the blog quebecois

It might be a little too fresh, and a lot too politically incorrect, but let's face it:

If all you can do on a Thursday evening is go out to the bar and shout "Whoo-hoo!" as Great White takes the stage, then your life is over, no matter how you calculate it.

Better you should have perished flicking your Bics at Journey or Toto. What a perfect waste of perfectly good mullets.

-------------------------------------

Appalling. That's my usual reaction the next morning when I read what I've blogged (is there some alternate word? Blurched? Blopped?) the evening before, usually under the malign influence of beer, or worse.

As penance, I did a bit of research on some of the other major fire fatalities (Coconut Grove, Beverly Hills, etc.) and have come to the conclusion that I'm glad I wasn't there.

Death just reaches out and grabs you when you least expect it. I imagine that the people thinking that unthinkable jump from the World Trade Center must have thought

not here

not now

no, never

We had a tiny lad over tonight, all of two years old. And O he was an active boyo, drinking in the joy of life as he scampered hither and yon on his stubby little legs.

But he touched my heart unexpectedly when he tugged on my sleeve and looked up with those eyes so innocent and pretnaturally wise and said, "Yabba wagga oobie wagooo!"

Kids are such morons.

Just what the hell is it that they put in "Irish Spring" soap, anyway?

I was washing my face this morning when an important phone call I was expecting came through, and I ran out to answer it.

About two minutes into the call, I felt fierce itching and pain in my facial regions. Swiping at my facial regions with my palmal regions, I found "Irish Spring" soap that I'd not rinsed off. Because I was by now developing clusters of hives and respiratory distress, I terminated the phone call and attempted to neutralize the severe burning sensation by thrusting my head into a large container of baking soda that I keep by the stove. (If you cooked like me, you'd understand.)

No wonder the Irish people are always reciting morose poetry and shooting each other. It's the damned "Irish Spring" soap.

It's too late for me. My nose fell off this afternoon, and the docs aren't optimistic.

For the love of God, spread this warning far and wide, preferably with a link back here. I can always use the traffic.

Assuming that I . . . that I . . . survive?

Ever played Carlotta?

It's a card game. You need three people, and a deck of cards.

Actually you only need two people, but without the third there, it's rather pointless, like playing backgammon for toothpicks.

You fan the cards out on the table -- face up or face down, as you prefer -- and then assemble them into various piles. However you like.

Whoever finds the ace of spades (or whatever) rips it in two, laughing. Then you regather the cards, reshuffle them, and deal thirteen to the first person, sixteen to the second, and fourteen to the third, leaving the rest in a remainder pile.

The first player lays down all his red cards; the second player all his black; and the third keeps all his. Crying "Aha! A Zimmelhoop!" the second player claims the remainder pile, tucking it into his shirt pocket.

Etc., etc. Feel free to improvise.

Assuming that the first and second players can keep poker-faced throughout this charade, you can sometimes string the third "player" along for maybe half an hour or so, until he:

a) flees the room in terror, or;

b) tries to wager on the next "Zimmelhoop."

There's probably some profound psychological insight to be gained here, but all I can think of is that deferred laughter is sometimes so explosive that you could hurt your ribs.

CNN 02/09/03:

The FBI on Tuesday released photos of a steel collar used to secure a bomb to the neck of a pizza deliveryman killed last week after robbing a bank in Erie, Pennsylvania.

Is it just me, or is this about the weirdest piece of news that you've heard lately?

It seems like an elaborate "suicide-by-cop" scenario or some fantastic "perfect crime" that could have only been cooked up in the fevered mind of a 46-year-old, uh, pizza deliveryman.

I don't buy the evil genius in the abandoned TV transmitter theory. Better he should turn his attention to that and start pirating satellite signals.

Bank robbery is these days a crime for losers -- junkies and deadenders who'll be lucky to get away with a couple of thousand dollars, usually equipped with an exploding dye-pack.

And with the police about two minutes behind. (Would that they responded with such alacrity to the average housebreaking.)

