By rough estimate, I've saved 4 chickens, a cow, and a pig's flank from sure death by the simple expedient of refusing to eat them. Of course, the cynics among you would point out that someone else might have acquiesced to consuming those fine, kind, gentle animals' flesh, but that someone was not me.
Not that I give a rat's ass. I don't mind eating meat, but a week ago I made the semi-random decision to quit eating meat for a month, and today concludes the first week of this commitment.
I am surprised by how easy it's been so far. I didn't even crave meat. Walking through Google's cafeterias, I am constantly assaulted by the scent of freshly baked, roasted, fried, and otherwise cooked meat, and yet my mouth hasn't watered even once throughout this time.
I sure am grateful for this, because I want to keep my promise.
Some interesting observations:
1. Around day 4 I started feeling faint. Must have been the meat-protein withdrawals. I stopped feeling faint yesterday.
2. I found that potatoes and dolmas make up nicely, texture-wise, for meat.
3. My stomach does not whine nearly as much after I eat. This is a big deal, and it might be enough of a reason to stick to my newfound vegetarian diet. That, and I can start pissing people off not only by correcting their English, but also by telling them that they are cold-blooded murderers.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Naga... final act.
Our protagonist was left contemplating changing clothes in a Logan-airport lavatory while still trying to make it to MIT on time at 9:30am on Monday. All the while avoiding piss stains.
Stupid, stupid protagonist.
That weekend, señor Malchev makes his 3rd and final trek by BART to San Francisco International Airport. He makes it to the airport at 10pm for an 11:20pm flight, flies through security (because the 1st-class moron from act 2 had given him a boarding pass,) and sits down comfortably by the gate, laptop in lap (duh!) and thinking that he will definitely make it this time. High spirits all around at this late hour. The hidalgo was even contemplating a Sunday-night scotch. Ah, bliss. Bliss, I tell you!
"Excuse me," says an angelic voice next to him. He lifts his gaze from his lap (where he left his laptop last paragraph,) and looks at the source. "Could you wake me up when they call up for boarding, please, if I fall asleep?"
"Of course," says Malchev, somewhat bewildered. "But we'll be boarding in 20 minutes or so,"
"Noooooooo," says the owner of the angelic voice. "They've delayed the flight until 2am, at least."
(Where have I heard this exact sort of "No" before?)
I just started laughing... I guess it just was't meant to be. When I was 5-6 years younger, there was this freak streak of incidents where I'd look at the clock, and it would be exactly 11:11pm. Day after day. It lasted for months, and soon it started to freak me out. I started checking to see if a flight I was on wasn't numbered 1111. I started being careful when driving past 11 at night... weird stuff. So I thought, irrationally, that maybe I shouldn't get on this flight anyway, after all, it was past 11pm... :)
Stupid, stupid protagonist.
I walked up to the gate and said to the guy behind the counter (he was borderline rude, of course; this must be among American Airlines' hiring criteria) that there's no point for me to even fly to Boston at this time, because I was going to miss my appointment. He gave me the brush-off, telling me to go back to the check-in line to see what they could do. I lingered, not knowing what to do, for a few moments.
At this point, a girl came running. She was clearly agitated, on the verge of bursting in tears. She had been told by the morons downstairs at the check-in line that the morons upstairs would hold the line for her to make she she could board the flight to New York. You see, she had to attend her aunt's memorial service Monday morning in Boston, and seeing as the Boston flight was delayed, she wanted to board the New York one. Oh, and by the way, AA had a systems failure so she wasn't notified of the delay until she got to the airport.
The guy told her that the flight had already been closed (true, I had seen him close the flight just a minute earlier) and ther was nothing he could do. The girl got hysterical, rightfull questioning why the fuck they had told her, nay, promised her, that she'd get a seat on the NY flight.
