My Brother's IPod

My brother got an IPod for christmas. Neat-o. It has a radio tuner and made music right off the cuff. Cool.

I plugged it into a computer and it showed up as a flash drive. Cool.

I stuffed it full of music and... nothing. It doesn't actually play mp3s.

I did some research on the net and found out that you need to sync it to ITunes and shit like that. I run linux, so I spent some time grepping around only to find out that it really isn't an mp3 player.

So I boot into XP and download ITunes. 90 megs. I run the bloated executable. It takes 10 minutes just to pop up a fucking window. Then it takes 3 fucking hours to install! I can install a real fancy operating system in 45 minutes. WTF? At this point I know I'm getting into a world of shit here.

Finally the install of ITunes is done, so I realize the stupid dongle is stuffed full and moved all the mp3s off to make some room, all 1710 of them. That takes a while. Now it's empty. I run ITunes and it takes me straight to a page where I have to enter a valid credit card number to initialize the IPod.

Well, let me tell you. I have been into computers since 1983 and I HAVE NEVER PUT MY CREDIT CARD ON THE INTERNET. There is no choice to pass at this point. I minimize the stupid window and try to just get the 1710 mp3s on it. no go. By this time I've spent about 8 hours fucking around with this idiotic thing. IPods are stupid.

I boot back into linux and drop the issue. About 4 in the morning I wake up with fresh inspiration and compile gtkpod. After some dependency issues I get it going. YEAH! It puts music on the stupid dongle but somehow cannot update the database files. Now I'm 12 hours into the IPod fiasco and it still doesn't play mp3s.

Fuck it. I take it back to my brother and tell him, "This is the first and last IPod I will ever have anything to do with. You wanna fuck with it, go ahead. But I recommend you take it back and buy a real mp3 player."

I saw a nice 16G Philips Muse for only $90.

Fuck Apple and the horse they rode in on.

Panda the autistic cat

A while back we had a cat we called Panda. He was an energetic little thing, mostly white with black patches. We got him from my friend Bill who has cats but they all get inbred because he doesn't get them fixed.

Panda was amazing. He was a hunter. No way around it. He would hunt anything that moved. He caught giant earthworms, mice, rats, bugs, birds, snakes, squirrels, you name it, he caught it.

I once heard an old chinese myth about the ridges on the top of a cat's mouth. The more ridges they have the better hunter they'll be. The cat I had before Panda, I called Tyrone, and I had him for 15 years. He was a great hunter. He had 11 ridges on his upper palate. Our other cat we still have, Tasha, is a shitty hunter. She has 0 ridges on her palate. She doesn't hunt at all.

On a couple occasions I tried to count the ridges on Panda's palate. I got to 13 before he'd squirm and squawk so much I'd lose count. It's kinda hard to count the ridges on the top of a cat's mouth, especialy if it's a crazy little thing like him.

He was autistic. If it involved hunting, he was a brilliant genius. But he couldn't figure out how to push the bathroom door open enough to get through. He'd sit there thinking "That's too small a space to get through, I'm not even going to try." Tasha just puts her shoulder into it and shoves it open. She even pulls doors open by grabbing them with her claws and pulling.

Well, back to Panda's hunting fetish.

One Sunday morning I was laying in bed with Megan. She was still snoozing, and I was just loafing, thinking about making tea, but more thinking about having a nice morning shag with her. The covers were half off me and my dick started to sprout. My eyes were mostly closed, thinking about erotic things to get the blood going the right direction.

In my reverie I hadn't noticed Panda sitting by the side of the bed, but he had noticed me. Or at least my dick. To him it must have looked like some crazy giant worm climbing out of my crotch. He pounced and scored. He caught my cock in his talons and WOKE _ME_ RIGHT UP!

When I screamed and bolted upright with arms aflailing I guess he realized this wasn't just some ordinary garden critter and let go, thank God.

He glanced at my face briefly, before backing away from my firmly clasped package before I realized what had just happened. He got the hell out of the room before I even had the proper consciousness to throw him out.

