Yesterday evening as I came home after watching Holland mess up a 2-0 lead over Mexico I switched on my computer to download my mail. Dialling in to my account I received the error message ‘no dial tone’.
I fiddled with the modem. I fiddled with the computer. I fiddled with Win 95. I fiddled with the phone… the cables… I took bits apart and put them back together again. No dial tone.
Eek. I had a sickly feeling in my stomach. I phoned maintenance on my mobile, but they couldn’t fix anything on the spot. I’d have to wait. No mail.
Annoyed, I grabbed the remote and watched tv, trying the phone every few hours. But the line remained dead.
This morning I checked my mail from work. There was absolutely nothing of real interest in there. I almost wished I hadn’t called maintenance, and had just left it till Monday. A weekend without the internet… that’ll be the day.
I’d like to be obsessive about snail mail again. I used to run down to the mailbox every 5 minutes to see if something had arrived. I guess I’m just obsessive by nature.
ps. Upgrade to Win ’98? No way.
… I’m wearing an Apple T-shirt today, so I’m the apple tart. Yesterday’s seminar (a glorified Tupperware party… they were gracious to admit) was lively, informative and entertaining. Apple were trying to sell Internet technology to the print & graphics branch and they did a fine job.
But towards the end of the day when the speaker asked the audience to comment on the differences between a stylesheet shown on IE4.0 and NS 4.0. someone obviously unfamiliar with the web said ‘that gray bar at the top’… confusing the browser itself with the page shown in it. Mr Apple (a hired gun) laughed in his face and ignored the question.
The same guy had dismissed a completely relevant comment I made earlier as being ‘uninteresting’. The audience disagreed with him so I didn’t feel like a complete moron.
Halfway through Mr Apple got Freudian. Talking about file size he said: ‘You’ve got to keep the customer small’.
It might be juvenile, but I can’t leave out his other slip of the tongue: ‘You can pull your part without much damage’.
Off to a seminar today – update to follow.
links of the day:
LMichelle – a Personal Homepage
I’m watching it, yes. There isn’t much else on and what else are you going to talk about anyway for the next three weeks?
The game itself is o.k., it’s the hype, the violence, the ‘experts’ and their banter that piss me off. The banter especially… sometimes I wonder what makes people think they’re qualified to open their mouths in the media. Last week, a ‘journalist’ with Dutch broadcasting company EO interviewed a forward with the American Soccer Team. The young man claimed to be a simple player – to which the journalist replied ‘but most black players like to show off!’.
Who let this moron have his own program? And which editor decided he could air it?
Same sport – other job: one of the De Boer twins – I don’t know which one, they’re equally annoying and both are in the Dutch Football Team – was asked what he knew about the South Korean team he was about to play against. His answer was ‘Not much… I know they’re all slanty eyed.’
I give up.
The final will be between Argentina and Brasil… Argentina will win.
on my stereo: Moloko & All Saints compilation tape made by Stuart
Oysters are probably an acquired taste. I don’t understand just why I have no problem eating them, when I would rather top myself than have to eat locusts or other creepy crawlies. But anything from the sea is fine with me.
I would never have thought of oysters as a chinese dish, but last Saturday I was introduced to them by a co-worker.
Steamed oysters – on the half-shell – in black bean sauce, garnished with finely chopped spring onions and red chilies. They were huge. The biggest one approximately 8 inches wide. The shells were piping hot and the taste of the oysters themselves shone through the spicy sauce.
The small chinese restaurants on Amsterdam’s Zeedijk have nothing to go for them as far as atmosphere is concerned -but a plate full of decorative oysters draws attention, and before you know it, you are chatting with the other customers, obviously ‘foodies’ like yourself. It makes up for the barren tables and neon light. No frills. Just food.
At 2,75 guilders a piece the oysters make an excellent starter cum converstation piece. The Peking Duck that followed… would be a journal entry in itself.
Sunday: It’s hot outside and it has been a lazy weekend. I spent a virtually horizontal Saturday: in bed with the mother of all hangovers. Today, I’ve worked on getting ‘Dag’ on line. Four years of the Internet have numbed my writing skills, so I need to get out there and get words down. On line diaries are virtually chewed out, but hey, I’m doing this for me… not to help propel the Internet towards the 21st century.
On my stereo: AIR – Moon Safari.
God love ya, Francie Bradie – dreamt up out of the warped mind of writer Pat McCabe. Neil Jordan’s film is a cartoon world gone mad. Images of the American 60’s permeate an Irish front room: black and white footage of yankee propaganda, the mushroom cloud, Kennedy’s voice, cowboys & injuns, wankers & eejits and pictures of the pope. A boy grows up while his world falls apart – his mother takes her life, his father spins tales of a happy past while he drinks himself to death, his best friend betrays him and the priests wiggle away in their frocks while the boy’s accounts of his visions of Mary (played by Sinead O’Connor) makes their juices flow.
Violence is inevitable you know… you feel as you are swept away by the story. And when he strikes, your sympathy’s with Francie, you’ve learnt to see the world through his eyes.
Hey fish… fuck off!
The Butcher Boy – Neil Jordan
Eamonn Owens, Stephen Rea, Brendan Gleeson.
Seen at Movies, Amsterdam on Friday, June 20 – with Jeff.
The Butcher Boy – Pat McCabe
Picador – ISBN 0-330-32874-3