Lighten up, people!

"If only Africa had more mosquito nets, then every year we could save millions of mosquitoes from dying needlessly of Aids.” - Jimmy Carr


Offensive? Yes.
But so very, very funny,

Grrr.

Oh, God(s).

All morning people should be taken out and shot. At daybreak, just to drive in the hideousness of their perversion.

Microcosm

“There's a statistical theory that if you gave a million monkeys typewriters and set them to work, they'd eventually come up with the complete works of Shakespeare. Thanks to the Internet, we now know this isn't true.”
- Ian Hart

Oh, yes, much as I enjoy using the www as a platform to vent or chat or . . . whatever, I feel morally obliged to acknowledge that simply because one can write, does not mean that one should. For instance, I have personally been known to natter on ad infinitum, no, ad nauseam rather, on whatever floats into the cavity between my ears. Really, I wouldn't let me near a computer, if I were not me. Naturally, being myself, the argument is somewhat redundant, but you get the idea.

Having succumbed to the pressure of a thousand peers in high school (some years ago) and descended to the ranks of Facebook users, I need to actively weigh the pros and cons each time I steel myself to log in. On the one hand, I can read and respond to emails from friends I have little to no 'real' contact with otherwise. On the other, as soon as I glance at my Wall, I am treated to (I am looking at the damn thing right now) bull about how X 'luvs [Y] soooo much, snugglepoochies!', how M has farted at N's party, to the collective hilarity of all the guests and how G is asking friends to donate pets in the name of science. [All names have been changed to random initials, to prevent both unnecessary gossiping, and to preserve my safety from irate friends who know where I hide my chocolates.]

You see? You see?!

So, after I made a mental note to send an assassin after X, for being too disgustingly nauseating to be permitted to live, and sneak looks at the garlic chicken recipe Q has posted, while snorting at B's cruelly accurate characterizations of people we both know . . . It sucks you in!!!

This is what I mean! Even though 90 per cent of it is godawful shite, it's like a train wreck - no, actually, those are quite boring - it's like watching the autopsy of a particularly gruesome murder victim - horrific, but you can't take your eyes away.

Hmm. Or maybe that's just me.

In any case, there should be some minimum requirement of language, intelligence and interest that each would-be poster should possess, before being allowed to further defile the (highly) questionable integrity of the internet. Yes, I'll get right on that, just as soon as I find a way to make the taps in my apartment run chocolate - preferably milk chocolate fudge.

The lost art of the sestina

Tragedy is what it is, that so many people today appear not to even know what a sestina is, let alone recognise Auden's 'Paysage Moralise' as a sterling example. Par for the course is the reaction I got when I asked one of my friends for her opinion.

'Who the hell is Auden?'

Heresy! Sacrilege! Ready the bonfires, the racks, the Iron Maidens!
It is truly hideous that the above is a standard response in today's world. Not to know of Auden - the creator of such unimaginable beauty as 'If I could tell you', 'The Shield of Achilles' and 'Musee des beaux arts' - is akin to saying that one is unaware of the sublime aesthetic pleasure that words can bring. So much of the pretentious, yet dumbed-down, shite that's on bookshelves today is such utter rot that I wouldn't even use it as an alternative to toilet paper. People have learned to want a fast, action-packed story with little to no actual beauty in the words themselves.

However, I shall stop my 'meandering', as David Copperfield might put it, and return to the topic at hand: sestinas.
It is a strange predilection of today's reader that they are put off by structure in poetry, while something akin to verbal diarrhoea splattering all over the page is praised as being 'heartfelt' and 'unadulterated'. Well, if adulteration would result in something remotely aesthetically appealing and possessed of some meaning beyond 'Dude, I'm stoned - check out the pretty colours', I'm all for it.
Why is is that the rigid power of iambic pentameter is unappreciated, that the thrust of the trochee is looked down upon? Why is the exquisite detail and architecture of a sestina passed over as artificial and pretentious? Can they not see how much sheer talent it would take to compose a work of that style?

Clearly not.

Ah, well, at least this leaves more books in the library for me.

Hmm, really?