You'd think, too, that such a devious plot would have a more dramatic punchline than a crappy pipe bomb that barely delivered a flesh wound, but had enough concussive effect to rupture vital organs or blood vessels.

You really want to rip the scene apart, you might want to look into Semtex or C4. Consult your local Palestinian.

I am a man of vast and transient enthusiasms. I came to this conclusion earlier tonight while eyeing my dismantled model railroad empire gathering dust in the basement.

About ten years ago I went model railroad crazy. I salivated over the layouts in Model Railroader magazine. I got a starter kit for Christmas; my brother-in-law, a carpenter, knocked together a standard 4' X 8' plywood-topped table for me, and I got down to business.

There are three categories of model railroaders (though the interests do crossover):

1. The detail freaks. The ones who buy $500 brass locomotives from Japan and Korea, accurate down to the rivet.

2. The control freaks. They try to duplicate the actual workings of railways, with loading, unloading, massive switchyards and timetables.

3. The dollhouse crowd. That would be me. I like looking at and working with miniatures.

What's in the mind's eye, though, doesn't always translate exactly to paper or stage, and didn't in either case look like anything in the magazines.

I had the courage to walk away. It's not too late for you.

You don't want to know about my day, but I'll tell you about it anyway. Down in the basement, refinishing doors, oh joy.

Spending the afternoon breathing in paint-stripper fumes has rendered me stupid, and incapable of blogging (not that that's ever stopped me before).

I came up for air and turned on the TV and there were Tucker Carlson, etc., on Crossfire, yakking about telemarketers and the recent court decision overturning the Don't Call list or whatever it's called.

Which reminded me of a piece Carlson wrote for The Weekly Standard on the topic. Fortunately it's available in the archives, and I bid you go read it now.

It's short and sweet, and more importantly, much funnier than anything I'm likely to come up with tonight.

I wonder if inhaling paint fumes would somehow neutralize the paint-stripper . . .

What is it with marches? I don't get it.

(What is it with Andy Rooney? Why am I starting to sound like him?)

I mean the typical for-this, agin'-that, stop-the-war, start-the-war parades winding along, looking forlorn and windblown as they chant their stupid slogans in front of the Legislature or whatever.

Do they imagine that the oppressed workers (i.e., the people with jobs) will down tools and walk in their wake? Will the military come rushing out of their barracks and storm the barricades?

Not likely.

In the early days of Hollywood, a press agent representing an actor went to argue his client's case to a producer. [Note: dialogue is approximate. I wasn't there.]

Agent: "Max, Max. He's perfect for this role!"

Producer: "He's a bum!"

Agent: "Let me bring him here, and then you can decide. He's in a hotel just a mile away."

Producer: "Oh, all right. Bring him over, but he's still a bum."

So the agent repaired to the hotel, and he and the actor began walking back (this was in the days before limousine service). to the studio.

The agent had a trick up his sleeve, though; or rather a cloth sack beneath his coat, filled with nickels and dimes and pennies. The bottom corner of it was snipped open, and as they walked he released a steady dribble of coins.

Keep in mind that a nickel at the time would buy you a full meal and dessert at a diner.

At first they were followed by the usual street urchins; but as the commotion and clamour swelled, then ordinary people on ordinary business joined in, and soon several thousand people were giddily following them, scooping up coins..

When they were back in the producer's office, the press agent threw open the window shutters and pointed out at the shouting mob.

"See! See how the people love him!"

I'm not really sure what this has to do with political marches; but then, neither does Andy Rooney.

Now this is something that's a "surefire" stocking stuffer for Christmas.

(Not sure where I got the link. Possibly from Jonah Goldberg, in The Corner.)

To put it mildly, brrr.

It was -40° Celsius last night, -50 with wind chill, and tonight is shaping up similarly grim. Not a night to be out and about.

There is something that these temperatures are good for, though. Some years ago we (well, mainly my brother-in-law -- I provided emotional support by drinking beer and commenting on the football game) replaced the lino in my mother's bathroom.

The old linoleum that we hauled out was a bit of a problem. It was too bulky to put out with the trash and it was hardly worth the time and expense to truck it out to the city dump. So it sat in the garage for a few months.

