Monthly Archives: June 2011

Followin Up the Hockey

Dave says I can follow’er up, as he’s paintin the trim right now.  Which I don’t quite understand so it ain’t the kind of trim I know.  He’s just MiSterMessagered Me and said, Baseboards you stupid fook, so’s I guess it’s all OK.  Dave says Hi and he’s workin hard.

Them clowns what were rioting in Vancouver were sure in for a big surprise weren’t they when they busted out the windows of London Drugs.  During the hockey riots some snotwipes figgered it’d be fine to put the mitts on some DVD players and TV’s whilst their buddies were burnin the cop cars.  ‘Cept nobody told’em there was something like forty close-circuit cameras watchin their every move, from tossin the bricks to running out the door with an armload of consumer electronics. 

The Premier of BC was on The National pointing at some faces of them arseholes on video saying “Who’s dat guys boss?  What’s that guys Mom gonna say?  Where’s that shitheel work?  We’re sendin the cops after their arses and we’re gonna give them three hots and a cot in the Crowbar Hotel for a goodly long time”  I’m whatcha call paraphrasing her words.

Seems the Socializer Media joints like Sit On My Facebook and Twatter have all these sites up, some from private citizens, some from the cops and some from the media, playing back the video and asking the musical question:  Who The Fook Is This Moron?  Let Us Know.  Click Here To Fry His Arse.

To that I’m sayin Giv’er Lads and Ladies of the Law!  There’s gettin into some roughouse and then there be whats called Crossing The Line. 

At the same time, at The Bay Le Baie in downtown Van, where they busted out a block of windows, the plywoods up to cover the holes.  Seems that on Friday a lot of normal folks, as in more than a couple hundred, came down and wrote on the ply that they was sorry that some of their fellow citizens were arseholes.  Over at a cop car, they just covered her with PostyNotes sayin the same thing:  Sorry Lads, we do like you, some of us got Alpo when they was in the brains lineup in Heaven afore they was born.

To which I’m also sayin Good On Yer Vancouver.  I’s been there a couple of three times and she’s a fine city with decent folks.  Sometimes it’s hard to find a place where the coffee’s less than 14 dollars a cup, but the folks whats there are fine folks, even them what hasn’t been there that long.  They’ll help you out anytime youd like. 

Likes the time I was in Van lookin for a good curry but I didn’t want to spend half the cheque on it, so’s I asked around and they sent me to a joint that looked like some family’s kitchen with a cash register and a Coke cooler.  Ten bucks later, I’m into a Lamb Madras, salads and pappadums and shit, with a big ass Mango drink named after the dog called a Lassie.  Thought I’d died and gone to New Delhi, it was so good.  Nobody spoke a word of English and I don’t speak Indian, but we had a time of it with a big bunch of smiles all around. 

That’s what you call proper Vancouver hospitality.  We don’t give a shit where you’re from, or where you’re goin, but you’re welcome here, right now. 

Which if you think about it for another moment is sort of what Canada is like.  Did I just get all philosophical there?  <From Dave:  Yes Mason, you did.>

I se suppose that’s what I really mean.  If all you saw of Canada was those jagoffs riotin in Vancouver, you’d have a pisspoor impression of Vancouver and of Canada.  We’re not like that. 

I’d challenge anybody, black, white, green, red, brown, blue or purple to go to any city, town, village or unincorporated rural municipality five miles back of nowhere in Canada and walk up to a complete stranger.  Ask’em for directions to a Timmy’s or the nearest gas station and odds are they’d walk with you to show you the way.  Down East they’d probably have you to the house for dinner later while up the line, they’d see if you’d want a pint too.  Even in hotshot Toronto, they’d at least give you the time of day.

It’s Canada lad, we’ve got time and we’ll give you a hand.

Mason Baveux Wraps Up Hockey

Since there is only one of me and what with work and folks painting the upstairs, I’ve tossed the keys to Mason Baveux to comment on the nonsense that was the Stanley Cup Final and the aftermath in Vancouver.  Mason?

Thanks again for the keys to the bloggery lad.  Much appreciated for the faith and the case.  The Beer Store always has cold Red Cap, even though she’s not brewed by Carling no more. Dammit.

So’s the hockeys come and gone, with Boston beatin BC like a red headed stepchild, but she took seven just the same.  I’m thinkin Roberto Luongo should be puttin in for the disability treatment of PTSD, as the Bruins put so many shots at him, he’s probably gone all jittery as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Now the games were good, sort of.  No, actually, they sucked worse than Death backin out of the shithouse readin Mad Magazine, with his pants down tis ankles.  I’da almost preferred to watch the Leafs go to the Mini-Putt, as the hockey was so bad.  But what put some aggravationing in me was after Game 7.  Now I’se been to the Forum and I remember the riot after the Canadiens won the cup in ‘86, despite having a load on for three days straight,.  I think I got off the train stupid and went downhill from there.   

