Hi! Do you remember blogs? Well, this used to be one. Now it just serves as an archive for my multiple Twitter accounts.
Comment, en 2002, les réseaux de rencontres téléphoniques arrivent-ils encore à trouver des pigeons ? A vivre dans un univers où tout est gratuit (encyclopédies, dialogues, musique, porno…) on en oublierait presque qu’il existe encore tout plein de
blaireaux neuneus malheureux qui n’ont pas accès à ces facilités. Fracture numérique indeed. C’est assez incroyable que la gratuité sur le web ait pu subsister si longtemps dans un monde pareil.
Ouais, ok, c’est ni super profond ni super original, mais au moins je poste. Plaignez-vous. Mais dans votre coin, en silence.
Quicksilver : Finally a cool-looking OS X-like Trillian skin that doesn’t require Trillian Pro.
Oh, it’s snowing again. Too bad I haven’t got a subway pass for this month. Too bad my digital camera is not autonomous yet. Too bad I’m lazy. Too bad we’re living in a country where not enjoying the snow outside makes you feel like you miss the opportunity of a lifetime. Oh well, I’m quite used to that feeling of missing something now, so it doesn’t bother me anymore. And there’s a subway strike anyway…
Selon le Monde, le directeur d’antenne de Canal+, Dominique Farrugia, ancien membre de l’équipe des “Nuls”, devrait être remplacé prochainement par Guillaume de Vergès, actuel directeur des programmes de TF1.
Je pense que c’est ma faute. Alors je vous en demande pardon. Il y a une semaine, j’écrivais que je pouvais difficilement me permettre de payer à la fois un abonnement Canal+ et une carte UGC ; sept jours plus tard, la réponse m’est apportée par voie divine avec anges, trompettes et décideurs abrutis.
Si Farrugia saute, on peut s’attendre, entre autres choses, à ce que les diffusions de séries en VO soient en position précaire. Et comme c’est le seul élément qui pouvait me retenir…
Eh bien… on commence par le bon, ou le mauvais ?
Allez, on va commencer par le bon : Whoa. Whoa whoa whoa.
This is the first episode featuring raunchy sex; all previous sexual encounters [were] depicted as passionate, tender experiences (in tvtome.com). En effet. Et, même s’ils étaient entièrement habillés (en tout cas au moment où ils faisaient l’am… enfin, où ils baisaient) je trouve que c’est aussi la scène de sexe la plus
graphique de la série. Whoa. Juste au moment où je me disais que ça devenait lourd, deux fois de suite un épisode qui se terminait par un baiser que Buffy niait dans l’épisode suivant, ils trouvent une nouvelle variante. Whoa. Ca, c’est une scène d’amour. Un immeuble qui s’écroule. Je suis sûr d’avoir déjà vu ça quelque part, mais je crois qu’on peut difficilement faire mieux. (A moins que ce soit juste que j’aurais entendu parler de cette scène ? Non, je crois vraiment avoir déjà vu quelque chose de similaire.)
Pour ce qui est de mettre Marsters à poil pendant tout l’épisode suivant, en revanche, ils auraient peut-être pu éviter. D’abord parce qu’à ce point c’est franchement glauque ; ensuite, parce qu’en multipliant les cadrages et les mouvements élaborés pour éviter de montrer Spike en-dessous de la ceinture, on passe son temps à rappeler aux spectateurs qu’ils sont devant leur télé, ce qui n’est pas poli. Et puis, des hommes nus, j’en vois tous les jours sur mon écran ; je n’ai pas spécialement besoin que Spike fasse partie du lot. C’est glauque. Vraiment. (Et puis il est trop pâle.)