Then one dark January day we had a cold snap similar to this. I was poking around the garage for something or other when inspiration struck.

Actually, it was my boot that struck the edge of the linoleum, and it shattered like glass. (I mean the linoleum, not my boot.)

A couple of minutes of enthusiastic stomping and I wound up with a tidy little box of Aztec Gold fragments ready for the garbageman.

Sure, I lost three fingers, two toes and an ear to frostbite -- but it was still worth it. This is Canada, after all, where men are men and the sheep are all frozen to death in the meadow.

I love the smell of blogging in the morning.

I'm less enamored with it at the end of a brutal day.

But just so that your visit wasn't entirely in vain, here's a neat site that Jonah Goldberg noted in The Corner.

You mentally pick either a dictator or a sitcom character and the computer asks you yes-or-no questions until it guesses who you've got in mind.

Go on, you know you want to try it.

UPDATE: I stumped it, with Al Waxman from The King Of Kensington. But now he's been added to the database. So pick your own krappy Kanuckian komedy. Trouble With Tracy's still unmined, mwahahaha.

This is one of those Japanese things that are beautifully done.

And utterly, completely baffling.

Via the similarly puzzled Ghost of a Flea.

Please tell me this is a joke.

Even if it is a parody, as a concept it's probably not too far off in the future. Think of athletes emblazoned with corporate logos, and I've already seen boxers advertising casinos, websites, etc., using (presumably removable) tattoos.

In the battle to tell you the sort of information you didn't know you need to know, scientists have explained the formula that wearers of high-heeled shoes can use to work out how high they can go - just as the most famous Blahnik-wearers, the stars of Sex and the City, totter from our screens.

Physicists at the Institute of Physics have devised a formula that, based on your shoe size, tells you the maximum height of heel you can wear without toppling over or suffering agonies. And it is:

h = Q.(12+3s/8)

h is the maximum height of the heel (in cm)

S is the shoe size (UK ladies sizes). This factor makes sure that the base of support is just good enough for an experienced, and sober, high-heel wearer not to fall over.

Q is a sociological factor. It equals p.(y+9).L, divided by (t+1).(A+1).(y+10).(L+£20)M

After I read this, the first thing I did was look at the calendar. Nope, not April 1st.

Then I considered the source. The Guardian. Hmmm. But would they go so far as to fabricate something like this?

I googled Paul Stevenson, the scientist quoted in the story, and he is indeed a physics lecturer at the University of Surrey, although his webpage makes no mention of this, er, line of inquiry.

I guess it's true, though I suspect he's trying for an Ig Nobel, the esteemed award given out by the Annals of Improbable Research.

Via CNN:

WOODLAWN, Maryland (AP) -- A brawl broke out during an anger management assembly at a suburban high school.

Two people were arrested and 11 students were suspended after a shoving match escalated into a melee during Thursday's assembly.

Authorities said a confrontation between a student's mother and a group of girls who had been bothering her daughter turned into a shouting match, and led to pushing and hitting, before the crowd of 750 students erupted into "chaos," said C. Anthony Thompson, principal of Woodlawn High School.

The melee began as students on stage acted out peaceful ways to resolve conflict during the assembly was organized by Sheppard Pratt Health System.

oh but I still get my pleasure
still get my greatest treasure
heap big woman you gonna
make a big man out of me

-- queen

"Honey, do these pants make my butt look big?"

"I think that's the point, dear."

Yes, it's FanPants™ for the ultimate in comfortable stadium seating.

Via Gizmodo

Readjusting to the Republican life of privilege and money took me a few days and many tumblers of scotch.

As you know this past Monday was Memorial Day and since that was the last official day of my life as a Democrat -- after Dennis Kucinich’s botox party -- I used my welfare check to fly out to Michael Moore’s barbeque.

This is such a relief. The beauteous (and funny) Moxie is safely back in the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy after a crazy flirtation with the Democrats. It got ugly:

Always wanting to be a good guest, I brought along a marshmallow desert depicting a naked arab prisoner pyramid. It didn’t go over well. Ah, as the Dems would say, “c’est dommage.”