The moron behind the counter looked at her, then back at me, and decided I was the lesser evil. He beckoned me to follow him to the check-in counter, where he used his authority to turn my ticket into a reservation good for the next month. Now knowing what to say, I told the crying girl I was sorry for her loss, I added quickly that I hated AA, then hurried behind the moron. I told him they should have not lied to her... to no avail, of course.
So, I walked out of this bullshit with a $400 voucher and a reservation good through the month of October. I don't know what to do with either of there, because I honestly don't ever want to fly with American Airlines again. Ever.
PS: AA said the flight was delayed due to bad weather in Boston. I called my friend there the next day to ask him how the weather was. He said there was a light drizzle, but nothing that would prevent flights.
Stupid, stupid protagonist.
That weekend, señor Malchev makes his 3rd and final trek by BART to San Francisco International Airport. He makes it to the airport at 10pm for an 11:20pm flight, flies through security (because the 1st-class moron from act 2 had given him a boarding pass,) and sits down comfortably by the gate, laptop in lap (duh!) and thinking that he will definitely make it this time. High spirits all around at this late hour. The hidalgo was even contemplating a Sunday-night scotch. Ah, bliss. Bliss, I tell you!
"Excuse me," says an angelic voice next to him. He lifts his gaze from his lap (where he left his laptop last paragraph,) and looks at the source. "Could you wake me up when they call up for boarding, please, if I fall asleep?"
"Of course," says Malchev, somewhat bewildered. "But we'll be boarding in 20 minutes or so,"
"Noooooooo," says the owner of the angelic voice. "They've delayed the flight until 2am, at least."
(Where have I heard this exact sort of "No" before?)
I just started laughing... I guess it just was't meant to be. When I was 5-6 years younger, there was this freak streak of incidents where I'd look at the clock, and it would be exactly 11:11pm. Day after day. It lasted for months, and soon it started to freak me out. I started checking to see if a flight I was on wasn't numbered 1111. I started being careful when driving past 11 at night... weird stuff. So I thought, irrationally, that maybe I shouldn't get on this flight anyway, after all, it was past 11pm... :)
Stupid, stupid protagonist.
I walked up to the gate and said to the guy behind the counter (he was borderline rude, of course; this must be among American Airlines' hiring criteria) that there's no point for me to even fly to Boston at this time, because I was going to miss my appointment. He gave me the brush-off, telling me to go back to the check-in line to see what they could do. I lingered, not knowing what to do, for a few moments.
At this point, a girl came running. She was clearly agitated, on the verge of bursting in tears. She had been told by the morons downstairs at the check-in line that the morons upstairs would hold the line for her to make she she could board the flight to New York. You see, she had to attend her aunt's memorial service Monday morning in Boston, and seeing as the Boston flight was delayed, she wanted to board the New York one. Oh, and by the way, AA had a systems failure so she wasn't notified of the delay until she got to the airport.
The guy told her that the flight had already been closed (true, I had seen him close the flight just a minute earlier) and ther was nothing he could do. The girl got hysterical, rightfull questioning why the fuck they had told her, nay, promised her, that she'd get a seat on the NY flight.
The moron behind the counter looked at her, then back at me, and decided I was the lesser evil. He beckoned me to follow him to the check-in counter, where he used his authority to turn my ticket into a reservation good for the next month. Now knowing what to say, I told the crying girl I was sorry for her loss, I added quickly that I hated AA, then hurried behind the moron. I told him they should have not lied to her... to no avail, of course.
So, I walked out of this bullshit with a $400 voucher and a reservation good through the month of October. I don't know what to do with either of there, because I honestly don't ever want to fly with American Airlines again. Ever.
PS: AA said the flight was delayed due to bad weather in Boston. I called my friend there the next day to ask him how the weather was. He said there was a light drizzle, but nothing that would prevent flights.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Naga... act 2
I'm a lot less pissed off today.