Et maintenant, le négatif. Au début du deuxième épisode, j’étais en train d’écrire dans mes notes que ça pourrait / aurait pu être jouable, une histoire de Willow accro à la magie, si on écrivait ça avec plein de subtilité tout partout ; mais que la subtilité était justement ce qui faisait le plus défaut à cette saison (à part les deux épisodes de la semaine dernière, à forte teneur en Whedon) et que c’était donc loin d’être gagné. Et, juste alors que j’écris ça, entre… un dealer de magie. Subtilité. Un driving under influence. Subtilité. Une crise de manque. Subtilité. Bon sang. Un dealer de magie et des
blagues visuelles sur le fait que Marsters soit à poil. C’est pathétique…
J’ai hâte que Whedon arrête toutes ses séries et se lance à plein temps dans le cinéma. Là, au moins, il aura le temps de s’occuper de tout, et de faire quelque chose de parfait de bout en bout. Parce que c’est assez usant de devoir supporter tout le remplissage de ses tâcherons (qui étaient pourtant bien plus inspirés, ces tâcherons, sur les saisons précédentes) pour profiter des quelques perles de Whedon. C’est dur. Pensez à nous, merde. Arrêtez Buffy.
— Hi…how have you been?
— Rat. You?
I think it’s quite time for me to write my Opera 7 review. You should know I’m quite a master of suspense, so you’ll have to read the whole thing in order to find out that, although this version is a tremendous improvement over the previous one, I’m back to Mozilla. No way I’m gonna tell this right from the start.
Made in the USA (w)
I already knew that texan judges (it’s a documentary about Odell Barnes) were elected and that it necessarily influenced their decisions. But I didn’t know that the judges themselves choosed which lawyer to assign to poor defendants. I just can’t comprehend that. Wouldn’t anybody have somehow figured it would be nice to set up some kind of independence in the process? Hello?
Cut to an interview of Bush Jr. explaining that there’s no way any innocent would ever have been sentenced to death in his state. Right. Oh boy, I so want to throw up, but it’s late and I’ve got to go to sleep instead. I’m not sure this movie is the best thing to watch right before bedtime, though.
I just discovered a new mail-order catalog of trinkets, gadgets and generally old-fashioned unusable unthinkable unbearable stuff. Even though most of the items are lethally dainty(*), I could just spend hours watching the pictures and imagining how I’d decorate a room, how I’d arrange furniture and accessories in the empty space of my brain (oh, how it’s empty and windy and lonely in there).
But that doesn’t make a good motivation to find a job and a flat and a life and a dog: because dogs keep messing things up and breaking everything and they’re just filthy and… wait, no, that wasn’t where I was going. Because I’m not stable enough: I’d keep buying and buying and buying new stuff to replace what I’d be bored with, and I’d end up as broke as I am right now. Now there’s something classy about going bankrupt over egyptian hippos, isn’t there? There isn’t? Well, I guess I won’t invite you home then. Your loss. Yeah. Really.
(*) I just hate it when my French-English dictionary gives me words I’ve never seen and don’t know how to use. I’m lucky enough (well, it’s not luck, it’s actually knowledge and talent and general greatness of me) that it doesn’t happen too often. I know most of the vocabulary I need to discuss software, TV, or sex, but when it comes to pewter figurines I’m pretty much lost (and I don’t actually feel the need to get too much documentation). So I just wanted to apologize if anything comes out awkward in this post or another. Because I’m not gonna apologize each and every time, so this will be it. Now on with the psychedelic hippos. Well, I was all done with them, actually.
A white noise generator : I so want that!
1. Which comedians entertain you or not? Why?
Okay, well, I guess there’s not much point in translating my answer to this question? I mean, there could be, but my answer was
les Robins des Bois, and you’re quite unlikely to know them if you’re reading this.
2. What could persuade you to go and see a movie you weren’t interested in?
Being invited. Or having a monthly pass and nothing else to do. Or hearing everyone I know tell me how great the movie is. Well, whichever, I’d need to be invited, considering the sorry state of my bank account.
3. How do you view productions like Pop Idol or Popstars?
I won’t translate the specifics here, because they’re as relevant as my answers to question 1. Let’s say I’ve got nothing against real-TV (when it’s done well, and it’s not often, but even when it’s done badly, like the French Big Brother, I can still watch regularly), and nothing against fabricating recording artists (when it’s done well, too, which isn’t always the case, either).