Woody Of The Week

Check out this hottie. Her name is Jolene "Little Miss" Higgins and she's a fantastic musician and singer.

Her info is at http://www.littlemisshiggins.com/bio.htm. There's a great video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKIVRxULqHw. Watch how the trumpet player (Chris Whiteley) keeps looking at her with nothing but adoration (and what appears to be a significant sparkle of lust) in his eyes.

Yum.

I checked Concerts on Demand on cbc.ca and I found out through an askance comment of hers that she's a grandmother. Who woulda thought a hot blooded brunette firecracker like that could get so much action :) Whadya think she is? Mid-late thirties? Bet her kid's even hotter. Hard to find much info though. I didn't even know her name was Jolene until CoD.

I heard Kate Moss said "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." She's a clueless no-talent skank. My policy ( and I'm sure a lot of men will second this) is "Nothing looks and feels as good as a properly fed woman". Ergo this blog. I'd publish pictures of my own beautiful properly fed wife, but I like anonymity.

Here's an excellent take of her Dirty Ol' Tractor Song. Feed that url to mplayer and you can hear it through your speakers. Might even work in wmp. Never tried. It came from from this concert.

Enjoy.

The Keeper

***

A woman is unpacking her belongings and sorting them in a decent sized apartment. She takes the newspaper off a beautiful figurine and admires it before placing it carefully on the mantel over the fireplace. 

Through the window snow is coming down and the world is blanketed in white. Her young son plays with his toy trucks on the floor. The doorbell rings and he jumps up, running over to the door, pulling it open.

A mailman stands there in his parka, huge bag of mail at his right side. He looks at the boy, "Hello there youngster. Are your parents at home?"

The boys calls out, "Mamma!" but she is already right behind him.

"Good afternoon sir."

"I have some important looking mail for you." He hands her the lambskin envelope.

"We just moved in. I'm sure this is not for me."

The man shrugs, "No return address. Keep it. Maybe someone will show up looking for it." He closes his bag and turns to go. "Nice envelope though. Might have something good in there." He heads down the stairs.

She closes the door.

"Mamma? What is it?"

"I don't know, Andrea. But it doesn't belong to us, so we'll just keep it safe until someone comes to claim it."

The boy goes back to his toys and she puts the envelope in the top drawer of her bedroom dresser, before piling her underwear on top of it.

***

The woman and her son are going down the stairs. A large, heavy set older woman is coming up with a box in her arms.

The younger woman stops and moves out of her way, pulling her son with her. "Mrs. Klemp?"

The older woman pauses and leans on the railing, breathing hard. "Yes, Miss Larose?"

"Did the last tenant leave a forwarding address?"

"No. He just moved out one night without giving notice, the bastard. Why do you ask?"

"Something came in the mail yesterday and it can't be for me. There's no name and no return address."

"He was a scoundrel. Treated people like worms. Throw it out or burn it." She continues up the steps and Miss Larose and her son Andrea continue down. "Now you be good at school. This is your first day and I don't want any trouble. You hear me?"

"Yes, mamma."

***

 

The Destroyer

*** 

Prologue 

A young, beautiful auburn haired woman is leafing through old love letters and crying. She gets to one, focuses on it through her tears long enough to read it: 

* 

Dear Nastya, 

Baby, I can never explain the feeling I have had over this last week, it seems months, maybe it is because every moment you have been gone has been filled with memories playing over and over in my mind, beautiful memories. The fear that clenches my stomach is beyond comprehension, to live another day with out you would not be living, you are my breath, my pulse, you make me whole. 

At night I am afraid to go to bed, though I am so weary from emotion. When I fall, I wake when it is still dark and try as I might to go back to sleep, I cling to my pillow and know that I must occupy my mind to keep from dying of pain. All the things I have seen, everything I have believed in, my instincts and knowledge guide me. For the first time in my life I felt like a real person, knew my life was about to change, to become normal with no more pain, and then the worst agony that I could ever imagine replaced that joy that was to be. I fill my days with anything I can possibly do, I don't stop, as though I am running from the thoughts of you trying to bring my tears. The house is immaculate and renovated, my muscles are sore from exercise, I have seen every movie currently in the cinema and been to every shop in town. But no matter what I do, you are right in front of me, everything reminds me. Romantic movies, the things we were going to buy, you are in every corner of my house. The little heart cushion in my shower to the balcony, to the street, to the stars, Baby! I am exhausted and tonight I stopped running and it caught me, the tears won't stop and I am so afraid... where are you, when are you coming home, are you coming home to me? 