Act 2. On Sunday, I went down to the airport again, arriving about 45 minutes before my flight. I head straight to the self-service kiosk because I have no luggage to check in. You see, my stuff is in Boston already, courtesy of American Airlines' well-greased bureaucracy. So I enter my confirmation number into the machine, and lo and behold, it comes up with "The flight is full, loser, we can't guarantee boarding." After the initial WTF, I ask for assistance, and the lady points to the paper-ticket line with a "I don't give a fuck" gesture. OK, so I hit "cancel" on the kiosk and line up behind the 10 or so people waiting, thinking foolishy that I still have enough time to straighten this out.
Of course, it turns out that they've installed someone with the speed and reflexes of a rheumatic tortoise. Twenty minutes later, I am saved by a wave from the guy manning the first-class booth, who had no-one to be polite to. Perhaps all the 1st-class types went over to Southwest, who knows--they'd be all the wiser for it. I walk over to him, only to hear this: "Your flight is locked out, sir. Can't board anymore, sorry."
Me: But that woman over there told me to go talk to you! That was over 2o minutes ago! And I have to be in Boston tomorrow!
Moron behind the desk: Sorry, sir, nothing I can do.
Something about me is that I can't really get angry. It happens very rarely, it's very difficult. Most of the time it just kind of blows over my head, and I keep my cool. So I didn't get angry, because I thought that I might still be able to catch the 11:20pm flight to Boston, which would arrive Monday morning. I'd change in the restroom, trying to avoid not to wipe the piss stains on the toilet with my new swanky business-casual pants, spray some deodorant, and be on my way to impress people. I really imagined such a happy ending, which, alas, was not meant to be.
So I had to take the BART home for the second and penultimate time that weekend.
Act 2. On Sunday, I went down to the airport again, arriving about 45 minutes before my flight. I head straight to the self-service kiosk because I have no luggage to check in. You see, my stuff is in Boston already, courtesy of American Airlines' well-greased bureaucracy. So I enter my confirmation number into the machine, and lo and behold, it comes up with "The flight is full, loser, we can't guarantee boarding." After the initial WTF, I ask for assistance, and the lady points to the paper-ticket line with a "I don't give a fuck" gesture. OK, so I hit "cancel" on the kiosk and line up behind the 10 or so people waiting, thinking foolishy that I still have enough time to straighten this out.
Of course, it turns out that they've installed someone with the speed and reflexes of a rheumatic tortoise. Twenty minutes later, I am saved by a wave from the guy manning the first-class booth, who had no-one to be polite to. Perhaps all the 1st-class types went over to Southwest, who knows--they'd be all the wiser for it. I walk over to him, only to hear this: "Your flight is locked out, sir. Can't board anymore, sorry."
Me: But that woman over there told me to go talk to you! That was over 2o minutes ago! And I have to be in Boston tomorrow!
Moron behind the desk: Sorry, sir, nothing I can do.
Something about me is that I can't really get angry. It happens very rarely, it's very difficult. Most of the time it just kind of blows over my head, and I keep my cool. So I didn't get angry, because I thought that I might still be able to catch the 11:20pm flight to Boston, which would arrive Monday morning. I'd change in the restroom, trying to avoid not to wipe the piss stains on the toilet with my new swanky business-casual pants, spray some deodorant, and be on my way to impress people. I really imagined such a happy ending, which, alas, was not meant to be.
So I had to take the BART home for the second and penultimate time that weekend.
The Deeper Meaning of Liff
I just received my copy, and I've been laughing my ass off for a good 20 minutes now. I first learned about this book when I read the Salmon of Doubt, another off-beat (aren't they all?) Douglas Adams book I read years ago.
A few useful words from that dictionary:
lampeter: the fifth member of a foursome;
elsrickle: a drop of sweat which runs down your bottom cleavage;
malibu: the height by which the top of a wave exceeds the height to which you have rolled up your trousers
Gems, all.
A few useful words from that dictionary:
lampeter: the fifth member of a foursome;
elsrickle: a drop of sweat which runs down your bottom cleavage;
malibu: the height by which the top of a wave exceeds the height to which you have rolled up your trousers
Gems, all.
