I'm a gonna go to the National Lentil Festival in Washington! I'm leaving tomorrow in the early hours of the morning, and driving for...ELEVEN hours!
I will be going up there to visit my brother and his family. I haven't seen them for a long while.
I'm also going to participate in the Tour de Lentil on my bike. Yes, it says 100k, but that's only approximately 60 miles. I'm excited! I'm very glad it ain't a bike race, but a bike ride.
So...I don't know if I'm going to have access to a computer up there, so, I will be gone until about Monday. If you need anything, sorry. I'm unavailable as far as I know...
Windy...er...Lentil Festival, here I come!
Monday, August 14, 2006
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Keyboard digging
Google search: "Keyboard Digging"
Results: "Did you mean Keyboard Logging"?
Darn.
Keyboard Digging
When you read the title "Keyboard Digging", you are probably thinking, "What the putrid bologna?" That is what I thought, too. Until I saw them.
The Keyboard Digging people. They call themselves "Keydig" for short.
The Keydig people are a dying race. They are very timid, and hide in the dark corners of the world. Because of their timidness, and the world's rapidly growing population, they are being kicked out of their territory. They are the red squirrels of the park. The grey ones are taking over.
Some of you Darwinismists will just say, "the survival of the fittest!" So, if grey squirrels become so plentiful to overpower us humans, does that mean they were fitter, or was it because of their numerous population? Okay, we're quite off-topic.
The Keydigs.
So, how did they get such an outrageous name??? It all started back, way back, when typewriters were the general method to get ideas on a page. The lazy people of the civilized world were tired of having to clean out the typewriters. (Typewriters get dirty, just like computer keyboards...whether it be food, or gradual grime build-up from your fingers...) So they imported some people from a small island, and their job was to clean the typewriters. To clean the typewriters/keyboards, they use their delicate, small fingers to dig into the cracks, and scoop out the grime. They grew so popular and useful, that everyone used them. "Hey, can I borrow your Keydig?" "Sure! Just give him back sometime next week." The Keydigs didn't mind this occupation. It was better than sitting around on an island and documenting the different smells of the world. (I don't know if this source is reliable, as to where they came from. Others say they are escaped Oompas. They were sick of chocolate.) Some distinguishable characteristics of these people are:
1. The sock-tying ceremony. The Keydigs have a wonderful and unique ceremony where they get together, and bring all of their lone socks. (The socks who have lost their mate.) And they dump these socks in different piles, and match the socks with another to the best of their ability. The Keydigs have never wasted a sock because the other was missing. This ceremony traditionally takes place in a moonlit children's park on the eve of April 2.
2. Their meals: This has to be explained. They have meals very often, but in very small portions. For example, one Keydig I met ate according to this schedule: Pre-breakfast at 6:23 am. Breakfast at 7:34 am. Post-breakfast at 8:45 am. Pre-brunch at 9:54 am. Brunch at 10:12. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera!!
3. The Rope-making tradition. These Keydigs are very adorable in all aspects. Except for this one. They collect and save hair (from their backs) and eventually braid it into a very reliable rope. Gross. Usually the men do this one.
4. Piercings. If you know what to look for in piercings, you won't always know exactly who's a Keydig, and who isn't. They don't have any.
5. Greetings. The Keydigs have a unique way of greeting each other on the street. They walk up to each other, and smell the other's left hand. They believe that The left hand is the hand that's supposed to smell good, as the right does all the smelly and dirty work.
This is all I have discovered and witnessed so far among the lost people: The Keydigs. Watch out for them!
*Verb accredited to Jos and noun credited to Brittanica.
Results: "Did you mean Keyboard Logging"?
Darn.
Keyboard Digging
When you read the title "Keyboard Digging", you are probably thinking, "What the putrid bologna?" That is what I thought, too. Until I saw them.
The Keyboard Digging people. They call themselves "Keydig" for short.
The Keydig people are a dying race. They are very timid, and hide in the dark corners of the world. Because of their timidness, and the world's rapidly growing population, they are being kicked out of their territory. They are the red squirrels of the park. The grey ones are taking over.
Some of you Darwinismists will just say, "the survival of the fittest!" So, if grey squirrels become so plentiful to overpower us humans, does that mean they were fitter, or was it because of their numerous population? Okay, we're quite off-topic.
The Keydigs.