I attended the most intriguing little seminar the other day, the first of a series of colloquia at the place I'm studying.
To start with, I came prepared to make the obligatory single visit and run back to the lab at the first break. Imagine my surprise when the session was actually interesting! I was even able to recognize the first speaker! (Please note that this was due not to his celebrity - poor fellow - but to the fact that he was one of those friendly TAs for one of my courses last year.) I was most amused to find that his presentation style was heavily influenced by his teaching style - or was it the other way around? Somehow, I don't think the professor sitting at 'X position' found it equally entertaining. However, the topic he was discussing was rather impressive. How funny, to think that the nice, somewhat dopey-appearing guy who taught the tutorials was actually in the midst of rather impressive research. A filter to identify genes on islands of pathogenicity in any sample of bacteria would be quite cool, I believe. Once it exists . . .

The next fellow, while a charming presenter, was talking about something to do with trees and Bugs and rescuing the lumber industry. I'm afraid I zoned in and out of that one - it has to do with my aversion to Bugs, you see. While I am in full support of all things that eliminate the little bastards, the mere mention of them has the power to either send me running for the shower, clawing at my skin to remove the feeling of little phantom legs on me or to send me to the Happy Place in my head, where Bugs have never existed, I never have to step into the big, scary room with the blue ceiling, and 'there is lo-ots of cooooffeeeee all daaaaaayy'. Hmm. That was the worst adaptation of 'Home on the Range' ever.

It was the last speaker, though, that I found most thought-provoking. He had found, through fMRI scanning on seizure-prone rats using some contrast-creating technique I forget the name of, that there were more brain areas affected during seizures than we were previously aware of . Good stuff. I wonder if they'll be tweaking the anti-seizure meds to compensate.

I wonder . . . if I take anti-anti-seizure meds, to drastically increase brain activity (does such a thing exist?), will I get superpowers?

Things I have Stolen from the internet

(I couldn't resist - the character in the picture on the left is one of the most odious little twits on TV. That would be exactly the sort of thing he would say.)

Also, see below:
(This is what I find amusing when I am too tired to actually think.)
A cell walks into a bar and says to the barman “I’m really tired, do you have any energy for sale?”

The barman hands over a large glass of silvery energy which the cell promptly downs.

The cell passes the glass back and the barman says “That’ll be eighty pee please”

Veni Vidi Vomui

After a long sojourn in the land of 'I can't be arsed to blog', I have returned. And lo! I come bearing awkward anecdotes!

It must be one of those delightful customs I am unaware of that require all persons living in basements by themselves to be pushing health and safety standards. (Having only visited one, and that one being of the unfortunate male persuasion, I am aware that my data cannot be said to be entirely sufficient, but nevertheless. Nevertheless.)

So there I was, accompanying a friend to the home (read biohazardous pit) of her significant other, when, as soon as the door opened, we were struck by an assault, yea, verily an assault, upon our nostrils. I do not know - I do not want to know what led to the development of that horrific miasma, but I begged my friend to dump the rat immediately, using the time-honoured legal argument of 'veni, vidi, vomui'.

I came, I saw, I puked my guts out.

Well, no, not literally. But from what I smelled, clearly I wouldn't have been the first.

The mind boggles at the face of such debasement. Why? Why would you want to live in such conditions? More importantly to me, why would any sane person willingly associate with someone who chooses The Stinky Way? (Conscientious readers may be pleased to note that my friend came to her senses [which were reeling] quite fast and dumped the aforementioned rat quite quickly, making the intervention staged later that night almost superfluous.)

A note to clarify things for any self-righteous berks gearing up for a tirade against perceived discrimination:
The stench was not from the neighbourhood, but from the rat's basement, which, I might add, was attached to his parents' home, which was in turn attached to one of the more affluent areas near the university.

That said, the rant-esque anecdote is over. Live and let live, I always say. Of course I usually only say this after I have squashed any bees that had the sheer impertinence to fly into the apartment. I do let live. I let the little buggers live for the whole five minutes it takes me to get the broomstick.

Vive la chocolat!