Naga... Naga... Nagana visit Boston anyway!
I've heard a fair deal of horror stories involving airlines, but I myself have never had any major trouble with them. I mean, my luggage never ended in Guadalajara instead of in Phoenix, say, nor have I ever received my bags with assorted items in them missing. To put it briefly: I've been one happy flier.
Up until this weekend, that is, when the universe evened the score in one fell swoop.
Let me get this off my chest: American Airlines suck ass. They are hands-down, no-questions-asked, and without a shadow of doubt the worst airline ever. Now, if you may disagree. You are free to do so, but keep in mind that if you do, I will hunt you down and beat you up into submission.
I hereby solemnly swear never again to fly with those fuckers, unless of course I don't care when and where I am going, don't care when and where my luggage will end up, and/or the flight is free and I am very, very drunk.
Background: I needed to be in Boston on September 29th for an event at MIT. It starts at 9am, ends at 1:30pm or thereabouts, and it's kind of important for me to be there. I've bought my ticket well over a month in advance, thinking it was going to be through Alaska Airlines, whom I've flown with several times already and have had a very good impressions with. I need to bitch-slap them a bit too because it turned out the flight would be operated by the fuckers from AA.
Act 1: Yours truly packs his over-official suit, some less-official stuff, toothbrush, socks, whatever, neatly into a suit-bag that will last him for the next 4-5 days without trouble. Said bag has to be checked in because yours truly does not like to lug stuff around.
(I'm tired of saying yours truly, so I'm switching to first person, singular.)
I take the BART to the airport a good 1.5 hours before the flight. I check in, check my luggage in, do some striptease at the security checkpoint for a small group of dejected and scary-looking buggers who took no interest in my otherwise sexy figure ("Take your shoes off, sir!" always makes me want to ask innocently "May I leave the hat on?" in that special voice, but this time I wore no hat, so I had to suppress the urge.)
As I walk up to the gate, I notice that my boarding pass says pleasantly, in boldface they could not reserve me a seat and that they are terribly sorry. WTF? I think, but without much alarm. After all, shit works out for me at the airport, so I sit down and wait patiently. 30 minutes later someone deigns to show up at the gate, and I ask in a nonchalant voice what my seat is, and could I please get an aisle one?
Noooooo. You see, they are overbooked. I can't get onto the flight. But, my ticket! I booked it before they were even born! Noooooo, they say, most likely I'll have to wait until the next day. But hey, here's a $400 voucher if you volunteer now to take another flight, and we'll rebook you.
Oh, what about my luggage? Weeeell, it will fly to Boston, it's already checked in. But, no worries, they say, you'll be able to pick it up at Boston! Woohoo!
I think, well, it's $400, nothing to sneeze at, as long as I use the voucher before the dollar becomes one euro cent. So I said OK, let's do it. But then I get greedy. "Let's book it for Sunday at noon, actually, this would work better for me." So they book the flight for said time, and I leave happy that not only do I get a flight on Sunday, but a free voucher as well! The universe is still on my side, I think, as I rush to catch the last BART train back to the city. Little did I know.
(to be continued...)
Up until this weekend, that is, when the universe evened the score in one fell swoop.
Let me get this off my chest: American Airlines suck ass. They are hands-down, no-questions-asked, and without a shadow of doubt the worst airline ever. Now, if you may disagree. You are free to do so, but keep in mind that if you do, I will hunt you down and beat you up into submission.
I hereby solemnly swear never again to fly with those fuckers, unless of course I don't care when and where I am going, don't care when and where my luggage will end up, and/or the flight is free and I am very, very drunk.
Background: I needed to be in Boston on September 29th for an event at MIT. It starts at 9am, ends at 1:30pm or thereabouts, and it's kind of important for me to be there. I've bought my ticket well over a month in advance, thinking it was going to be through Alaska Airlines, whom I've flown with several times already and have had a very good impressions with. I need to bitch-slap them a bit too because it turned out the flight would be operated by the fuckers from AA.