Sweetheart, come home to me! Please!! I beg with all I have and as I have said, promise you a lifetime of happiness and love. Come dance on the moon with me. You are all there is, I neither need nor want anything else at all. You are my heaven on earth and I need to live there, if you go ... I need to as well, I have two angels and I need to be with one of them. 

I am empty; fill me with passion for life once again ... please. 

Love always, Pieter. 

* 

She starts sobbing hysterically, then hitting herself, first on the thighs and legs, then on her chest and arms, then on her face and head. 

A fire is going in the grate and she grabs the whole pile as if to throw it into the flames, then spasmodically recoils and reconsiders, holding them in her hands, salty drips falling on them from her eyes. Suddenly she grabs a thick stitched 12" x 18" lambskin envelope, dumps out the financial papers in it, and stuffs all the love letters into it. 

Closing the envelope, she ties it shut with string and adds a sticking plaster label to it, writing her ex-lover's address on it, all the while wiping tears from her face. 

She gets dressed into her street clothes, heads down to the post office. 

The postmaster says to her, "There's no return address. Should I add it for you?" 

She shakes her head, "No." 

The postmaster shrugs, turns, and puts the package into a large sack. 

Nastya walks home with a deeply sad look on her face. 

Inside her apartment, she undresses, runs a bath, gets in, and soaks for a bit. Finally, she smashes her hand mirror, takes a piece of silvered glass, and slits her wrists. 

The water turns crimson as the thick bloody rivulets dissolve and she slides into her final sleep. 

*** 

The Maker

An old woman sits in her rocking chair stitching pieces of lambskin together. She makes a small drawstring bag, puts a handfull of nice looking beads into it, closes it, and puts it on the table beside her with 4 others just like it.

Taking the blanket off her legs, she puts her hands on the arms of the chair, creaks out of it laboriously, takes the 2 steps to the fireplace, shuffles it around a bit with the black iron poker, throws another chunk of cedar on, then sits back down.

Something about this night reminds her of a time, long ago, when she was a very young woman waiting for her husband to get home on a cold night. She pours herself another cup of steaming strong tea from the pot warming by the fire and takes a sip, then another. She remembers that night when he finally got home and her old loins feel something they haven't in quite some time.

She remembers the poetry she used to write, ardent and erotic, sitting in an old box upstairs in the closet, and decides to make a lambskin envelope just to keep them in.

Before she turns in for bed she has the envelope made.

Happy New Year 2009

Got home from work today at 1200 but billed my boss until 1330 + 31km, hah. Hope he doesn't read my blog.

Service calls all morning. Jas & I fixed the problem at the Package Depot: it was a mouse-chewed wire making an intermittent short. He found it. I figured out the flaky transformer at the autobody shop in Surrey, and the 2 of us did blank plates on Salter in Queensborough for about an hour and a half, but called it 3. Business is quiet the last couple weeks. Well, it beats doing pre-wires in a snowstorm like Steve, Ish, Jas and I did a couple weeks ago. BRRR! That was fucking _COLD_!

The city is still full of dumb-asses burning out their engines at red-line trying to get moving in the snow. How long does it take to learn how to operate a vehicle in bad traction?

Some bugger took the parking spot I had carefully cleared out so I had to mire myself in a drift. Fortunately things have warmed up and the ice is melting.

Our apartment building has been without heat and hot water for 2 days. The rotor on the boiler pump sheared off and they seem to be having some trouble getting a new one, so it's cold as a meat locker in here. I can't believe they don't have 2 pumps in parallel just for this occasion.

But, on a brighter note, we just paid rent and now I'm broke.