Perhaps it is a female thing, this craving, this lust for sweets, even as I know exactly where each bite will be deposited. I have long since decided that I see no reason to deny myself these little pleasures and now take great satisfaction in downing rich desserts before certain friends of mine, who drool enviously even as the mantra thunders through their heads: `must stick to diet!`

In accordance with my firm belief in self-indulgence, I made myself a coffee pudding and threw it down my gullet as soon as it sufficiently gelled.

Why, one may wonder, would this mundane event be worthy of note? Surely it is an act repeated by millions daily. Well, its significance to me lies in the fact that it is the sole celebration I permitted myself upon the ending of my third-year lessons. So, even as I heard the noise drifting from the AMS block party, I consoled myself with the fact that I had a magnificent pudding while all the idiots outside had to take their minds off the cold and the declassé music was thin American beer.

I am bored and I want to go out and I want sushi and . . .

Sour grapes, anyone? No, really, they`ve just got a bad rep.

Don`t you just love it when your exams start right on the first working day after classes end?

---

Well, in between cursing whoever came up with the exam timetable and going over my Genetics notes, a memory of baklava pushed itself forward (after fighting past the strange morass of thoughts along the lines of `My handwriting really does suck when I`m sleepy`, `Why are there notes on my desk - do I have an incorporeal stalker?`, `Oh, right, that`s my sucky writing` and the most common one, `Am I hungry enough to cook yet?`).

Bloody hell, that`s an awful sentence.
I like it.

Anyway, back to baklava. I was fortunate enough to spend the greater part of my life in Dubai, thereby ensuring that not only did I have a ready supply of my favourite, immensely spicy food at home, I also had immediate access to excellent Arabic cuisine just a few minutes away.

Coming up with the mad idea to try my hand at making some (despite the fact that I normally dislike baklava on account of the oily nature poor specimens have), I decided to get a feel for just how insanely difficult it would be.

Imagine my shock when an immensely interesting blog I wandered across mentioned the author preparing baklava in around 10 minutes. In between feeling quite jealous of the author of tasteofbeirut.com for her clearly very cool cooking skills, I was greatly impressed by the range of recipes offered. I was also completely awestruck at both her gifts in the kitchen and her ability to put things in a `Cooking for Dummies` manner that even I was able to comprehend. I can actually follow a few recipes. Who knew?

And then, it struck. There I was, harmlessly drooling over the pictures included of several finished products, when lo! - I was assaulted by a picture of the most glorious-appearing chocolate pudding ever. And, wonder of wonders, I actually had everything needed to make it.

So, naturally, I decided to add a layer of chocolate to my coffee pudding.

To curb my impatience as I wait for this divine concoction to finish setting, I decided to rant about the aforementioned impatience on this blog and to a friend on Skype. I now feel much better after having passed my bad mood on to someone else. Ah, the joys of friendship.

---


Hmmm. You know, I just realized, what with my having Type II Diabetes and all that rot, I`m quite glad that my mother doesn`t read this.

Alea Iacta Est

I have always found that illness leaves one with a frightening amount of time for thought. Now, as the fever runs through me, making my fingers quiver slightly as they move across the keyboard, I can admit to fear.

...

*falls off chair laughing* God, that was so nauseatingly melodramatic!

Granted, I am ill, but I am writing this while comfortable ensconced in bed, all the necessities I can think of close to hand - what would I do without my beloved laptop?

I suppose, though, that die has well and truly been cast. The explosion in Japan will have repercussions for generations to come, both physically and politically. So, while our children (I do not refer to any potential offspring of mine - I have no desire to spawn) enjoy their extra limbs and malformed gametes, we will all quibble with each other about the pros and cons of nuclear energy and the politicos will do exactly as they please.

So nothing new, then.

I will allow that there are both pros and cons to anything in the world. To be otherwise would upset the natural order of things. However, what I deeply resent is the condescending pat on the head our lawmakers deliver as they go about their business. By saying that there is no danger whatsoever to Vancouverites from the explosion, you, sir, are insulting our wits. (Please note that the 'you' is a general term addressing influential politicians who will never read this. I always wanted to use that phrase.)