But at least after the drive-by environmentalism incident (no guns, they just shot hairy women out of a revolver) I was fortunately able to light my cigarette from a burning American flag.

Ugly, indeed.

I'm tapped out today, so I had to dig through gnotalex's Big Box O' Links™ and I came up with this.

Let’s face it, back hair isn’t attractive. It’s the equivalent of a woman with hairy legs. But for men there is no easy way to rid yourself of back hair until now.

The Razorba™ (pronounced ray-zor-buh) is a convenient, do-it-yourself, painless, embarrassment-free, solution to back hair. 100% guaranteed!
The Razorba™ is a razor handle wand that holds your favorite razor, ergonomically designed and tested by men with back hair. It solves the problem of back hair by letting you shave it at your convenience, any time you need it. Works with any standard razors. It's quick and easy to insert or remove a razor (razor included with order). To use, simply insert a razor into the Razorba™, apply shaving cream and shave. And the Razorba™ really works.

Apparently it's the custom at Microsoft (at least at the company's HQ in Redmond, Wash.) to invite new interns over to the Boss's house for dinner. The White Housian level of security is somewhat disconcerting, but a good time was had by all.

In ten minutes there was a donut or toroid of geekdom surrounding Bill that was three or four people deep, but after a few minutes I had worked my way to the front and got to spend about two hours standing with him, talking to him, and mostly listening to his responses to other people's questions.

Via kottke.org

Via the Telegraph:

German men are being shamed into urinating while sitting down by a gadget which is saving millions of women from cleaning up in the bathroom after them. The WC ghost, a £6 voice-alarm, reprimands men for standing at the lavatory pan. It is triggered when the seat is lifted. The battery-operated devices are attached to the seats and deliver stern warnings to those who attempt to stand and urinate (known as "Stehpinkeln").

"Hey, stand-peeing is not allowed here and will be punished with fines, so if you don't want any trouble, you'd best sit down," one of the devices orders in a voice impersonating the German leader, Chancellor Gerhard Schroder. Another has a voice similar to that of his predecessor, Helmut Kohl.

The manufacturers of the WC ghost, Patentwert, say they are ready to direct their gadgets at the British market.

Their prototype English-speaking WC ghost says in an American drawl: "Don't you go wetting this floor cowboy, you never know who's behind you. So sit down, get your water pistol in the bowl where it belongs. Ha, ha, ha."

Ha, ha, ha. How would we survive without that wacky German toilet humor?

I can tell you this: Any self-respectin' American cowboy would be goin' fer his six-shooter 'pon findin' this critter. One bullet for the "W.C. Ghost" and five for the idiot who thought it'd be cute to install it.

When you’re twisting balloons for children, never tell them what you’re making. The majority of the finished products—despite your best attempts—almost always look like a dog, a blastula, or something vaguely phallic. If you identify what you’re actually attempting to make, the children will respond to your finished product with, “That doesn’t look like a [insert animal name]…” But if you make the animals and then ask, “What does it look like to you?” the child’s imagination will take over, turning the blue, four-legged balloon into Blue from Blue’s Clues, the blastula into a Pokemon, and the phallic object into an elephant. You’ll also get bonus points because you were so cool for making exactly what they wanted.

Manipulating the public for fun and profit. An interesting collection of "tricks of the trade" from entertainers, salesmen, etc.

Via boingboing

is he strong?
listen, bud
he's got radioactive blood

-- trad.

Enough with all this election hoo-hah. There's other important news, such as this:

The cool thing about "Yellow" is that you always end up needing it a lot more than you anticipate. Nobody ever picks yellow out of the box just for the Hell of it, but once you start coloring in whatever coloring book or colored coloring you colored, there's a 99.9% chance you'll eventually need the yellow for something. In that I cheerfully liken it to bay leaves.

Can't disagree with that. 95 (Well, 94, 'cause he's really down on the "white" crayon, which he thinks is a bogus excuse for a crayon. He's got a point there, too.) other Spidey-tastic colors reviewed here.

