditional map, and a GPS, we managed to extend the trip to about 45 minutes. Finding Windsor was easy. Finding the Castle was dumb luck.

Prying my hands of the steering wheel required gentle coaxing. I knew my heart would explode before the end of the day, but my family would not believe me. I wondered how they would get my body back to home soil. I could only imagine the Air Canada screw-ups.

But the sun was shining, the air was warm, and the Castle was the first friend we would make on our journey. It was interesting enough, but not really the sort of place that would inspire awe in Her Majesty's subjects. We saw the changing of the guard, some staterooms, the chapel - but my mind became fixated on the journey ahead.

Soon enough, we decided to head to Salisbury where we would be using Rokeby Guest House as our base for a couple of days. Notwithstanding the valiant efforts of our navigational tools, we could not escape the environs of Windsor. We got lost, got lost again, found ourself back where we started, then did the whole thing over again. For 90 minutes we did this as the muscles in my neck crept ever-close to my earlobes.

This was a trial-by-fire driving lesson in England. I soon got the hang of driving on the left and my tires were hitting the left-hand curb less frequently. It soon became apparent that the mechanics of driving would not be the issue. Navigating would be the problem - and a big one at that since roads tend to Not Be Straight and Not Go Directly Anywhere. Traffic circles were a cute idea, but little-resembled circles. Imagine a highway clover-leaf flattened out and shrunk to fit inside the smallest English village. Now imagine that finding your road inside one of these hairballs is decided by a lottery who's rules are a secret. Now you've got an English traffic circle.

Then came Eton, home of the venerable Eton College. While not on our agenda, we nonetheless found ourselves quite suddenly on its narrow, ancient streets wistfully imagining the circumstances under which the authorities would find our bodies decaying inside a lifeless blue Passat. I made a mental check of the location of our passports. It would make identification easier, I imagined.

That's when we had 'the incident'. The left front tire (or is that tyre) kissed the curb yet again and emitted a rubber-on-stone shriek. As a cabbie would soon point out to us, this had caused the sidewall to develop a plum-sized rupture. Day 1, and I was already having to deal with car repairs. It was Nova Scotia all over again (another story for another day).

Into a gas station for driving directions and a check of the tire. The spare tire was full-sized, so there was no urgent need to locate a garage to buy a new tire. I made the decision to drive on the damaged tire and, if it burst, I'd throw on the spare. Damn the torpedoes.

90 minutes later, we were in Salisbury - 3 hours in total to take a trip that the good people at Google promised would take 1 hour. And the tire - still intact.

The final irony - we got lost 1 block from the B&B because the lovely people who own Rokeby Guest House gave us incorrect directions. Once we sorted this out (with some help from a convenience store clerk), we found the B&B a comfortable oasis in which to encamp. To put things in perspective, a pile of leaves under a tarp would have been equally as comfy for us by this time. We had long ago ceased to be running on fumes. Now it was spite.

The last act of the day before falling into comas would be dinner at a local pub where the people were friendly and the food was better than Air Canada's.

This was Day 1, and I already had an irrational fear of driving blue Passat's. What would the next 4 days bring? The large beer told me to forget about all this for while, and so I did.

The Myth of Free WiFi

Okay - Euro Tour 2007 was an utterly amazing 2 weeks. Portsmouth, Bath, Salisbury, Old Sarum, Windsor, Eton, London, Paris, Versailles - and the list gets longer. It was truly a family adventure and there are stories to tell, pictures to share, and impressions to paint.

I so hoped to be posting from Over There. I had my cool little Palm device with WiFi and had figured out how to post to Blogger via email. All I needed was an occasional wireless connection and I'd be reporting from the front lines. I had read so many breathless accounts of the European penchant for free hotspots, I suppose I pictured myself sitting in a cafe or in a park exuding a diamond-cool Wired magazine kinda vibe as I casually jacked into the Net from my PDA.

Cue the squeeze-box music. A loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and the Information Highway running through my hands.

But I 'supposed' wrong. Nowhere did I encounter wireless access for the proletariat. Hotels, airports, cafes - they all wanted my credit card. Only once did I find a free connection, and that was some poor soul's unsecured home network that appeared for only for a few moments late one night at our room at a Salisbury B&B. I managed to squeak out one quick email to our house-sitter to let her know we'd arrived in England reasonably intact. Then, the connection evaporated - consumed by the Salisbury mist, I imagine.

I'm going to share some stories anyways. Maybe I'll even post it as a day-by-day account (set the Wayback Machine, Sherman) - at least until someone cries "Uncle!". But I can't help being a tad disappointed that my little experiment in 'You Are There' ended up a failure.

Stay tuned...