Winning the Cup gives you the right to maybe tip over some newspaper boxes, or get the pukes all over the front of someones store, but winning don’t give you the right to set fire to a cop car, or beat the shit out of some guy tryin to keep a bit of order.

Which is what they did in Vancouver, after Vancouver lost the effin series!  Ten thousand pissed off, half in the bag arsewipes started bustin out store windows, settin fires and puttin the boots to folks just tryin to get the hell out of Dodge is not the way you do’er.

First up, you gotta win Lord Stan’s Mug, then you can have your self a wangtime goodtime and give’r all you got Big Shovel!  The excuse bein you were all beered up and things just got a wee bit out of hand.  Sorry about that Officer, but the puke’ll clean off the uniform OK.

But you notice that first part:   You gotta win her.  Vancouver didn’t win’er, so’s the deal is you shut your pie hole, take you lumps, and walk home quietly.  If you gotta hork, you hork in the street, where the street cleaners can mop it up afters.  Nobody gets arrested and nobody gets their clock cleaned by some jackwagon in a black ninja hood just lookin for trouble. 

Nows I’m all for havin a great time and I can’t be throwin the first stone, as I done my share, but if all you want to do is take a special occasion and turn it into your own political statement of just how effed in the head you are, then there’s plenty of much better places to do it, where you can show us just how big a set of clankers you think you got.  One that comes to mind is the old Embassy, up the line in Pembroke.  If all you want to do is brawl, then there’s always a half-dozen lads who’ll oblige you just because it’s Thursday. 

Or you could pick just about any Legion branch you want to choose and you can get about as much roughhouse as your cheekbones can stand.  Some of the old guys in there were in Korea with the PPCLI, or in Cyprus with the 8CH and they’ll teach you the meaning of the word roughhouse.  You won’t have to go to hospital unless you piss them off, but you surely will understand what the medicals describe as subdermal hematoma or an ecchymosis.  You can look’er up.

As for settin cars on fire?  Are you effin nuts?  Some fire lads I know would give you a shot with a Halligan tool just for bein that stupid in public.  Especially if they seen you do it or standin around cheering the fire.  And be assured it will leave a mark on your face you’d have to explain to your Mom and Dad over the Corn Flakes the next morning.

So’s to sum it up.  Vancouver?  That weren’t Good Hockey on the ice.  That also weren’t Good Hockey off the ice afters.  Smarten the hell up.

Fixin’ The ‘Puter

Sure, I do it for a living, but from time to time, ones personal technology takes a long steamer, as mine did a couple of weeks ago.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that; as technology fails, but one would think that someone who bashes electrons for a living would have a stone solid personal piece.  You would be wrong.

As the old aphorism goes, the Cobbler’s Children always have the worst shoes.  Those of us who bash iron professionally are usually of two camps.  Camp A:  A nitrogen-cooled beast, overclocked out to one red c-hair back from “Aluminum Smelter” with 64 Gig of RAM and a half a petabyte of personal storage.  NASA calls us up when they want to run some heavy duty simulations. 

Camp B:  Some clapped out AMD barely able to run Solitaire, let alone any apps worth listing, that was last updated with Jack Layton had hair.

To disprove the rule, we sit between the two polar extremes.  A modest desktop, five years old, with way too much storage built into and around it.  However, like all technology, the motherboard up and died a couple of weeks ago.  You know it is time for the black armband services when it won’t recognize a PS2 keyboard. 

So we went looking for a new piece.  We do know that buying at the bleeding edge is brutally expensive and has more risks than offering to swap photos with Rep. Anthony Weiner, so we avoid going there.  The objective was to build wisely, without having to sell an internal organ to a Saudi prince to pay for the gear. 

We wanted a grownup case, without whirling LED lights hung off the fans and 3-D holograms of some airbrushed gaming Amazonian warrior princess from an obscure first-person shooter.  We wanted something that would take all the external drives and somehow convince them to live inside a proper chassis.  Then there was RAM.  We know that 8 is great but 16 is simply faaabulous, so there had to be room to grow, extra slots and a BIOS that won’t go stupid in a years’ time.

After much reading, link clicking and cross-referencing we wound up with a nice, one year-back from bleeding edge processor, with room to grow the RAM.  A power supply that won’t make choking noises when you plug in a USB key and a new home for seven formerly outboard bigazz drives.  Yes, there is a lot of disk space in the case and a lot of it gets used thanks.  Tweaks?  A few, modest ones, but nothing that will void a warranty or cause puddles of molten solder to wind up on our desk. 

Which means, simply, that we can write again, having exhausted all available post-work cycles on finding, building and configuring a new ‘puter with parts from here, there and everywhere in between.