So, how did they get such an outrageous name??? It all started back, way back, when typewriters were the general method to get ideas on a page. The lazy people of the civilized world were tired of having to clean out the typewriters. (Typewriters get dirty, just like computer keyboards...whether it be food, or gradual grime build-up from your fingers...) So they imported some people from a small island, and their job was to clean the typewriters. To clean the typewriters/keyboards, they use their delicate, small fingers to dig into the cracks, and scoop out the grime. They grew so popular and useful, that everyone used them. "Hey, can I borrow your Keydig?" "Sure! Just give him back sometime next week." The Keydigs didn't mind this occupation. It was better than sitting around on an island and documenting the different smells of the world. (I don't know if this source is reliable, as to where they came from. Others say they are escaped Oompas. They were sick of chocolate.) Some distinguishable characteristics of these people are:
1. The sock-tying ceremony. The Keydigs have a wonderful and unique ceremony where they get together, and bring all of their lone socks. (The socks who have lost their mate.) And they dump these socks in different piles, and match the socks with another to the best of their ability. The Keydigs have never wasted a sock because the other was missing. This ceremony traditionally takes place in a moonlit children's park on the eve of April 2.
2. Their meals: This has to be explained. They have meals very often, but in very small portions. For example, one Keydig I met ate according to this schedule: Pre-breakfast at 6:23 am. Breakfast at 7:34 am. Post-breakfast at 8:45 am. Pre-brunch at 9:54 am. Brunch at 10:12. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera!!
3. The Rope-making tradition. These Keydigs are very adorable in all aspects. Except for this one. They collect and save hair (from their backs) and eventually braid it into a very reliable rope. Gross. Usually the men do this one.
4. Piercings. If you know what to look for in piercings, you won't always know exactly who's a Keydig, and who isn't. They don't have any.
5. Greetings. The Keydigs have a unique way of greeting each other on the street. They walk up to each other, and smell the other's left hand. They believe that The left hand is the hand that's supposed to smell good, as the right does all the smelly and dirty work.
This is all I have discovered and witnessed so far among the lost people: The Keydigs. Watch out for them!
*Verb accredited to Jos and noun credited to Brittanica.
Not AGAIN
...I can't stand it! I don't know where to look, what to say, and I'm in a very awkward position. Two people are staring at me, not six inches away, and I see a bright light. I'm tempted to stare into the eyes of one of the people, and see if it does anything. Will they pull away their face that is looming sometimes 3 inches away to 3 feet away? I need my private space! Ack! Sometimes my tongue will involuntarily attack their prying fingers. Though that's kind of weird. I don't like the taste or smell of latex.
Yes, once again, I'm in the dentist's office. Once again facing the challenge. Where do I look? Do I stare at their nose? How about their freckle? I try in vain to stare at the ceiling, as it eludes me behind the blinding white light. My tongue is in a panic with so many foreign snakes fiddling around in my mouth. The drool builds up in puddles, threatening to drown me. That's when they stick the miniature vacuum in my mouth to prevent my premature death.
Then there's the worst sound and feeling in the world. Scraping plaque and teeth. Chssh, schhhsh, chhhshchch. Ugh. It sends shivers up my spine. As they scrape that stupid high-tech "sonic" cleaner close (or on) my gums, my back slowly arches, and my hands clamp tighter. I realize this, and relax, only to realize seconds later, I am once again clenched everywhere, even my pinky toe is experiencing my anxiety. My face grows hot then cold then hot again in mere seconds.
My tongue is once again confused. Where is it supposed to go? The dentist has his hands plus a tool in my mouth, as well as a vacuum, and a tennis ball they were curious to see if it fit in my mouth, which it did.
Alas! I'm all tight again, and I breathe to let myself relax, inhaling the drool and grit and who-knows-what in my lungs. I try very hard to prevent myself from coughing, causing tears to erupt in the process.
The girl sees my teary eyes, and asks if I'm okay. I say "Ykmmmf". She looks confused. I wonder why. I nod my head yes, causing the vacuum to fall out and land on the floor. She swiftly picks it up and sanitizes it with three different sprays and cloths. Then she continues.
Even when they're causing me slight pain or discomfort, I just tell them to carry on. Because if I say "no" when they ask if I'm okay, they stop and rest for a minute, and continue exactly what they were doing, only more slowly, causing even longer amounts of torture!
Other than that, my visit was swell. I only regret not turning on the TV on the ceiling, as that would've given me something to watch. But noooo, I had to bring my stupid book with the witty Voltaire, and his work: "Optimism" which is also known as "Candide" (which I'm enjoying immensely, by the way...).