The general consensus of the vox populi appears to be 'up yours, darling', in response to the trite statements of the media. Good for them/us. They/we are quite right to worry about the consequences of this event.
I doubt any among us have any true desire to experience 'only' cancers due to somatic mutations. Does anyone truly want the development of monstrous offspring, due to damage to gametic DNA in this generation? After all, it isn't just humans that are affected. Granted, Godzilla's a right joke, but over several generations, it isn't impossible to imagine grotesque insects and vertebrates slowly encroaching on the world that we - quite unjustifiably - see as belonging to humans alone.

Personally, though, I'd love to see the evolution of the mythical super-carnivore. That pesky little problem of overpopulation would go down quite swiftly. And then . . . I can have all the chocolates and books left in the world. Mwahahaha!

 One thing that is quite offensive in the arguments made by certain policy-makers the world over is the way that the above possibility is glossed over. Yes, using fossil fuels damages the atmosphere. (I am aware that there are whole libraries more to do with the subject, but to Joe and Jane on the street, that is what most of them boil down to. I include myself in that grouping, having never cared enough to find out more.) However, is it not a question of locking the door after the horse has done a runner, to worry about atmospheric damage when things down here are going to the dogs?

Pas Devant Les Domestiques

I was recently struck by just how invisible a well-trained servant truly is.

I'm sure that we are all aware that, yes, the maid dusting the bookshelf has a perfectly functional pair of ears and yet some of us seem to ignore that little factoid when carrying on conversations, doing homework and - the real kicker - having a real throw-down, knock-out argument.

What this says about us as a sentient species which claims that it is the 'higher' processes of compassion and understanding, among others, that set us apart from animals, I don't quite know. Of course, personally, I have always maintained that the only real difference between us and other predators is that animals have no concept of cruelty, a most highly developed process in humans. Oh, and we wear clothes.

That aside, the fact that we can so dehumanize a person that their presence, while noted, is not truly acknowledged, is rather . . . capable of restoring my faith in the universe. Ha! Take that, you naive fools waffling on about the innate "milk of human kindness"! I knew we were a set of callous,  self-involved backstabbers.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is class discrimination at its most subtle, most ingrained, most unconscious. In short, at its finest.

Tangentially, the situation that led to this line of thought also raised another issue.
To make sense, however, I must recap:

•  A certain lady (let us call her Mrs. X) has, shall we say, a rather eventful household, full of interesting dialogue and drama.
• A certain maid (let us call her Y) has worked for Mrs. X for a while and, as such, has been privy to the little intrigues of Mrs. X's life, Mrs. X being prone to the above-mentioned common habit of becoming oblivious to one servants at times.
• Y has picked up a nasty habit: when answering the phone, if the caller is one recognized by Y as an associate of her employer, Y promptly begins to tattle and, to be frank, bitch.
• Result: horror, disgust, disapproval, etc. (On the part of callers, naturally.)

What I found interesting was that last bit. (This is not to say I didn't experience the same when my mother told me; I make no ludicrous pretensions to moral superiority.)
Why, though? Why that instinctive recoil at such behaviour? Was it truly all that shocking?

To put it another way, would we feel so repulsed if it were Mrs. X's friend, sibling or child (though I would hope they have better taste than to do so) doing the gossiping? No, of course not. We'd gasp in malicious enjoyment and say, "Really?! And then what happened?"

Oh, certainly, one might, if probed, come up with a few logical reasons for this: if Y were so dissatisfied with Mrs. X, she should seek employment elsewhere, instead of being such a nasty so-and-so; it is unethical to badmouth the household you are part of (in a way), and so on.

However, during that split-second interval between hearing the chatter and responding to it, there simply isn't time for all that to go through your head. The instinctive, knee-jerk reaction is due to Y, 'one of them', acting against 'one of us', however despised. Again, discrimination at its finest. The next reaction is "Damn, I hope Y's the only one". The same action, perfectly acceptable when committed by an equal, is instantly unpalatable when performed by one seen as inferior.

Therefore, the moral of the story is that, if you must fight (and of course you must, it's such delightful fun!), gossip or engage in other reprehensible behaviour, don't do it front of the servants. They turn around and do the same.