Act 1: Yours truly packs his over-official suit, some less-official stuff, toothbrush, socks, whatever, neatly into a suit-bag that will last him for the next 4-5 days without trouble. Said bag has to be checked in because yours truly does not like to lug stuff around.
(I'm tired of saying yours truly, so I'm switching to first person, singular.)
I take the BART to the airport a good 1.5 hours before the flight. I check in, check my luggage in, do some striptease at the security checkpoint for a small group of dejected and scary-looking buggers who took no interest in my otherwise sexy figure ("Take your shoes off, sir!" always makes me want to ask innocently "May I leave the hat on?" in that special voice, but this time I wore no hat, so I had to suppress the urge.)
As I walk up to the gate, I notice that my boarding pass says pleasantly, in boldface they could not reserve me a seat and that they are terribly sorry. WTF? I think, but without much alarm. After all, shit works out for me at the airport, so I sit down and wait patiently. 30 minutes later someone deigns to show up at the gate, and I ask in a nonchalant voice what my seat is, and could I please get an aisle one?
Noooooo. You see, they are overbooked. I can't get onto the flight. But, my ticket! I booked it before they were even born! Noooooo, they say, most likely I'll have to wait until the next day. But hey, here's a $400 voucher if you volunteer now to take another flight, and we'll rebook you.
Oh, what about my luggage? Weeeell, it will fly to Boston, it's already checked in. But, no worries, they say, you'll be able to pick it up at Boston! Woohoo!
I think, well, it's $400, nothing to sneeze at, as long as I use the voucher before the dollar becomes one euro cent. So I said OK, let's do it. But then I get greedy. "Let's book it for Sunday at noon, actually, this would work better for me." So they book the flight for said time, and I leave happy that not only do I get a flight on Sunday, but a free voucher as well! The universe is still on my side, I think, as I rush to catch the last BART train back to the city. Little did I know.
(to be continued...)
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Español
I'm on a juggernaut of a mission to learn the major languages on Earth before dementia makes me forget them. I also seem to be hell-bent on filling up this forgotten blog all in a sudden since I started it in 2004.
Interestingly enough, 2004 is when I realized wanted to learn Spanish. I never did much on the subject, though, until May of this blessed 2008, Anno Domini. So, I bought, цифром и словом: two/2 books on grammar--one/1 pocket-edition, one/1 very-much-bigger--a dictionary of the dead-tree persuasion, two/2 digital ones, several (¡5!) books, and started.
Now, Spanish is a very interesting language. It is at the same time very regular and very weird. On the one hand, its grammar is a lot more regular than that of English. On the other, the preponderance of all those little tiny words makes understanding spoken language very challenging, to say the least. By way of example, this sounds like gibberish to untrained ears:
yo ya no te doy más de esto
Many of those tiny words may alter the meaning of the sentence completely. Also, there are lots more interjections than in English. Then there are the grammatical genders, and of course the moods, which have almost disappeared in English, but which, in the form of the subjunctive, are all over the place in Spanish. In fact, the subjunctive is used a lot more in Spanish than it is in French. Thank providence Spanish at least does not have cases. This is not the first time I'd have seen genders, complex tenses, moods, and weird interjections, because my native language is riddled with them, but, still, it doesn't make it any easier. In years past, I had found German, for example, easier than Spanish, even though German has 4 cases as well as grammatical moods, and genders.
There just are some things in Spanish which are pretty confusing. I've recently realized that part of the confusion is because Spanish uses more verb framing, and English uses more satellite framing. In other words, Spanish verbs encode not just the action, but the path of the action, whereas English uses prepositions to express the direction of the action. English has a lot of verb-framed verbs as well, but practically all of them come from Latin. For example: enter and come in. The latter is satellite-framed, because it uses a preposition to encode the direction of the action, whereas the former is verb-framed, because the direction (outside-->in) is itself encoded in the verb. I realized that Spanish has a lot more of those than English does, and they are used a lot more often as well.