Does Anybody Here Remember Vera Lynn?

In about 6 hours we'll be on our way - London Slightly-International Airport to London Heathrow, by way of Toronto Pearson. Assuming I can sleep through the in-flight flicks - Wild Hogs anyone? - we'll be touching down about 6:30am local time Monday morning. The weather there is predictably cool and wet.

The anxiety levels are high, but time will lurch inexorably forward and we'll be there soon enough. The biggest problem right now is packing light. I'm counting no fewer than 6 different electronic chargers for various cameras, phones, iPods, and other whatzzits that are apparently key to our survival over the next few weeks. Contrast that to my first trip abroad 22-ish years ago when I brought a duffel bag, a Russian-built manual camera, and a travel iron. Note that the travel iron was never actually used.

I'm hoping this is not my last post for awhile. I plan to blog from Over There whenever I get the opportunity. I have this cool little used Palm Tx (thanks eBay) that can do email and limited surfing whenever it's in range of an open WiFi connection. So long as I can send email somehow, some way - I'll post something here. The downside - it's unlikely I'll be able to post any pictures. And, yes, I'm bring a charger along for the Palm.

Be back soon. I hope.

The Frumious Bandersnatch

This is Maple - no doubt resting after hunting her latest kill.

We stay off the stairs now. And we never let our feet dangle off the bed. It's just better that way.

Ummmm.... Oi?

Fundamentally, I own 3 pairs of shoes. One is the running shoes I wear everyday - even to the office. Two is the sandals I wear when I can't manage bare feet - outside the office. Three is the formal black things that I wear on those oh-so-rare occasions when a suit is required.

Of course I have boots, but we're Canadians here and talking aboot boots is redundant, eh?

The imminent Euro Tour demands a new pair of shoes that exist in the theoretical rift between running shoes and formal black things. I'm not sure these exist, but I have to believe they do. I believe Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle was based on this theoretical footwear. Or maybe it was Adams' Improbability Drive.

No matter. I needed shoes.

So I've been searching shoe stores for the past few weeks and have been largely unsuccessful. Strike One is that I'm an Average Joe, and stores don't really - you know - exist for us. Strike Two is that my feet aren't wide enough. All the nice shoes are for guys with wide feet. I don't understand why, but I'm secure enough in my manhood that this doesn't bother me too much.

After hours of searching (I'm not kidding) I finally found a pair that worked for me. That's pretty good news in itself. Even cooler is the fact they're Doc Martens. At least I thought this was cool for about 10 minutes.

You see, my perception of Doc Martens was forged in the crucible of Punk many years ago. They were the uniform of young toughs who were all about senseless anger and useless gestures of pointless violence. And they attracted the right kinds of girls back in the day.

But they were beyond my means back when it meant something.

Apparently everyone grew up, and Doc Marten went legit. So my uniform now includes casual dark brown Oxfords with a logo that echoes back to a different era. Just when I thought I'd finally arrived, everyone left.

Oi.

As in 'Syrup'

Because you're dying to know, the rare and deadly Siberian cat moved into our home just over a week ago. And her name *tympany please* is Maple.

Maple is doing great and has pretty much taken over the house - as cats will do. She's friendly, will set the 'playful dial' to 11, enjoys sitting in the upstairs shower stall for some inexplicable reason, and will undoubtedly be huge. My guess is that she'll tip the scales at 20 pounds or more when all is said and done.

I've owned many cats over the years or, rather, many cats have deigned to acknowledge my presence. But I have to say this is the most vocal feline I've ever encountered. When she enters a room and sees someone, she talks. When she wants to play, she talks. When she needs a lap to flop into, she talks. Odd, that one.

So, that's Maple. I'll post a pic when I get a chance, but be forewarned that I'll need to balance all this cute-and-fuzzy talk with a few unreasonably violent and/or pornographic posts in days to come.

Sick of Being Sick

It never fails. I rarely get sick, but when I do the Gods of Virii (that's a virus with friends) pick precisely the worst time to strike. Like now. For the past 4 days I've been lethargic to the point of catatonia. Judging from the apparent swelling and soreness of my throat, I really should be spitting up blood and smallish pieces of tissue.

But I can't enjoy my illness right now.

Work has been nutso-crazy the past few weeks, so I can ill afford any time off. The kids have managed to save their dentist, optometrist, and orthodontist appointments until after their recent cessation of hostilities with teachers and such, so I can ill afford to cancel any of these appointments just because I've lost the ability to swallow or breathe. And finally, our Euro Tour '07 begins in just 1 week and, of course, I'm not ready yet. I need shoes. I need Pounds. I need to know how to dial a phone in France. I need to believe every detail is known and documented.

