Whassap?

Fine, Budweiser Frogs references are sooo, 1996. As an aside, did you know those commercials were directed by the same guy who directed the movie, Celtic Pride. Never heard of it? There you go.

But really, it's pretty cool when you find neat things that have been right under your nose all along, but which you didn't even know existed. Particularly at work. Wandering around campus looking for photo shoot locations last week, I came across the University's medical museum, a small tucked-away room filled mostly with things used to teach medical students. Body parts at random. And not in the good way. Much of it wouldn't exactly be housed in the type of museum to which I am accustomed (not being a veteran of the museum of the macabre circuit), but was interesting nonetheless. And just a titch unsettling for a stomach untrained in gross anatomy. Stress on gross.

Apart from plastic models which take the bloody mess out of dissection, there were also various pickled body parts. Real ones. Kosher dill, anyone? Most compelling was the hand -- skin peeled back to expose the intricate detail of the fine web-work of veins, musculature and tendons. I could somehow picture it reaching out from the soil, trying in vain (vein?) to clutch at my throat. Other things I saw in there, I'll spare you the details of. Suffice it to say that my colleague and I both decided we wouldn't be eating liver and onions in the foreseeable future (though -- not thinking -- I peeled back a can of smoked oysters that night and relived much of the experience anyway).

I'd give an arm and a leg to have muscles like this guy. Wait a second. But with skin still attached. Otherwise, it would be just creepy, not to mention messy. Some of this stuff in the museum seemed to be straight out of a horror movie set. But the most revealing thing of the whole experience was that I could really never be a doctor. Sigh.

on writing

My pen, like scalpel,
builds you from bones
to meat to muscle
and then trains those lean sinews
to rise and climb from the page.
Alive.
2005.02.09

Hand-Suckin' Good.

On the heels of the last post, I couldn't resist including this sign, of which SCS took a picture when she was in Tanzania a couple of months ago. A great example of 'lost-in-translation'. Unless, of course, the food is just so darn good that it merits so much more than just a simple 'Finger-lickin''. Then again, maybe Colonel Sanders served them with a cease and desist notice for trademark infringement. The way I eat sometimes, this just might be more appropriate.

More Products from Asia.

Regular visitors to this electronic repository of random thoughts will know I tend to appreciate signs or products which can be construed in an unintended manner, or which are simply not from the realm of the mundane in North America. Alternate meanings, non-sequiters and childish humour abound (past examples here). Oh, and I definitely have a a taste for the new and the unfamiliar -- the taste of experience.

Such examples often arise out of translational (linguistic and cultural) differences or misunderstandings and I certainly found a number of instances which were comical to me during my trip to Malaysia earlier this winter. Having just returned from the Philippines, SCS brought back a few items which are less funny than they are different and interesting. I'm eager to tear into them and see how the concept of 'treats' differs on the other side of the world.

Above, are a number of confectionery bars produced by Minco Industrial Confectionery Corp. in the Philippines. The Ube bar, is made from Ube (purple yam) milk cream, buttermilk, sugar and glucose. Because when that 3:30 hunger pang hits, the first think I think of is cramming my maw with a yam bar. I guess some people do.

The "Quality Trusted" tag on the second bar made me chuckle. It's made of mangosteen, commonly referred to in Asia as the "Queen of Fruits". Which led me to wonder what the King of Fruits is. A quick online check not only provides us with an answer, it also gives us a perfect segue for the last of the bars: durian. Stinky, stinky durian. Comically packaged with the line, "Source of highest vitamins for body nourishment", there's no mention of just how horrible durian tastes. Or smells. Really -- I'm not even kidding. Everywhere we went in Malaysia, public places were littered with signs banning durian and threatening steep fines, all because of the smell. But don't take it from me, take this funny description from travel and food writer Richard Sterling:

"... its odor is best described as pig-shit, turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock. It can be smelled from yards away."

The bottom box, from Tokyo, is simply a beautiful piece of packaging, right down to the individually packaged sablé cookies in transparent wrap to best show off the bird-shaped confections inside. Japanese design: top-notch. And no yams in the cookies.

Stairway to Heaven?

Let's review: winter in this part of Canada tends to be cold. And icy. I had to delight at the delicious irony, therefore, of how little foresight into such weather phenomena the local home builders' association had in planning the stairs leading to their offices.

Not only does the building appear to be inaccessible by wheelchairs, the selection of steep, slippery, metal stairs with narrow steps boggles my mind for an association of "...professional organizations comprised of builders, renovators, developers, suppliers, subcontractors and supporting financial institutions and professions committed to ethical building and business practices." In short, to promote the need for making sure people build better homes. Ah, but I suppose this building is not a home. At least there were railings -- with a thin layer of ice rounding the lip of each step, there was a need to use both today.