There are other things too, but I'm falling asleep.
Anyways. I'm actually pretty proud of myself. In less than 6 months, I understand almost everything I hear. I've read two full books--stuttering on a 3rd one. I listen regularly to Spanish TV and radio channels, and I can actually understand WTF they are all talking about.
So, I'm gonna start posting on occasion in semi-English, semi-Spanish, semi-whatever comes to mind, with the intent that these postings will converge to literary Spanish as time goes on.
Interestingly enough, 2004 is when I realized wanted to learn Spanish. I never did much on the subject, though, until May of this blessed 2008, Anno Domini. So, I bought, цифром и словом: two/2 books on grammar--one/1 pocket-edition, one/1 very-much-bigger--a dictionary of the dead-tree persuasion, two/2 digital ones, several (¡5!) books, and started.
Now, Spanish is a very interesting language. It is at the same time very regular and very weird. On the one hand, its grammar is a lot more regular than that of English. On the other, the preponderance of all those little tiny words makes understanding spoken language very challenging, to say the least. By way of example, this sounds like gibberish to untrained ears:
yo ya no te doy más de esto
Many of those tiny words may alter the meaning of the sentence completely. Also, there are lots more interjections than in English. Then there are the grammatical genders, and of course the moods, which have almost disappeared in English, but which, in the form of the subjunctive, are all over the place in Spanish. In fact, the subjunctive is used a lot more in Spanish than it is in French. Thank providence Spanish at least does not have cases. This is not the first time I'd have seen genders, complex tenses, moods, and weird interjections, because my native language is riddled with them, but, still, it doesn't make it any easier. In years past, I had found German, for example, easier than Spanish, even though German has 4 cases as well as grammatical moods, and genders.
There just are some things in Spanish which are pretty confusing. I've recently realized that part of the confusion is because Spanish uses more verb framing, and English uses more satellite framing. In other words, Spanish verbs encode not just the action, but the path of the action, whereas English uses prepositions to express the direction of the action. English has a lot of verb-framed verbs as well, but practically all of them come from Latin. For example: enter and come in. The latter is satellite-framed, because it uses a preposition to encode the direction of the action, whereas the former is verb-framed, because the direction (outside-->in) is itself encoded in the verb. I realized that Spanish has a lot more of those than English does, and they are used a lot more often as well.
There are other things too, but I'm falling asleep.
Anyways. I'm actually pretty proud of myself. In less than 6 months, I understand almost everything I hear. I've read two full books--stuttering on a 3rd one. I listen regularly to Spanish TV and radio channels, and I can actually understand WTF they are all talking about.
So, I'm gonna start posting on occasion in semi-English, semi-Spanish, semi-whatever comes to mind, with the intent that these postings will converge to literary Spanish as time goes on.
Two Interesting People
Today, as I was walking back home from dinner, I stumbled upon a used-book store called Forest Books, on 16th & Mission. Since I am a sucker for old books, I immediately canceled all my plans for the evening, and dove in. I emerged a bit better-acquainted with the following finer points of world culture:
1) Prime Minister Nobusuke Kishi of Japan apparently kicked major ass. This guy was the governor of Japanese-occupied Manchuria during WWII, and a big wig in the Imperial regime. After the war, he was sent to prison, where he underwent some sort of metamorphosis. After he was released, he went from a POW to the highest political office in Japan, and basically oversaw the transition of this country from an imperial power to what it is today. As well-versed in world history and generally well-rounded as I consider myself, I realized that I knew next to nothing about Japan's transition, and what illuminated my ignorance is an old book, printed in 1960, called "Kishi and Japan--the Search for the Sun,"
2) by an equally impressive gentleman called Dan Kurzman, on the subject of whom the Internet is somewhat silent, with only 33,600 entries (that's 33 thousand, you weird comma-is-a-decimal-point-Europeans! How could you have a fractional number of results anyway?) I don't know if he's still alive, and if so, what he does right now, but as of 1960, he had already been a foreign correspondent for 15 years. Here's why I bought his book: on its back-cover flap, it says that "In 1958 he visited Russia, entering that country by an unusual route--from Kabul, Afghanistan, across the Hindukush Mountains to Tashkent." Wow. Wow wow wow. And that's back in 1958, when my parents were just 10-year-old, budding young communists. Just 4 years before the Cuban missile crisis. How can such a dude not have something interesting to say?