But I don't have the energy.

Someday, before I die, I'm going to get sick at precisely the right time. The cupboards will be full of good snacks. We'll have a big screen TV that even shows all the correct colours. There'll be a lock on the bedroom door. And I'll just relax.

Houston? We Have a Problem

You have to be 'a certain age' to remember Commander Tom. He was a staple on WKBW (Buffalo, channel 7) for about a hundred years or so - first on Rocketship 7, followed by The Commander Tom Show.

Even if you never crossed paths with the Commander, have a look at the following clip from his old show. I can't decide if he's bored, or quietly earnest about his work. Either way, watch for a particularly uncomfortable exchange (about 1 minute in) between the Commander and a young fan on the topic of cigarette companies. It's weird.

Time for Gifts

'Fits and starts' pretty much describes my blogging efforts lately. I have simply been feeling overwhelmed by 100 other things lately - with the Must Do and Like To Do camps often in mortal, bloody opposition. Blue skies are ahead, I think. That's what I have to believe for sanity's sake.

While I simply lack time right now, I feel obligated - to myself if no one else - to offer a gift or two. The simple truth is that I've been relying on the fruitful efforts of other Bloggites to keep me entertained in my passive stupor the last few weeks. As recompense, I offer these mementos from Star Wars Celebration IV. I hope you enjoy them. But if you do not, then please don't click here.

Who Am I?

Say "hello" to - well - we don't know, exactly. All we know is that she's kinda cute and she'll be moving into Casa Crazylegs sometime around the end of June.

Let me explain, and make my plea to you, Gentle Readers. We love animals in our house. But we love Dee - Mom to some, Bestest Friend and Critic to others - even more. Dee has pet allergies, big time: watery eyes, hives, the whole works. Dee can simply stand in the doorway of a pet owner's abode and immediately tell that furry creatures dwell inside. It's that bad.

As you might guess, this has limited our pet choices to a few fish and Bernard the Hamster (RIP 2004 - 2006). The kids have wanted a more substantial pet forever, and have basically adopted other peoples' pets in lieu of having their own. Late last year, kid number one (aka Band Geek) did some research and discovered the Siberian breed of cat that purportedly has hypoallergenic properties. While this breed has only been in North America for about 10 years, we managed to locate a breeder in Welland.

To say that I was skeptical is putting things rather mildly. There's no scientific evidence that supports the rather anecdotal evidence that this breed is allergy-friendly. Naysayer that I was, I really enjoy cats (always had one as a pet during my formative years) - so we contacted the breeder and arranged a 'test visit' to see if these cats really have the magical property that allergy sufferers seek.

Long story short, Dee spent an hour with Mama Cat on her lap and kittens crawling all over the place. No sneezing. No hives. No nuthin'. Stunned and surprised, we put our money town and picked out a kitten. And that really is her picture above.

Did I mention we were stunned?

So our little Russian ball of fur will be moving in at the end of June. There's just one problem: we cannot decide on an appropriate name. In fact, we seem to suck mightily at this game.

Sasha? Mischa? Hey You? We've even had a suggestion of WYSIWYG (What You See Is What You Get). Wizzy for short, I guess.

Here's the mission: bring to bear your impressive creative skills and feed me suggestions. A cat's very identity rests in the balance.

Spasibo!

Glenda Got Some Splainin' To Do

Mea cupla - having a cellphone that takes photos is pretty useful for capturing weird little everyday moments when you think, "Wouldja look at that.".

Such was a recent lunchtime fly-by of London's venerable downtown market-come-cattle-barn. My Lebanese walking companion, in need of pita bread, led me to a market stall named simply Glenda's. While pitas were being squeezed and examined for their pita-bility, I listlessly perused a wide assortment of dips in the refrigerator case. Typically, I wouldn't pay attention - but today was different. Glenda has either a bizarro-world marketing plan, or a truly macabre set of recipes behind the counter.

Thanks to my Swiss Army cellphone, you can check out the labels from Glenda's offerings and judge for yourself. One more mea culpa - the photos are grainy in that way that lets you just know they're clandestine. Quite honestly, I'm lucky to be alive to show them to you.




Spicy Pinto Beans with Chimp









Sandinista Dijon










Howler-Monkey Tzatziki garnished with bird heads









Asiago Dips - please god let this be for cats

Mexicali Sauce - Lions love it!

Why Is This So Hard?

For pure entertainment value, nothing beats Rogers Wireless customer service.

In most ways, I loathe the idea of electronic collars. But I made an exception when Rogers offered a rock-bottom deal through my employer. I managed to get 2 cellphones for less then the street-price of 1 phone, and this lets my oh-so-active daughter keep in touch with her oh-so-neurotic Dad. So, yes, we wear electronic collars.