4. If you had the power to erase an event or a period of your life, how would you use it?
A period? Then can I say from zero to twenty-seven? Alright, let’s say I’d stop at twenty-six, because that’s the year I created my blog, and it’s quite a constructive move. (And, no, I’m not really ironic and, yes, it’s all the more pathetic.)
However, I’ve always very sincerely believed in
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Truly. So I wouldn’t seriously want to erase everything, since I survived all that (or at least it seems, maybe I haven’t been notified?) and it contributed to make me what I am now. But if I could erase all that’s coming afterwards…
5. How would you react if you found out someone close to you is doing drugs?
Well, it happens that, if you don’t count my best friend, who doesn’t drink doesn’t smoke doesn’t do drugs, the other two people I spend most time talking to are, at least, somewhat heavy drinkers.
I’d like to go all soap morals, say how bad it is to alienate oneself and stuff, but… well, it doesn’t fit.
I wondered once what I could tell a friend who wants to kill themselves (which is more or less the same thing). And I came to the conclusion that, considering my current situation and my past experiences, I wouldn’t have that many convincing things to say.
Is it too late yet to skip that question?
6. When was the last time you felt unsafe? In retrospect, was that feeling justified?
I don’t know, probably in the subway at midning… But I’m not one who panics. That’s my fatalistic side: if I must get slaughtered someday, it’ll just happen, whether I panic or not, so I might as well wait quietly and look the other way so as not to provoke fate.
No, seriously, I’m not kidding, that’s really what I do. (Well, I don’t act like a complete unconscious jerk who doesn’t realize what risks he’s taking: I’m careful in desert streets, I make up karate moves in my mind when I’m in a train car with suspicous people, etc.)
7. Have you ever stolen something?
Yes, I have. And although it’s been a long time ago, I’m not gonna go into the specifics. But it was just one time, and I regretted it for months. Not that I was discovered, but that’s the way I am, I feel remorse when I do something bad. Oh, yeah, it does suck, and my life would be so much simpler if I could behave like a dirty bastard. But life is not supposed to be simple, is it?
That’s what happens when someone offers me flowers.
Of course. Obviously. As chance would have it. Two days before my 27th birthday (i.e., yesterday), what do I see in the mirror? Yes, me, but, besides? A white hair, sparkling merrily to defy me.
Alright, so I’ve already said that I didn’t care all that much about my age per se, and it doesn’t really traumatize me (well, it’s always better than losing hair). But, still. Two days before my birthday—isn’t that precisely the ideal moment? Life is a bitch and it loves making fun of me, I tell you…
(Not to forget that, on the same day, my little brother got a laptop for his birthday—he’s twelve. No need to mention how great my mood was when I went out to meet a boy. Well, two boys actually.)
Les nouveaux trains de banlieue de la Gare Saint-Lazare sentent bon le car neuf, comme au Mondial de l’Automobile. Mmm.
Opera 7.01 : Security update
You have absolutely no idea how much I hate this man. You can’t imagine. I tell you, don’t try, you can’t. And would you think he’d at least have the decency to be a lousy singer? Ok, you can only hear it for a few bars, since the demo included in the album is Something To Sing About, but I like his way of singing the Spike part better than Marster’s—more appropriate to the musical context. I’d quite like to hear the demo of Rest In Peace, to see what it was supposed to sound like.
(Thanks to Matt for the CD, I’m playing it non-stop since this morning.)
Monsieur Monoprix du Perreux, si vous lisez mon blog, je voudrais bien que vous réintégriez à l’inventaire les sachets de blé Ebly au curry prêt en deux minutes au micro-ondes. Ca serait bien gentil. Merci d’avance. Allez, on se dépêche, j’ai pas que ça à faire. Parce que le riz à la sauce tomate qui marche au micro-ondes aussi, c’est pas mauvais, mais ça empeste pendant les deux jours qui suivent…
I’m not the kind of blogger who changes his layout every month, oh no I’m not. I’m quite stable for that matter—and for any matter, for that matter. I’m a stable boy, I’m quiet and wise and reliable, you can count on me, personally and professionally, and I’m… uh… yeah, whatever.