William F. Buckley once famously remarked that he'd rather be governed by the first hundred people in the Boston phone book than by the faculty of Harvard.

I must say that I agree. Though in practice, we'd be ruled by people named AAAAAAAAA1 Pizza and AAAAAAAAAAAAAA Auto Repair.

It'd still be an improvement.

I offer this as a public service only and I very reluctantly link to this
tasteless thread on Dave Barry's blog::

The grossest thing I've ever heard it referred to as is "blowing out a stink pickle." And that came from a girl. I personally don't announce exactly what I'm going to do in the bathroom.

Posted by: Sarah on September 10, 2004 09:52 PM

Whatever happened to the innocence of childhood and Mister Poopyoopyoopydoodydoodypoopypoop?

It's an outrage.

Too busy, so in lieu of a proper post I offer this. It's a program that figures out your "Birthday Star," a star that is as far away in light-years as your present age. Here's mine:

Your birthday star is in the constellation Corvus. It has the name (Alpha) Corvi in Johann Bayer's Uranometria star catalog. It is also called 1 Corvi in the Historia Cœlestis Britannica of John Flamsteed and Edmund Halley. It is called NS 1208-2443 in the NStars database.

Isn't that special?

cause a lot of my hits are written on the john
i hope my legendary style of rap lives on
this's a hidden secret where classics come from

biz markie

Er, whatever you say, Biz. Below is the latest in Japanese toilet technology, which apparently requires a degree in electrical engineering to operate. The only thing missing is an L.E.D. display eternally blinking 12:00 am.

There's more (much more than you ever wanted to know) on Japanese toilets in this entry in Wikipedia.

Via Gizmodo

St. Petersburg Times:

Milk can softball toss: Toss the ball backhanded at the can's front lip to create backspin. It's also best if you release close to the same level as the cans' tops.

BB gun star shootout: Instead of firing away at the red star, shoot a pattern around it. Hitting red is a waste of ammo. Be patient, since generally there's no time limit.

"Basketball" free-throw shootout: Technically these aren't allowed to be called basketball games because the rims aren't circular, as they appear from a straight-on perspective. They're oval. (That's why you'll always see a required sign noting "Not regulation rims.") Also, the basketballs usually are overinflated.

If you're into winning giant stuffed animals, this might be the best $3.95 you've ever spent.

Via boingboing

kids won’t listen
to what you’re sayin
kids ain’t wondering
kids ain’t praying

the replacements

New York Times:

WOBURN, Mass. - What tripped Lisa D'Annolfo Levey's maternal tolerance meter on a recent Tuesday afternoon was not just the toy football her 7-year-old son, Skylar, zinged across the living room, nearly toppling her teacup. Or the karate kick sprung by her 4-year-old, Forrest, which Ms. Levey ducked, barely. The clincher was the full-throttle duel with foam swords, her boys whooping and squealing, flailing their weapons at the blue leather couch, the yellow kidney-shaped rug, and, ultimately, their mother.

"Forrest, how about you come up and hug Skylar instead of whacking him in the head?" Ms. Levey implored. "This is stressing me out, guys. You can sword, but I'm feeling compromised here."

A story on puzzled people who seem to have been the first ever to rear the exotic mammals known as "children." To that end, they're employing "parent coaches" at up to $75 per hour to walk them through the mysteries of why little Jasmine refuses to eat her peas. Or for that matter, why little Forrest insists on "swording" his big brother.

It all reminds me of something back in the 80's. Toronto was at the time booming, and the Globe and Mail regularly ran puff pieces about upwardly-mobile yuppies and their glamorous careers.

One that I distinctly remember was a couple with the requisite Jag and Mercedes in the driveway and a Range Rover in the garage and boasted the fact that they had to employ not one, but two full-time nannies to manage their brood.

I guess we rubes were supposed to genuflect before these displays of wealth and privilege, but all I could think was: "Why do these people even bother having children? They obviously don't have any time for them."