The only thing that would have made this whole scene more absurd? The presence of a personal injuries law firm in the same building.

Inadvertent Porn.

Yesterday's post was all about words; today, I am compelled to tackle design. SCS returned from the Philippines last night and -- in her infinite wisdom and foresight -- she knew I would very much appreciate the humour inherent in this placemat, uncovered at a family restaurant during her travels. At the very least, she knew that it would make good blog fodder.

I could go on about how the design consists of a hodgepodge of assorted (not to mention incongruous) images, like the floating sandwiches. Why, pray-tell, aren't they the slightest bit soggy? Didn't Columbus sail the ocean blue on a Monte Cristo? I could also go on about the very-obviously Photoshopped-in flag flying, a couple of sizes too large, over the port.

But, no, the true essence of this design disaster lies not in the inadvertent port, but in the inadvertent porn. That's right, taking the metaphorical cake is the fondue fountain or iced pastry (I'm still not sure what it is), gushing out over the Philippines. Did I mention this is for a family restaurant?

Vertically-Challenged Stories.

I found this morsel of academic humour elsewhere in the blogosphere this morning and it made me chuckle, particularly considering how much brevity really can be the key to successful writing. In a twist of contradictions, while I generally consider myself to be a more than competent writer, I can also tend toward being a wordy bastard. As evidenced -- repeatedly -- throughout this blog. Sigh, windbag, crafting my own noose out of additional letters.

Of more import, however, it also reminded me of the 55 word fiction contest, produced out of California for nearly 20 years (I'm not sure if it's still running -- the web site hasn't been updated in a while). The first book they produced is one of my favourite reads of all time. Brief. Each story, 55 words or fewer, brief. Yet wildly entertaining and brimming with talent in appetizer-like proportions. The essence of a story distilled to its essential elements. Concentrated, like the writer, putting pen to paper.

The blogosphere being what it is, I see someone has picked up the torch and begun a blog to compile like minded, (really) short stories, here. The only rules: for it to be considered a story, you must have a setting, a character or characters, conflict and a resolution. Whittle your pencils because, in a breath, 55 words will have escaped into thin air.

A couple examples of mine:

to have nine lives (55 words)

"The jaguar pounced, seemingly taking feline flight as I hit the speed bump and the bottle. The engine purred its throaty growl as the fender gnashed at the tarmac. The cat spun on its haunches, its tires pawing and eyes glowering toward the supple cries emitting from what I had thought was a speed bump."
2003.08.05

an everlasting hunger (55 words)

"Maria circled her arm under his neck, running her fingers through his hair. She loved him, longed for him and awaited his tender kiss. She had never seen him this way and thought wistfully of the past and their love's growth throughout the years.

And she lowered the lid and her veil with a tear."
2002.08.25

Morbid, perhaps. But only briefly.

Crap, People.

That's "Crap, (comma) people," not a direction to "Crap people". Punctuation, ever so important. Seriously. I somehow can't believe how, in this day and age, some still need reminders to flush. And this, in an institution of higher learning no less. If my manners were in the crapper like that, I'd be flushed with embarrassment. I don't need to see your treats, folks.

Worst thing is, I've seen way too much evidence of late that -- even with a reminder -- people still need help. A toilet valet maybe? You know, it's tough to muster the strength to depress that little silver lever. That stinks.

Bringing out the Nerd in Me.

I've been away from this whole blog thingamajig of late, but not away from the computer. No, keys tapping in fists of flurry, I've instead been busy reacquainting myself with my inner-geek --not to mention discovering how compulsive I can sometimes be. Maybe I knew all along, but just didn't want to face it. Something about colour-coding my shirts and alphabetizing my CD collection might have been the grand tip-off.

See, a little more than a week ago, I was finally able to break down and order a new laptop and I have since spent far too much time transferring all of my data from the old computer. As it turns out, I have many large music and photo files. Many. And it took quite a bit of time to welcome them to their new home. After a year spent plotting the purchase of a new laptop, I spent the 25 hours from order to delivery driving everyone around me nuts, constantly refreshing the online order tracking form for progress. Like I was an expectant father, fingers tapping with a parched caffeine drip hanging languidly from my vein. "Order received. Packed. Shipped. En route." Of course, everyone else needed to be updated throughout. "Dilated, 120km". Yeah, you could say I was giddy. Or something.

Most exhausting, however, was the sheer number of hours I spent meticulously re-tagging music files so that they would all follow the same format. Before changing my mind as to how they should look. Then -- inevitably -- finding an easier way to do it. And changing them again. All albums are now tucked into appropriate folders and have been conveniently clad in their respective album covers. Pretty, but at what cost? Have I gone mad? Am I alone in such neuroses? I sigh with relief under the assumption I am likely not (either mad, or alone). Really, much like cleaning a new house, it helps to start with an attempt at being organized because you know the clutter is going to come. In a deluge.

