I found out that I still have a ways to go before I get a good hang on the thing.
Heh.
No, I already regret the crude double entendre, if you must ask, but I'm referring to my lack of proficiency in blogging, not in sex.
The sudden self-awareness moment spurs from the last five minutes, when loud frustration and much swearing could not help me remember several ideas for posts I had yesterday. So not only I put off the writing when I had a bit of (arguable) inspiration, but I managed to forget even the cues that could have helped me later.
Not a great loss, I admit it, so never mind that.
I do have a good post lined up on swearing, though. I remember that. Now, what can I do in the meantime to forget it?
2009-03-24
2009-03-23
Life expectations
Some day I hope I'll have kids, so that I can ruin their life by giving them too high moral standards for the world they'll be living in.
2009-03-22
If I were a Forrest I'd be running that often too
One of the things I love more about weekends is that I can afford to have the attention span of a dog in a park (or of an American 8-year old, if you don't like the classic goldfish).
All the food I bought for the next two weeks is stacked on the kitchen table; every piece of clothing I've worn, bought, washed or otherwise handled is scattered on my bedroom floor; every dish, glass, knife, bowl, tool I've used is impatiently waiting in the sink for when I'm good and ready to wash it.
Of course it has to do with me having to be precise, structured, timely and spot-on in every little thing every working day. I'm not naturally anal like that, so to even it out I have to let go "a little" on weekends. If you're kind-hearted you can call it my artistic side trying to surface. If you aren't you can go f... you get my point.
The one good thing I did, all in all, was a good run this afternoon. (Yes, I'm blogging about me working out. How original.) Unimpressive, save for the fact that I hardly ever run in this city. And (you guessed, right?) I'm going to tell you all about why.
All the food I bought for the next two weeks is stacked on the kitchen table; every piece of clothing I've worn, bought, washed or otherwise handled is scattered on my bedroom floor; every dish, glass, knife, bowl, tool I've used is impatiently waiting in the sink for when I'm good and ready to wash it.
Of course it has to do with me having to be precise, structured, timely and spot-on in every little thing every working day. I'm not naturally anal like that, so to even it out I have to let go "a little" on weekends. If you're kind-hearted you can call it my artistic side trying to surface. If you aren't you can go f... you get my point.
The one good thing I did, all in all, was a good run this afternoon. (Yes, I'm blogging about me working out. How original.) Unimpressive, save for the fact that I hardly ever run in this city. And (you guessed, right?) I'm going to tell you all about why.
- Right off the bat, the pollution, which is the biggest turn-off for my motivation. It's bad enough I have to breathe this crap, forget about doing aerobic workout. The only way around it is running in public parks.
- However (unless, thanks to the credit/housing/jobs crisis you're sleeping in a tent with the other bums, in which case you'd better spend your energies differently) you have to go there and then get back. The only practical way to do so, for me, is running, since I haven't got a car (and I wouldn't use it anyway. Think of driving back without showering: eurgh), riding my bike back when I'm all sweaty might kill me, just like other passengers of public transport would.
- So you meet traffic, the first real enemy (I understand so far it's just pointless whining). Running on dead hours helps (early mornings, lunchtime on weekends) but in this city ruled by cars you're never safe. This is especially true if you have to cross/run along heavily-trafficked, lightly-regulated avenues as I have.
- May the Flying Spaghetti Monster help you if, instead, your way to the park includes high streets (or other places densely packed with twats). Unless you're actually looking for a realistic mosh pit simulator. (I have another post planned on the joys of walking among the crowds, btw.)
- Worse than that are people in the park. Not the other runners, but those who are just having a stroll and wander mindlessly and clog the paths. I could put up with their sudden changes in direction, dogs, rampaging children and the like, but it's perfumes and smoke that really get on my nerves. (Among my talents I list the ability to get a splitting headache by inhaling a single whiff of perfume or smoke, when I'm exercising.)
- And talking about scents, what really kills me are the all-tempting gusts of food coming from the inevitable stalls. I realise eating some deep-fried crap is not the purpose of a run, but go tell it to my stomach.
- My speed and posture dramatically improve when I'm in the vicinity of a pack of girls. Obviously.
- Every obstacle I list above can be used to spice up your run: when your way is blocked you can dash through the lawns, jump over small animals or children (in both cases, beware the lashes), benches, practise your mad dribbling skillz (only if you can pull that off, or if I'm around to laugh at the sight of you misjudging a side step and crashing into someone).
2009-03-17
Up against the laziness and the toil
So, it turns out that having a blog is harder work than I can put up with, apparently.
Never mind that I have objectively been busy, because I could easily have wedged in a half hour on a weekend to drop a few scattered thoughts. I just couldn't be arsed.
That is, until I remembered a blog post I read months ago, where the author (by now I've forgotten who that was, if I read it via twitter, whatever) argued that while blog numbers were sky-rocketing, thousands being created every day, less than *half* made it to more than a couple of posts before the "blogger" threw their hands in the air in frustration.