(Note: Link above requires free registration, which isn't too arduous -- just a couple of questions, if I correctly remember. Or you could use something like Bugmenot to get a password combo.)

yada yada yada yada yada
yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada
yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada
yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada yada

This was just a test to see if I could float text around pictures without some black-belt HTML skillz. I guess I can, though there's undoubtably some border-and-padding arcana to learn.

The text above was taken verbatim from a speech by Canada's Minister of Foreign Affairs, Pierre Pettigrew (pictured) who really should get a haircut like, you know, a goddamn adult.
-----

Find your Dead Celebrity Soulmate here. It picked out three possibles for me (above, from left to right); Frida Kahlo, Agatha Christie, and Indira Gandhi.

Oh, dear. I was rather hoping for someone like Natalie Wood:

Like it would kill her if I asked her out for dinner and a movie?

Via The Presurfer

Some of you might have seen this:

British tourists have left the residents of one charming Austrian village effing and blinding by constantly stealing the signs for their oddly-named village.

While British visitors are finding it hilarious, the residents of F---ing are failing to see the funny side, The Sunday Telegraph newspaper reported.

Only one kind of crimimal ever stalks the sleepy 32-house village near Salzburg on the German border -- cheeky British tourists armed with a sense of humour and a screwdriver.

But the local authorities are hitting back and with the signs now set in concrete, police chief Kommandant Schmidtberger is on the lookout.

"We will not stand for the F---ing signs being removed," the officer told the broadsheet.

"It may be very amusing for you British, but F---ing is simply F---ing to us. What is this big F---ing joke? It is puerile."

Exactly. We have avoided linking to this story until now, because, as you know, we are above sniggering schoolboy humor such as that.

We much prefer sniggering schoolboy humor such as this.

Awwww. Warning: Embedded audio.

I've got cats in a record store.

All was fine for many months, and then, just last month, I happened to be sitting in the next room, when I heard a tremendous crash. I thought that a plane had hit my house, and I ran into my bedroom to see what happened.

The top shelf of the Avdeco stand EXPLODED sending shards of glass to every corner of my bedroom. Fortunately for me, I wasn't sleeping at the time, or I would have been hit by flying glass.

A cautionary tale about a defective $1,000 TV stand. The manufacturer looks like it's trying to dodge honoring the warrantee. Miraculously, the guy's plasma TV and other electronic gear survived.

that they've made those Smart cars a bit more crash-survivable. Probably eats into the fuel-economy ratings, though.

Here's a neat (if pointless) effect that's been going around. Copy the code in italics and paste it into the address bar of your browser (the part that currently reads "http://blogquebecois.com" -- erase that first), or follow these steps:

1. Highlight the JavaScript below.
2. Press the Ctrl + C keys together, and repeat with
3. Alt + D
4. Ctrl + V
5. Press Enter

javascript:R=0; x1=.1; y1=.05; x2=.25; y2=.24; x3=1.6; y3=.24; x4=300; y4=200; x5=300; y5=200; DI=document.getElementsByTagName("img"); DIL=DI.length; function A(){for(i=0; i-DIL; i++){DIS=DI[ i ].style; DIS.position='absolute'; DIS.left=(Math.sin(R*x1+i*x2+x3)*x4+x5)+"px"; DIS.top=(Math.cos(R*y1+i*y2+y3)*y4+y5)+"px"}R++}setInterval('A()',5); void(0);

It works better on pages with more pictures on them, and takes place at the top of the screen, so you might have to scroll up to see it. Refreshing the page or going elsewhere will return things to normal. Some people report that it doesn't work with Firefox browsers.

We had to replace our furnace and hot water tank today. You'd think that with modern technology it'd be a fairly simple thing:

1) Unplug old furnace, tank. (Note: Turn off gas and water before you do this.)
2) Plug in new furnace, tank. (Note: Turn on gas and water after you do this.)

But no, it's never that easy. This is what the process sounds like: BANG BANG BANG BANG. BANG BANG BANG BANGBANGBANG. WHIRR WHIRR BANG BANG. All day long. BANG WHIRR BANG.

I don't know if the installers actually built them from scratch with pieces of scrap metal, but things seem to be humming along nicely now.