Just a tangent - the only other exception I'd ever make on the whole electronic collar issue is for those perimeter wires that train your dog to 'stay put' via electronic shocks. I don't own a dog, but I think this technology has fun possibilities. I'm guessing the legal, moral, and philosophical issues are probably a little thorny.

Back to the phones. So I have 2 of them, and I discovered that this model (they're identical) will work in Europe, but they don't support the cell frequencies used in England and France. I wanted the comfort of a cellphone for our upcoming vacation, so I did some research and found that the current generation of phones will work fine for us.

I went to Rogers with the simple goal of replacing my phone, and I was prepared to pay. I wasn't looking for anything else: no changes to my account, no extra services, nothing. I quickly learned that I'm naive. Where cell service is concerned, nothing is simple.

First off, the Rogers outlet was staffed by teenagers, on a Wednesday, in the middle of the day. Great, I thought. Highly educated service technicians. Turns out one fellow was the Veteran and he was supposed to be training the New Guy.

Over the course of the next 40 - count 'em - minutes, I descended into a bureauatic miasma that even I found breathtaking - and I've spent the last 25 years working in multinational corporations. I will never be able to recreate the conversation that, at various points, brought Veteran, New Guy, and myself close to blows.

The highlights:

• I have a 'corporate plan', and store computers can't access these. They had to phone someone, somewhere who could see Who I Am and What I Have.
• paper forms needed to be filled out like I was opening a new account, except they wrote 'hardware upgrade' across the top of the form. I fear this.
• Veteran thought my corporate plan sounded too good to be true. I must be mistaken, apparently. This made me mad at Veteran.
• my new phone was a free upgrade! Naturally this makes me nervous. Nothing is 'free'.
• the new phone takes pictures and videos, and plays MP3s, and surfs the Web, and plays games! I'm kinda hoping it makes phone calls.
• Veteran was sick of New Guy, and the feeling was mutual. This erupted into frequent verbal fisticuffs.
• you need to write down several codes to replace a phone. They are secret, and I believe they can cure the sick, raise the dead, and hack HD-DVD videos.

40 minutes for this. My favorite part - as I left the store New Guy gave me a wink and let me know this would have been much easier, but Veteran is kind of an asshole.

I can't wait to open my next Rogers Wireless bill.

I'm anticipating a Part 2 to this story.

Gonna Party Like It's 600 BC!

When I first read this story, I was pretty sure it was a put on. Then I wondered about how an invitation to such an event might sound.

Sony Flack: "Hey there! Just wanted to let you know we're having a big coming-out party for God of War II and, you know, you're invited!"

Me: "Wow! Cool! So it's a party?"

Sony Flack: "The biggest, man! It'll be a whole Ancient Greece kind of vibe..."

Me: "That's amazing! I'll look forward to it!"

Sony Flack: "Amazing is not the word. We'll have lots of food and wine..."

Me: "Great!"

Sony Flack: "...and PS/3's setup everywhere - with the game, of course..."

Me: "Excellent!"

Sony Flack: "....and, ahem, topless serving girls..."

Me: "Holy cow! Topless?"

Sony Flack: "...thought you'd like that...and, of course, the decapitated goat..."

Me: "...love the topless ladi...say, what?"

Sony Flack: "And snake handling! You get to touch snakes, man!"

Me: "...wait, what?"

Sony Flack: " Got more calls to make. Don't wanna to tell you all the surprises! See you there!"

My phone: "Hummmmm"

Update: Looks like the goat was pre-decapitated.

Big-Ass Pixels

Question: What do you get if you mix 10 bored people with 5 hours to kill, 6,400 spare Post-It notes, and 4 stories of window-glass?

Answer: Retro-gaming Awesomeness

I am impressed. I can barely manage spray-on snowflakes.

C'mon You Guys!

Okay, I'm done biding my time. A guy can only stand on the sidelines for so long; waiting for the real smartalecks to show up. So, I guess it's up to me, Mr. Pedestrian Blogboy, to weigh in on the news that's been hanging out there like some turgid piece of rotting fruit just waiting - nay, demanding - for someone to pick and hurl at a fitting target.

Our beloved London Free Press has discovered that people in Kilworth use YouTube. The Freeps plastered their scoop on the front page 3 days ago - and breathlessly detailed how a noted Kilworthian made his own video, with music even, and posted it on the Internet. As if this, alone, wasn't enough to send shock waves through our community (dare I say Future Shock waves?), they further report that some people even watched this video on the Internet!

The future is here and now, folks. The Freeps says so.

So where have you guys been? This was front page news in a Saturday edition!

Discuss, dammit!