Yes, once again, I'm in the dentist's office. Once again facing the challenge. Where do I look? Do I stare at their nose? How about their freckle? I try in vain to stare at the ceiling, as it eludes me behind the blinding white light. My tongue is in a panic with so many foreign snakes fiddling around in my mouth. The drool builds up in puddles, threatening to drown me. That's when they stick the miniature vacuum in my mouth to prevent my premature death.
Then there's the worst sound and feeling in the world. Scraping plaque and teeth. Chssh, schhhsh, chhhshchch. Ugh. It sends shivers up my spine. As they scrape that stupid high-tech "sonic" cleaner close (or on) my gums, my back slowly arches, and my hands clamp tighter. I realize this, and relax, only to realize seconds later, I am once again clenched everywhere, even my pinky toe is experiencing my anxiety. My face grows hot then cold then hot again in mere seconds.
My tongue is once again confused. Where is it supposed to go? The dentist has his hands plus a tool in my mouth, as well as a vacuum, and a tennis ball they were curious to see if it fit in my mouth, which it did.
Alas! I'm all tight again, and I breathe to let myself relax, inhaling the drool and grit and who-knows-what in my lungs. I try very hard to prevent myself from coughing, causing tears to erupt in the process.
The girl sees my teary eyes, and asks if I'm okay. I say "Ykmmmf". She looks confused. I wonder why. I nod my head yes, causing the vacuum to fall out and land on the floor. She swiftly picks it up and sanitizes it with three different sprays and cloths. Then she continues.
Even when they're causing me slight pain or discomfort, I just tell them to carry on. Because if I say "no" when they ask if I'm okay, they stop and rest for a minute, and continue exactly what they were doing, only more slowly, causing even longer amounts of torture!
Other than that, my visit was swell. I only regret not turning on the TV on the ceiling, as that would've given me something to watch. But noooo, I had to bring my stupid book with the witty Voltaire, and his work: "Optimism" which is also known as "Candide" (which I'm enjoying immensely, by the way...).
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Dreams are SO weird....
Well, before I tell you my very strange dream, you need some background information that is necessary to understand a few things (or one thing...). I watched Sense and Sensibility for the first time right before I went to sleep for the night. For all of you who haven't seen the movie (or don't realize a certain element from it), there is a certain actor in the movie named Alan Rickman. His character in the movie was named Colonel Brandon, who was a good, nice guy. Alan Rickman's role in another movie, however, is quite the opposite. He is Professor Snape in the Harry Potter movies.
Okay, my dream. I dreamed that I got to meet the actor Alan Rickman, only his name was Severus Snape, and he acted out the part of Colonel Brandon. I got to ask Snape the simple question, "Why?" As in, why did he kill Dumbledore. And he gave me a long explanation (that probably took up a good hour of my sleep...as dreams seem so slow for so little information...): He in fact, did not kill Dumbledore, and that he was actually a good guy. He explained to me that Harry needs to continue on his own, to develop his own personal power and will. The murder of Dumbledore was staged, and that the Dumbledore that Harry saw killed was, in fact, a old cow that was transformed. The explanation was more complicated than that, and I can't really explain. You know how dreams are...it's more of a feeling.
Anyway, in my dream, Harry eventually catches up to Snape, kills him, and turns evil because of his rage and becomes worse than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (Voldemort).
(Be aware that a ton of random, strange stuff happens between the lines, but I don't remember them as clearly as the details I gave you thus far...)
Then my light snaps on. (My light is my alarm, it turns on when I set it to turn on, as I can't hear an alarm...) I forgot to turn off my alarm! So, I snap it back off, and I dream about Jack Sparrow and something about four green dots, and their significance. Strange.
I wake back up. Time: 8:34. Church starts at 9:00. Uh-oh. I run up, get ready, leave my house at 8:47 to walk to church.
And, obviously, I'm still disturbed by the dream(s) I had last night. Maybe I'm wishfully thinking in my subconscious that Dumbledore really isn't dead, and that Snape is still a good guy. What do you think?
Me, I'm obviously disturbed by Snape's actions, and I'm still holding out hope for him, that he can be a good guy...I'll probably be very disappointed in him when the next book comes out...I guess you can hope too much for someone to be good...I just don't know! :)
After seeing Sense and Sensibility, I can never look at Alan Rickman again. I guess I get too caught up in the story, and realize that the actors are real people, and they probably aren't as evil as they act. (I hope. Sometimes I wonder...)