So, being the pretentious elitist ass I am, I can't bear the thought of being like the majority of lusers that lurk the intarwubs, and here I am bashing again on my laptop keyboard.
Or maybe I've recently had a big disappointment in my life, and I need to blow off some steam to avoid a complete nervous breakdown. I won't tell.
Yes, I know a shag usually serves the purpose better, thanks, mate. I'm trying that, too. It's called diversification, bitch, and I'm not taking finance lessons by the first prick that ends up on my blog.
So, blogging and sex. Let's see how long I last (pun intended, obviously).
Never mind that I have objectively been busy, because I could easily have wedged in a half hour on a weekend to drop a few scattered thoughts. I just couldn't be arsed.
That is, until I remembered a blog post I read months ago, where the author (by now I've forgotten who that was, if I read it via twitter, whatever) argued that while blog numbers were sky-rocketing, thousands being created every day, less than *half* made it to more than a couple of posts before the "blogger" threw their hands in the air in frustration.
So, being the pretentious elitist ass I am, I can't bear the thought of being like the majority of lusers that lurk the intarwubs, and here I am bashing again on my laptop keyboard.
Or maybe I've recently had a big disappointment in my life, and I need to blow off some steam to avoid a complete nervous breakdown. I won't tell.
Yes, I know a shag usually serves the purpose better, thanks, mate. I'm trying that, too. It's called diversification, bitch, and I'm not taking finance lessons by the first prick that ends up on my blog.
So, blogging and sex. Let's see how long I last (pun intended, obviously).
2008-12-03
These are hard times we're living
Yesterday was a very rewarding day, albeit in ways I couldn't really foresee:
On a completely unrelated note, since we're in a worldwide recession, the developed economies are struggling to avoid collapse, and most big firms are axing jobs everywhere, tomorrow I'm leaving for a 5-day, fully-expensed company ski trip to the Alps.
Oh yeah, I've been worse.
- One of my favourite enigmists (yes, I'm kind of a nerd that way), who runs a daily section in the biggest national newspaper website, published (under my full name) a game I sent him, publicly stating his appreciation
- For the first time in my life I've followed a live Internet broadcast by one of my favourite webcomic artists (yes, I'm kind of a nerd that way, too), watching him draw a strip and listening to him cocking about with his "bros", and I actually got him to laugh out loud at a joke I chatted (I'm even more of a nerd, that way, I know).
On a completely unrelated note, since we're in a worldwide recession, the developed economies are struggling to avoid collapse, and most big firms are axing jobs everywhere, tomorrow I'm leaving for a 5-day, fully-expensed company ski trip to the Alps.
Oh yeah, I've been worse.
2008-12-02
Weird Night
Last night was definitely one of the weirdest nights I've had in quite a while.
I had to stay late in the office (not unusual fare, and 10 PM is not even that bad, given my job). By pure chance all my teammates had already called it a day, and of course all client employees were long gone. And by that I mean everyone in the building.
So there I was, right after delivering a project document, all by my lonesome, in a quiet and dark office (which is actually the best situation if you have to work late: no distractions and no colleagues popping in with any issues that need dealing with immediately). I turned off my laptop, packed my stuff up, put my coat on, went down the usual back stairs, pushed the back door open, and found an iron gate right in front of me. Locked.
The very iron gate that's always left open, so that the occasional consultant that stays late can actually leave: the same iron gate I've gone through countless times at night (during office hours the front door is open). Apparently the security guard that stays till 9 PM, and who should check if anyone's left in the building, failed to spot me (I'm 1.95, but never mind). Or maybe it just slipped his mind. Anyway, it didn't really matter: I was stuck.
Just to be sure, I checked that the front entrance was also locked, as usual (yup), and that there wasn't a button or key or something that opened the gate (nope, duh). I knew from past experience that there was no other way out (long story...), but that the security post in the main client building (24/7, less than 50 metres away) had the keys to my building. Right, then, a no-brainer: I just needed to ring them up.
Which proved to be the real challenge. You'd figure somewhere in the building there'd be a sign, a memo, a bloody address book on the guard desk with the number, but I couldn't find it. Well, I didn't look for long, but after all I was the only person in a locked building, with almost all the lights off (and no way to turn them on: the main panel was locked), rummaging aroung making light with my cell phone: just a little suspicious-looking...
At a point I even went back to the office, fired up the laptop and searched the client intranet portal for the bloody number, but again I failed to find any mention to it (I found several promising ones, but nobody picked up: strange, isn't it, at 11 PM?), not even on the yellow pages or anywhere on the Internet.
In the end I resorted to calling a colleague who I knew was having dinner nearby, begged her to go fetch the guards, and accommodate my shattered ego in the lobby. To keep my mind from the preposterousness of the situation, I texted or tried to call all of my friends: the only reply I got was a friend (who shall remain anonymous to protect the innocent ba***rd) calling just to have a good laugh at me. How lovely.