I'm a fan of these two crazy mofos. Don't know when I'll read Dan's book and become intimately familiar with Japan's post-war transition, but I'm a fan none-the-less.
1) Prime Minister Nobusuke Kishi of Japan apparently kicked major ass. This guy was the governor of Japanese-occupied Manchuria during WWII, and a big wig in the Imperial regime. After the war, he was sent to prison, where he underwent some sort of metamorphosis. After he was released, he went from a POW to the highest political office in Japan, and basically oversaw the transition of this country from an imperial power to what it is today. As well-versed in world history and generally well-rounded as I consider myself, I realized that I knew next to nothing about Japan's transition, and what illuminated my ignorance is an old book, printed in 1960, called "Kishi and Japan--the Search for the Sun,"
2) by an equally impressive gentleman called Dan Kurzman, on the subject of whom the Internet is somewhat silent, with only 33,600 entries (that's 33 thousand, you weird comma-is-a-decimal-point-Europeans! How could you have a fractional number of results anyway?) I don't know if he's still alive, and if so, what he does right now, but as of 1960, he had already been a foreign correspondent for 15 years. Here's why I bought his book: on its back-cover flap, it says that "In 1958 he visited Russia, entering that country by an unusual route--from Kabul, Afghanistan, across the Hindukush Mountains to Tashkent." Wow. Wow wow wow. And that's back in 1958, when my parents were just 10-year-old, budding young communists. Just 4 years before the Cuban missile crisis. How can such a dude not have something interesting to say?
I'm a fan of these two crazy mofos. Don't know when I'll read Dan's book and become intimately familiar with Japan's post-war transition, but I'm a fan none-the-less.
Ah, the vagaries of life.
"Meat is murder. Tasty, tasty murder," says a T-shirt I once saw. Now that's a slogan I totally identify with. I've been a carnivore ever since I discovered I had teeth. It's in my culture, damn it. We eat parts of animals most Americans would only feed to their dogs, being completely oblivious (the Americans, that is) to the fact that said dogs dine on such delicacies.
Imagine my surprise then, when I suddenly decided to go vegetarian for a month. I'm still stunned, and it's only day 2. I still don't know why I decided on that, but I'm certainly not one to back out on random decisions, and so I'll stick to it.
Today I ate soy "chicken" fried rice. Ugh. That's all I'll say about this.
Ah, the vagaries of life.
Imagine my surprise then, when I suddenly decided to go vegetarian for a month. I'm still stunned, and it's only day 2. I still don't know why I decided on that, but I'm certainly not one to back out on random decisions, and so I'll stick to it.
Today I ate soy "chicken" fried rice. Ugh. That's all I'll say about this.
Ah, the vagaries of life.
Friday, December 10, 2004
Bulgarians
I've spent the past few days reading through random blogs, mostly in Bulgarian. I even happened upon one written (very well, at that) by this elementary-school classmate of mine. The guy has some talent--check it out, his name is Christian Kirchev: http://kirchev.blogspot.com. He writes mostly in English, which is by itself an interesting feat, since he learned it all by himself. He makes many grammatical mistakes, but at the same time he manages to sound fluent... go figure.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Virgin posting :-)
I've always thought that blogging is a form of mental voyeurism. I guess I've become a voyeur :-) I am starting this blog to mark my last day at Inter-tel, Inc, and my future life in San Diego, California.
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