Okay, my dream. I dreamed that I got to meet the actor Alan Rickman, only his name was Severus Snape, and he acted out the part of Colonel Brandon. I got to ask Snape the simple question, "Why?" As in, why did he kill Dumbledore. And he gave me a long explanation (that probably took up a good hour of my sleep...as dreams seem so slow for so little information...): He in fact, did not kill Dumbledore, and that he was actually a good guy. He explained to me that Harry needs to continue on his own, to develop his own personal power and will. The murder of Dumbledore was staged, and that the Dumbledore that Harry saw killed was, in fact, a old cow that was transformed. The explanation was more complicated than that, and I can't really explain. You know how dreams are...it's more of a feeling.
Anyway, in my dream, Harry eventually catches up to Snape, kills him, and turns evil because of his rage and becomes worse than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (Voldemort).
(Be aware that a ton of random, strange stuff happens between the lines, but I don't remember them as clearly as the details I gave you thus far...)
Then my light snaps on. (My light is my alarm, it turns on when I set it to turn on, as I can't hear an alarm...) I forgot to turn off my alarm! So, I snap it back off, and I dream about Jack Sparrow and something about four green dots, and their significance. Strange.
I wake back up. Time: 8:34. Church starts at 9:00. Uh-oh. I run up, get ready, leave my house at 8:47 to walk to church.
And, obviously, I'm still disturbed by the dream(s) I had last night. Maybe I'm wishfully thinking in my subconscious that Dumbledore really isn't dead, and that Snape is still a good guy. What do you think?
Me, I'm obviously disturbed by Snape's actions, and I'm still holding out hope for him, that he can be a good guy...I'll probably be very disappointed in him when the next book comes out...I guess you can hope too much for someone to be good...I just don't know! :)
After seeing Sense and Sensibility, I can never look at Alan Rickman again. I guess I get too caught up in the story, and realize that the actors are real people, and they probably aren't as evil as they act. (I hope. Sometimes I wonder...)
Thursday, August 03, 2006
(To prevent the record number of comments...)
Okay, okay, I get the message! I will immediately make a new post, since the comment count is getting rather...high on the past post, though I don't know why. Maybe it's because it has no pictures whatsoever, but paranoid imaginings of conspiracies.
What to write about? That's a good question.
Sometimes I wake up in the mornings with great ideas for this blog. But once I roll out of bed, the motivation is gone. So...I will write a short story, fictional of course, just for you. I can't guarantee if it'll be good quality or not.
Ahem. Once upon a short story, there lived a chipmunk named Ishmael in the Forest of Ebbs. Now, Ishmael was no ordinary chipmunk. He could speak. English. He actually had intelligence, and could understand human speech, and he was born with a mutation in his voice box and mouth and tongue, so he could actually say human speech as well. (In a fairy-tale or something, they would simply say he ate alphabet soup, and the letters didn't go to his belly, but to his brain, and he learned how to read and speak...but he can't read...)
So, we have a chipmunk named Ishmael that can speak English. One other thing you need to know about him. He loves pranks, and pulling pranks. He was a mischievious chipmunk.
One day, a group of red-neckers were being stupid, drinking, trashing the park and all that. Because of the noise, the animals in the forest tried to get as far away from them as they could. But Borris the Bear couldn't stand it. He grew so angry that he started to run towards the party. Ishmael has been aware of all the happenings. Ishmael realized that the red-neckers were drunk, and the bear was coming, so he was in for a good laugh. He grabbed a red hat, a yellow raincoat, some silly string, some duct tape, and some dried flowers from his stash of nicker-nacks. When Borris arrived on the scene, all tuckered out, he stood up behind the fire on his two hind legs. The red-neckers then ...nah, this story is pretty stupid. I ain't finishing it. I just don't have the groove right now...please come back and read some other time.
What to write about? That's a good question.
Sometimes I wake up in the mornings with great ideas for this blog. But once I roll out of bed, the motivation is gone. So...I will write a short story, fictional of course, just for you. I can't guarantee if it'll be good quality or not.
Ahem. Once upon a short story, there lived a chipmunk named Ishmael in the Forest of Ebbs. Now, Ishmael was no ordinary chipmunk. He could speak. English. He actually had intelligence, and could understand human speech, and he was born with a mutation in his voice box and mouth and tongue, so he could actually say human speech as well. (In a fairy-tale or something, they would simply say he ate alphabet soup, and the letters didn't go to his belly, but to his brain, and he learned how to read and speak...but he can't read...)