Photos, too, have been properly sorted by month and year; raw files playing across the school yard from edited versions. Cliques form within cliques as re-sized photos drift apart from those small enough for email, those deemed "Arty" and those bastard sons: the blog photos. Sweat on furrowed brow, I believe I finally have things at a manageable stage (though I there are still a few things I want to integrate). Breathing. A sigh of relief. The caffeine drip has worn off.

So, the details: the new arrival is a Sony Vaio VGN-N170G with a 120 GB hard drive, 1GB of RAM and an Intel Core Duo T2050 processor with a 1.60 GHZ processor speed. Not the biggest rocket in the computer world, but by far an upgrade over what I had been using previously. And most importantly, it fit into the budget. Particularly since work was picking up the tab. Mac users no doubt giggle and aficionados likely decry its presence on the computer landscape, but I'm nonetheless pretty geeked.

As a celebration of the new laptop, I decided to have a little fun with the idea of Transparent Screens (for more, and better iterations, visit this Flickr set). After all of the time I've spent on the computer lately, I didn't really want to devote much more to making the shot perfect, nor to using any tricks in Photoshop, so the first version above is from about ten minutes of playing. A couple of the shots lined up a little better than this one, but it was the action shot of Charlie, likely pouncing on a fruit fly (being the big hunter he is), which made it much funnier to me. I think, maybe, he was just as excited as I about the new Vaio. "Yeah UD, it means more pictures of me now. Um, where's my treat?" The second shot was actually my first attempt, but I whacked the box, throwing it all out of alignment. I guess I crackered under pressure.

Can I 'Axe' you a Question? Why, Oh Why?

Ugh. It's decidedly tough to ascertain which is more obnoxious: the commercials for Axe body spray or the smell of the product itself.

Axe is branded -- perhaps, tongue-in-cheek -- as somewhat of an aphrodisiac (then again isn't tongue in cheek the point of an aphrodisiac in the first place?) But with a smell like plastic flowers disintegrating in a vat of battery acid, little tester bottles floating around the office have been the source of practical jokes over the the past few weeks. And retaliatory advances, carefully plotted with military precision.

A quick glance at Wikipedia reveals that the product originated under the name 'Ego' (as in Leggo my Ego?) before becoming 'Lynx'. Given the only type of woman this product could really only ever hope to attract (and given that the product is targeted at the younger market), it might have been more aptly named 'Cougar'.

"THE AXE EFFECT is the internationally recognized name for the increased attention AXE-wearing males receive from eager, and attractive, female pursuers."

Really? The last time we pulled out our little canisters (again, at the office), the ladies pulled out their little canisters. Only theirs was mace. Axe in the nose or mace in the eyes -- really, a tough call for which would be worse.

As someone who likes to read fine print, and particularly the main ingredients in things I eat, I really had to chuckle that the first warning on the bottle read: "Not for intimate use". Come on people, really? Is this what the world is coming to? Heat warnings on coffee cups, fat warnings on Big Macs and this? I'm thinking that anyone silly enough to use this product in such a manner deserves to smell like Pepé Le pew. And go home alone. Pants, ablaze.

With such a base form of marketing, I'm just surprised that, beside the line, "Container might explode if heated" isn't included a separate tag line: "Just like you."

Auctioneer (Another Engine).

I've long wanted to take in an auction, both for the experience and for the possibility of uncovering some great bargains. Greeted by the strong smells of stale tobacco and alcohol, bacon, eggs and church, SCS and I made our way to one of the local auction houses this morning, wandering in an hour into the four hour proceedings. Rookies on the floor, nervously flinching with our buyer card. The vets paid us no mind, perched as they were like birds of prey on plastic chairs -- copious notes and quick tallies, furiously scribbled into their catalogues. And still, we turned around to scratch our noses with eyes cast downward, lest we be pegged as buyers of crazy old Aunt Ruthie's favourite crocheted mauve slippers, always tucked lovingly onto arthritic feet. And under Morris, her sweaty cat's belly.

No, we have better taste than that. Still, it felt a little like Antiques Roadshow meets garage sale meets Vegas -- every item was a potential gamble, chock full of adrenaline coursing through your veins as players anted up. Are they bluffing, or do you fold? You might just end up with something nice. In the end you wind up with something: your purchase, or a broken heart -- lamenting the one that got away. Yeah, just like Vegas. Ensuring you don't get sucked into the fevered vortex of the moment can be a challenge, particularly for people as competitive as SCS and I both are. That said, with a little bit of research and a set price in mind, you can get some really good deals. So long as you are able to walk away from something you wanted when the auctioneer's chatter climbs a little too high. And the chatter can be quite something.