Seriously, though, it is a bit disappointing, even to bitter little cynics like myself, how ingrained certain prejudices seem to be. Also, the tangent I mentioned earlier: it is rather funny to see  how we appear to automatically close ranks about those we perceive as either equals or like ourselves. The caveat is that this only occurs when the 'attacker' is not from amongst us; if they were, we'd still close ranks, but we'd turn around in that metaphorical circle and watch with glee as the situation escalated.

~*~*~

Now, that being done, I shall proceed to thoroughly enjoy the remainder of the first day this week without a midterm.

*Runs off screaming about hiring an axe murderer to go after the room-mates*

It's the principle of the thing, you know?

A Tip of the Chapeau

After long consideration - read the minute and a half I spent waiting for the microwave to do microwavey things to heat my honey-and-milk - I decided that due gratitude should be shown to the inestimable persons who upload novels onto the internet without riddling them with viruses. They do a great service to the community.

I was provoked to this conclusion by a desire to read another of my beloved Amelia Peabody books, spurred in turn by having passed the public library this morning on my weekly grocery jaunt with a friend. For some time, I have been unable to make use of the facilities to read one of the above-mentioned series, which is an activity I occasionally pursue at that location. Therefore, I decided tonight that, oh, what the hell, it's a holiday, and took advantage of the - downloaded - complete works on Amelia Peabody and read the next in the series. (Also, I honestly don't think I could have stood much more Ecology without tearing up the book and jumping on the remnants.)

My distaste for prolonged exposure to Ecology aside (it has to do with Bugs - before they told me about having to touch the damn things in the labs, I was quite enthusiastic about the lessons), I am very grateful to whichever kind soul took the time to type up the considerable works of Elizabeth Peters in particular and decent writers in general for doing so. All literate but time-constrained individuals should join me in giving thanks, to a degree. Of course, there is the consideration of piracy - I never mentioned that I owned such books, merely that I had read them! - so long as people are willing to show due respect for the author and purchase at least a few of their books so as not to completely destroy their well-deserved earnings, I believe that this is a valid compromise.

To be certain, though, if I were to ever write and publish a novel, I am quite sure I would take a diametrically opposing view of the whole thing, but, hey, consistency, as David Eddings said, is the defence of a small mind.

Now, if only someone would see to uploading the latest Wheel of Time novel . . .

To Rise Above the Mundane

Today, I crossed into hitherto unexplored territory and made risotto, with copious use of The Most Foul and Evil Onion. I bore the smell bravely, by the expedient method of tying a perfume-drenched shawl across my face before starting to cook.

As I type, the beginning of this concoction is slowly - insanely slowly! - sauteing on the stove. I feel very virtuous about escaping to the kitchen and the laptop, having completed a few chapters of Ecology. I do not understand why it is necessary for Biology majors to all learn Ecology - our lives are so illuminated by gathering nasty little isopods, a skill that will make or break one's career. However, in hopes of an easy A (which looks ever more impossible the further into the term we get), I hear and I obey. I suppose it would be somewhat useful for people to gain an appreciation for the tremendous damage we are doing to the planet, but really, what's new? We all know that ecosystems today are suffering irreparable damage. Surely it would be more worthwhile to actually do something about this than to torture innocent undergraduates with having to touch Bugs?!

The lessons themselves are interesting enough, especially the facetious little suggestions that the professor offers as either causes of or solutions to the depletion of world ecosystems. My personal favourite was the idea that everyone stop having biological children, in order to reduce their carbon footprint. A close second involved the theory behind the destruction of marine ecosystems:  the Chinese craving for shark fin soup. In one fell blow, by removing a single shark's fins, suppliers are destroying several square kilometres of marine ecosystems. A most enlightening factoid. Particularly intriguing was the expression on the faces of several Far Eastern students when this was mentioned.

But I digress. The purpose of today's little ramble was to document my going beyond my usual uninspired fare of pierogies, bagels or pizza pops. To that end, I shall now go and check on the sauteing onions, garlic, ginger, peppers and scallions. I hope the damn things are finally browned.

. . .