Ananova:

A marquee hire firm has apologised after telling a New Zealand couple their wedding plans were 'cheap, nasty and tacky'.

The Great Marquee Company emailed Auckland couple Steve Hausman and Paula Brosnahan after they cancelled a wedding marquee, reports the New Zealand Herald.

The firm's office manager, Katrina Jorgensen, wrote: "Your wedding sounded cheap, nasty and tacky anyway, so we only ever considered you time wasters.

"Our marquees are for upper class clients which unfortunately you are not. Why don't you stay within your class levels and buy something from Payless Plastics instead."

Meow.

I've got my china (or china-like) pattern registered at Wal-Mart, in case anyone's interested.

that a certain would-be immigrant from Poland had quite the death wish [emphasis mine]:

GLIWICE, Poland -- A vodka bottle lies on the floor beside a coffee table featuring a half-eaten breast of chicken, an overflowing ashtray and large photographs of Robert Dziekanski's final hysterical moments before dying in the grip of Taser-wielding Mounties in Vancouver.

Widow Elzbieta Dubon, grief-stricken throughout her first interview with the Canadian media, manages a faint smile when asked what Canada meant to her common-law husband of eight years.

The smile somehow brightens and warms a pasty, alcohol- and nicotine-abused face that could be the visage of someone two decades older.

"Make sure he knows that I am smiling," Dubon, 46, said to a Polish interpreter while she nodded to a Canadian journalist.

"When Robert left he told me, 'Ella, if I go to the Rocky Mountains, and if I see a grizzly bear, I will walk up to it and kiss it.'"

Good thing the cops acted before he could take one of us with him.

Ananova:

. . . I'd still be broke.

Clearly he meant to spell it as "Guantanamera", the popular Cuban song, meaning the "girl from Guantanamo." Granted, that doesn't make much sense; but neither does marriage in Saudi Arabia.

A Saudi woman is seeking a divorce after discovering her husband had nicknamed her 'Guantanamo' on his mobile phone.

The woman made the discovery while examining the list of contacts in her husband's phone when he left it at home one day, the Al-Watan newspaper reports.

The Riyadh newspaper did not name the woman or her husband, who may live to regret comparing life with his wife with the US detention centre in Cuba. His wife has since decided to end their 17-year marriage and is seeking a divorce.

Smells like teen spirit. Well, something like that.

More pictures here.

Huffington Post:

Katimavik, the youth service program championed by former prime minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau, is on the Conservative government’s chopping block, The Huffington Post Canada has learned.

Listening to the radio, I heard the story behind rocker David Lee Roth’s notorious insistence that Van Halen’s contracts with concert promoters contain a clause specifying that a bowl of M&M’s has to be provided backstage, but with every single brown candy removed, upon pain of forfeiture of the show, with full compensation to the band. And at least once, Van Halen followed through, peremptorily cancelling a show in Colorado when Roth found some brown M&M’s in his dressing room. This turned out to be, however, not another example of the insane demands of power-mad celebrities but an ingenious ruse.

As Roth explained in his memoir, Crazy from the Heat, “Van Halen was the first band to take huge productions into tertiary, third level markets.

We’d pull up with nine 18-wheeler trucks, full of gear, where the standard was three trucks, max. And there were many, many technical errors — whether it was the girders couldn’t support the weight, or the flooring would sink in, or the doors weren’t big enough to move the gear through. The contract rider read like a version of the Chinese Yellow Pages because there was so much equipment, and so many human beings to make it function. So just as a little test, buried somewhere in the middle of the rider, would be article 126, the no-brown-M&M’s clause. “When I would walk backstage, if I saw a brown M&M in that bowl,” he wrote, “well, we’d line-check the entire production.

Guaranteed you’re going to arrive at a technical error… Guaranteed you’d run into a problem.” These weren’t trifles, the radio story pointed out. The mistakes could be lifethreatening. In Colorado, the band found the local promoters had failed to read the weight requirements and the staging would have fallen through the arena.

I was never much of a Van Halen fan, but that looks like an interesting read (probably not, however, for the $312.60 that Amazon lists it at).

Via Five Feet of Fury