First and foremost, I was amazed by how pretty much everything goes. When an item doesn't receive much interest, the auctioneer combines it with something else in a package deal. A bonus nobody wanted. Plates, dishes and teacups rarely sold individually; rather, they ended up being combined. It was also incredible to see how cheaply some items sold: a great condition, antique wooden kitchen set, including a table with eight chairs and a hutch? 10 dollars. What? How can you go wrong there? While still a little out of my price range, a Haines Brothers square grand piano with intricately carved legs from the 1800s sold for $600. A quick look on the Internet and I found a similar one which just sold for $25,000. The auction's highlighted item, it would have likely cost about as much as the purchase price just to move it out of the warehouse.

Upon the sale of a cross filled with holy water, a fellow first-timer remarked: "Jesus, sold for 15 bucks? Sacrilege". SCS had fancied a couple pieces of furniture. She has a good eye: those items, of course, ended up being a couple of the day's highest draws and she came home empty-handed. There were obviously some professional buyers in there, grabbing things with good resale value, but there were still good deals to be had.

We participated in a couple of the auctions, but rarely ventured beyond the price raising a couple of times. We hadn't yet grasped auction strategy and were slow reacting on a couple of bids. But we didn't get sucked in, either. Not wanting to leave completely empty-handed, I did win a lot comprised of old glass bottles for five dollars. Much like old books, writing implements and printing plates, I've always had a fondness for old glass -- and particularly bottles. They were just so much more solid, made in interesting colours and shapes, and often had things embossed into them.

One is from Lavoris mouthwash; another big chunky bottle was for Enos Fruit Salts, which was reportedly used for easing stomach discomfort. The neatest, though, is a small rectangular bottle originally used for Davis Vegetable Painkiller. Patented in 1845, it is believed this product was the first nationally advertised remedy specifically for general pain and was distributed around the world by Christian missionaries. Lost out on some old pens and an antique child's chair with a drawer built into the base. Oh well. I think we'll be back another time; if nothing else, it was a fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

"Do ah hear five...fi..fi..fi...fi an' a quartah...fi...fi...fi an' a quartah?"

Stick it to Them.

Around the world, it sometimes seems to be assumed that Canadians are born not with silver spoons in our mouths, but silver hockey sticks and blades of steel which carve paths through our childhoods in graceful figure eights. You know, long winters and all (though this season has certainly exposed the veracity of global warming).

In a general way, I long ago tore the ticket stub on my time as a hockey fan (of course, with scanners these days, they don't actually tear ticket stubs anymore). Sure, there was indeed a time when I could quote all the nuances in the rulebook and hastily recite stories which had become lore from the times when we first started peeling the tops off of lacrosse balls (now that's a bouncy puck, my friends) through 'One-eyed' Frank McGee to the goon era and finally, to the ascendancy of the Great One. And then, somehow, the ice melted. Which, in terms of a relationship, would normally be a good thing. Instead, I drifted away from the game.

There is, however, one notable exception: international play. Then again, competitive international croquet would likely get me going, too. There's still something about games representing the nation that leaves me wringing my hands, stamping my feet and throwing my arms into the air. Good full-body exercise, really. And this time of year, with the World Junior Championships, you have kids draped in flags, hurtling down the ice with a nation's hopes weighing down like Zambonis on their backs. I'm always impressed by their poise and their emotion. Not to mention skill. I don't remember kids being that big when I was that age.

And it rarely gets better than a game against a heated rival. Today's semifinal pitted Canada against the U.S., who appear to have become the Russians of this generation. Adversaries. And nobody wanted the 6-3 round robin win over our southern neighbours to be for naught. Must win the big ones, boys -- you'll never hear the end of it from your American teammates when you return to your junior teams. It goes without saying that rivalries don't usually burgeon if the opponent isn't worthy. No, you need competition for the emotion to be worthwhile. To make your blood boil in anticipation. To make you leap off the couch and scream violently at the television when a call goes against your team. Your team.

But a Canadian goal just over halfway through the third to tie the game at one made a feeling rise from a pit in my stomach that the goaltender's duel would come to a head in the form of the ultimate goaltender's duel: a shoot-out. As exciting as they are, I hate shoot-outs, particularly with so much on the line. It's not like soccer, when you really can seemingly play for days without ever tapping one over the goal line. Torture and ecstasy.

The streaming video on the computer was ridiculously choppy, buffering every five seconds or so. And running about 30 seconds behind. When it came time for the shootout, cheers and jeers rained down from the stands and the computer hung for what seemed like an eternity. "And we're tied" bookended a giant black pause with "It's time for them to play the Canadian anthem -- again". 5-4 in a shootout. Canada wins! And thanks to poor technology, the shoot-out was shut-out to me.

Both sides obviously played well, but Canada has now won 17 straight. And they now get the chance to turn that silver hockey stick into gold. Their third in a row.