Well, it wasn't a complete waste of effort. The veggies were reasonably browned (ie. I was too hungry to let them brown any further). On the other hand, the chicken broth I had left at high heat had nearly boiled over. Such is life. As I started to stir in the rice, I remembered just why this is an effort I rarely make - it's just too much bloody trouble! Although the end results are more than worth it . . .

In the meanwhile, as I wait for the rice to fry just enough to add the broth, I suppose a few cherry tomatoes nicked from my ingredient bowls couldn't really hurt. After all, not even I'm lazy enough to avoid rinsing off a few more.

Bon apetit to me.

I just hope the rice is done soon.

Twilight is the Antichrist

Twilight is the Antichrist and Robin Hobb is all that stands between us and annihilation.

Have you ever been treated to one of those raves by a *cough* friend on how utterly "dreamy" Edward Cullen is, or how the Twilight "saga" has opened up their eyes to fantasy?
When I was subjected to this drivel by an associate a short while ago, it took considerable self control to stop myself from pounding the nonsense out of her head on the spot. I came to my senses when I realized that I had just cleaned the apartment and bloodstains would be hell to get out of the carpet. She just wasn't worth the Chlorox.

In any case, it is quite insulting to a fantasy afficionado such as myself to hear third-rate Mills-and-Boon-esque trash described as being depictive of the fantasy genre. By doing so, people are classing Stephanie Meyer with the likes of J. R. R. Tolkien, Terry Pratchett and Robin Hobb, when just using them as a comparison is an insult to writers of that calibre! With all due respect to Ms. Meyer (hah! let's measure that, shall we?), these are two wholly separate forms of writing, with one being light years above the other.

While I am proud to say that I have never read any of the Twilight books, I did actually sit through a few minutes of the first movie. The fifteen minutes or so before I dozed off were quite sufficient for me to realize that I would not touch the books with an acid-coated stick. (Well, I would, just to watch them dissolve, but you get the picture.) However, my personal dislike of the series is not entirely why I find statements like the one that sent me on this rant offensive.

I believe that every being on the planet that is not cerebrally challenged has the freedom to express their opinion on a given matter. I make use of this right quite often. However, to quote the immortal Pratchett, no practical definition of freedom would be complete without that upon which all the others are based: the freedom to take the consequences. Therefore, those who take the Twilight series as being representative of the fantasy genre, while doing no further research into the matter, should feel no surprise at being verbally lambasted.

From what I understand of the plot of the series (All hail Wikipedia!), the female protagonist, Bella, is merely a pathetic, whiny little wretch whose obsession with her over-controlling boyfriend verges on addiction. And this is being thought of as fine fantasy?! Excuse me while I regurgitate my dinner, mustard, peppery cheese and all.

I suppose what it all boils down to is that the trash that the majority of contributors to popular culture read is of such substandard quality that even a poor excuse for a novel looks like literature.

We need Books, as opposed to Mass-Produced Junk-Food Equivalents.

Ms. Hobb, would you mind obliging by writing yet another of your outstanding Farseer novels?

To Begin at the Start

After considerable thought - read onset of Boredom 10 minutes after finishing my new Terry Pratchett - I was overcome by the urge to add my thoughts to the vox populi, by weakening before the blog epidemic, despite having held strong against it for several years.

Ah, well. Hypocrisy runs in the best of us - from whom I am quite far.

So here I am, ready to blog. Upon consideration, this doesn't seem a particularly good idea, considering the dearth of interesting activities in my life at the moment. Hmm, I wonder what counts as bloggable. Do the lunch/dinner menus of lazy undergraduates make the cut? Regardless of the eligibility of such a topic, I shall now discuss it with great enthusiasm.

I had lunch.

. . .

It looks as though this will take some work. Let us try again.

I had a most interesting lunch, wherein I expended a great deal more than my usual effort and did NOT thaw out a pizza or bagel. *Gasps* No, instead, I made . . . burgers.

I note the lack of applause and astonishment at this unusual sign of culinary creativity. Would it help if I mentioned that hot sauce, mustard and peppered cheese were involved? No, probably not.

In any case, I must now return to the weary drudge of studying for my forthcoming midterm. Bleargh.