After what felt like an hour (of course it was actually not even 15 minutes: I had a consultant helping me out, after all) I saw my colleague and a guard approaching the main entrance and trying to get in. I say "trying" because apparently the security man was either too heavy or too big (or both) to get the emergency mechanism in the revolving door to work: so he handed over the keys to my bemused friend, who had to come in herself and rescue yours truly.
After a stiff talk by the security guard (yes, it was him reprehending me for being trapped in his building), and after a laugh with my friend (it was a funny situation indeed), I headed off to the subway to catch a late train home (yeah, no fancy taxi rides for me: the client is in the same city I'm based in).
While waiting on the platform, I was approached by an odd couple of gentlemen, one of whom was... just a tad intoxicated (he couldn't even stand: his friend, luckily for them quite big, had to carry him around). And of course he proceeded to happily chat me up... in an unmistakably Dutch-accented English.
In the short timespan of the wait plus the ride, I got to know that:
So, if in a few days a blurry photo of an amused-looking Dude, with a grey scarf and a black coat, pops up on facebook (or flickr, or wherever) on a middle-aged Dutch consultant's profile, together with (I'd wager) a lot of other pics of the bloke getting drunk in a club, please don't tell me.
You can't make this stuff up.
I had to stay late in the office (not unusual fare, and 10 PM is not even that bad, given my job). By pure chance all my teammates had already called it a day, and of course all client employees were long gone. And by that I mean everyone in the building.
So there I was, right after delivering a project document, all by my lonesome, in a quiet and dark office (which is actually the best situation if you have to work late: no distractions and no colleagues popping in with any issues that need dealing with immediately). I turned off my laptop, packed my stuff up, put my coat on, went down the usual back stairs, pushed the back door open, and found an iron gate right in front of me. Locked.
The very iron gate that's always left open, so that the occasional consultant that stays late can actually leave: the same iron gate I've gone through countless times at night (during office hours the front door is open). Apparently the security guard that stays till 9 PM, and who should check if anyone's left in the building, failed to spot me (I'm 1.95, but never mind). Or maybe it just slipped his mind. Anyway, it didn't really matter: I was stuck.
Just to be sure, I checked that the front entrance was also locked, as usual (yup), and that there wasn't a button or key or something that opened the gate (nope, duh). I knew from past experience that there was no other way out (long story...), but that the security post in the main client building (24/7, less than 50 metres away) had the keys to my building. Right, then, a no-brainer: I just needed to ring them up.
Which proved to be the real challenge. You'd figure somewhere in the building there'd be a sign, a memo, a bloody address book on the guard desk with the number, but I couldn't find it. Well, I didn't look for long, but after all I was the only person in a locked building, with almost all the lights off (and no way to turn them on: the main panel was locked), rummaging aroung making light with my cell phone: just a little suspicious-looking...
At a point I even went back to the office, fired up the laptop and searched the client intranet portal for the bloody number, but again I failed to find any mention to it (I found several promising ones, but nobody picked up: strange, isn't it, at 11 PM?), not even on the yellow pages or anywhere on the Internet.
In the end I resorted to calling a colleague who I knew was having dinner nearby, begged her to go fetch the guards, and accommodate my shattered ego in the lobby. To keep my mind from the preposterousness of the situation, I texted or tried to call all of my friends: the only reply I got was a friend (who shall remain anonymous to protect the innocent ba***rd) calling just to have a good laugh at me. How lovely.
After what felt like an hour (of course it was actually not even 15 minutes: I had a consultant helping me out, after all) I saw my colleague and a guard approaching the main entrance and trying to get in. I say "trying" because apparently the security man was either too heavy or too big (or both) to get the emergency mechanism in the revolving door to work: so he handed over the keys to my bemused friend, who had to come in herself and rescue yours truly.
After a stiff talk by the security guard (yes, it was him reprehending me for being trapped in his building), and after a laugh with my friend (it was a funny situation indeed), I headed off to the subway to catch a late train home (yeah, no fancy taxi rides for me: the client is in the same city I'm based in).
While waiting on the platform, I was approached by an odd couple of gentlemen, one of whom was... just a tad intoxicated (he couldn't even stand: his friend, luckily for them quite big, had to carry him around). And of course he proceeded to happily chat me up... in an unmistakably Dutch-accented English.
In the short timespan of the wait plus the ride, I got to know that:
- The two of them were also management consultants, in my city for business
- They were from the same Dutch city where I spent my Erasmus year (where I met the friend who called to make fun of me, and where he still lives)
- The drunk man's son is called like me
- Lots of pointless but exhilarating bits and pieces of information about his life, beliefs and philosophy.
So, if in a few days a blurry photo of an amused-looking Dude, with a grey scarf and a black coat, pops up on facebook (or flickr, or wherever) on a middle-aged Dutch consultant's profile, together with (I'd wager) a lot of other pics of the bloke getting drunk in a club, please don't tell me.
You can't make this stuff up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