So, we have a chipmunk named Ishmael that can speak English. One other thing you need to know about him. He loves pranks, and pulling pranks. He was a mischievious chipmunk.
One day, a group of red-neckers were being stupid, drinking, trashing the park and all that. Because of the noise, the animals in the forest tried to get as far away from them as they could. But Borris the Bear couldn't stand it. He grew so angry that he started to run towards the party. Ishmael has been aware of all the happenings. Ishmael realized that the red-neckers were drunk, and the bear was coming, so he was in for a good laugh. He grabbed a red hat, a yellow raincoat, some silly string, some duct tape, and some dried flowers from his stash of nicker-nacks. When Borris arrived on the scene, all tuckered out, he stood up behind the fire on his two hind legs. The red-neckers then ...nah, this story is pretty stupid. I ain't finishing it. I just don't have the groove right now...please come back and read some other time.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Experiences
Okay, I'm going to document last Tuesday for you.
I did the usual, wake up at 6:10 AM, and go to swim practice...come home, and was ready to die. (Take a nap.) But my mom had a mission for me: Go to my Grandma's, and take her to the store to get powder (facial, make-uppity stuff...) Background information: Grandma likes to look at everything in the store, and scoff at the outrageous prices. By the time we make it to the make-up section, we find out that the store doesn't stock the brand that my grandma has been using for 40+ years! I spent the next 15 minutes trying to convince her that the powder of a different brand is the same thing! Eventually I won.
We finally make it back to her house, and lonely as she is, and busy as I am, she loaded me with guilt. Guilt that I don't visit her often enough. Guilt that I have to leave soon, and can't have lunch with her. Guilt that she's in that house all alone all day. Guilt that she doesn't have anything to do. Guilt that I'm coming home to a house full of hustle and bustle.
So, as I was driving along the freeway to get back to my house, there was an accident. Even the smallest accidents can make the freeways slow to a snail's pace. And I witnessed something magnificent. I watched a very courageous and very stupid small brown mouse make a full sprint from the meridian to off the freeway. Where I was, that was seven lanes, and the cars are going 5-10 mph. But he made it. Then I read an article in the newspaper, and I understood why that mouse made that suicidal sprint. Man, those critters are smart.
They (the mice, rats, small critters, etc.) apparently have a system. Their main predator in open fields are the barn owls. They send off one of their warriors (or victims) to run across the freeway. Either they will live, or they won't. If they live, they're lucky, and probably won't have to do it again. These small critters have come up with a system to save thousands of their fellow selves. 25,000 barn owls get killed every year. On the freeway. By a car. Hmmm...there's a conspiracy here, and I know it!
I did the usual, wake up at 6:10 AM, and go to swim practice...come home, and was ready to die. (Take a nap.) But my mom had a mission for me: Go to my Grandma's, and take her to the store to get powder (facial, make-uppity stuff...) Background information: Grandma likes to look at everything in the store, and scoff at the outrageous prices. By the time we make it to the make-up section, we find out that the store doesn't stock the brand that my grandma has been using for 40+ years! I spent the next 15 minutes trying to convince her that the powder of a different brand is the same thing! Eventually I won.
We finally make it back to her house, and lonely as she is, and busy as I am, she loaded me with guilt. Guilt that I don't visit her often enough. Guilt that I have to leave soon, and can't have lunch with her. Guilt that she's in that house all alone all day. Guilt that she doesn't have anything to do. Guilt that I'm coming home to a house full of hustle and bustle.
So, as I was driving along the freeway to get back to my house, there was an accident. Even the smallest accidents can make the freeways slow to a snail's pace. And I witnessed something magnificent. I watched a very courageous and very stupid small brown mouse make a full sprint from the meridian to off the freeway. Where I was, that was seven lanes, and the cars are going 5-10 mph. But he made it. Then I read an article in the newspaper, and I understood why that mouse made that suicidal sprint. Man, those critters are smart.
They (the mice, rats, small critters, etc.) apparently have a system. Their main predator in open fields are the barn owls. They send off one of their warriors (or victims) to run across the freeway. Either they will live, or they won't. If they live, they're lucky, and probably won't have to do it again. These small critters have come up with a system to save thousands of their fellow selves. 25,000 barn owls get killed every year. On the freeway. By a car. Hmmm...there's a conspiracy here, and I know it!
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