Considering that, right now, I’m looking for a contract… Well, considering that I’m somehow loosely looking for something that would kinda make me earn money and… Well, let’s say I’m basically waiting for someone to come to me and ask me to make their site, and they’d be rich, and generous, and nice and kind, and not a pain the ass, and the site they’d want me to do would be an interesting and motivating project, and it would happen just when I’m in the right mood, and… uh… yeah, whatever.
Since I need money right now, I had to get a more graphic homepage. The horizontal banner was nice and all, and I didn’t mind that my blog looked just as original as 75% of the other blogs, but it didn’t quite give out the impression that I’m a Photoshop wizard. (But am I? Hey, that’s way beside the point.) Hence the new layout, to show off that I can not only use Photoshop, but also make 3D pictures. Ok, simple, easy 3D pictures, but still. I’m here to sell myself, so please be quiet, will you? Now ain’t it pretty? I like. It’s not necessarily prettier than the previous version, but it’s not less either: it’s just a bit more graphical. Which is good, because that was the whole point.
Now I can go on not working and not looking for work, but at least have the warm and satisfying feeling that the client of my dreams will just find me by himself. Because the client of my dreams is like the boyfriend of my dreams: he can and will find me. That’s precisely what defines him.
P.S. The way the
G is distorted by perspective already bothers me, hardly one hour after I uploaded it. So I guess the picture might be slightly modified one of these days. But a good night of sleep comes first.
Levitated : Lots of open source Flash goodness (via boingboing.net)
You know that feeling : You gotta hate that
Bush promotes hydrogen fuel cells : to emphasize that he’s not going after Iraq for oil, I suppose
Ca fait plaisir de voir que les bons auteurs se sont réservés pour soigner la fin de la saison. Enfin, ce n’est pas qu’ils se soient réservés, qui fait plaisir, mais qu’ils soient revenus pour écrire la fin.
Ca faisait très longtemps (enfin, en temps français, parce qu’avec la pause Star Academy c’est en fait un peu difficile de reprendre le fil de la saison — Darla a dû mourir il n’y a pas si longtemps, en fait) que la série n’avait pas réussi à être émouvante. Ici, on a une belle scène de combat/jeu entre Angel et son fils, les pouvoirs impressionnants ou mignons de Cordelia (mais comment réussiront-ils à justifier qu’il y ait encore des combats dans les épisodes suivants, si elle fait le désarmement et les soins médicaux et psychiatriques tout à la fois ?), et le soixante-quinzième suicide d’un personnage secondaire dans le Buffyverse (et la tendance devient un poil inquiétante). Même Groo serait presque attendrissant, réalisant avec ses yeux de cocker triste que Cordelia a oublié jusqu’à son existence.
Que du bon, donc, même si j’ai un doute sur la fin : soit tout est manigancé par Holtz et je me demande bien pourquoi il a écrit une lettre d’adieux, soit la fin de saison va vraiment reposer sur un quiproquo involontaire autour des causes de sa mort, et c’est un peu cheap. Mais on peut bien accepter le cheap quand c’est bien écrit, surtout après avoir subi les milieux de saisons d’Angel et de Buffy.
C’est tout de même marrant (enfin, le mot juste est plutôt
passable) que les deux séries de Whedon trouvent leur second souffle dans l’apparition spontanée d’un adolescent tout cuit. Heureusement que Connor / Steven semble plus réussi que Dawn…
Damn, I can’t go on listening to the Once More With Feeling soundtrack over and over: I’ve got a cold, and a sore throat. And I can only hope that the reason my throat hurts is indeed the cold, and not OMWF itself.
Dans la série des personnalités découvertes dans En aparté, voilà Kristin Scott Thomas. Très intelligente, pleine d’humour, j’aime beaucoup sa façon de parler. A cent lieues de ce que j’imaginais.
Tant qu’on y est, je trouve la nouvelle pub SFR très mignonne — et pourtant, je supporte en général assez mal de voir des gens se rouler des pelles plein cadre, donc il faut vraiment que cette pub soit bien faite. Bien sûr, il n’y a pas que la pub, qui soit mignonne, et ça ne gâte rien. Mais où est-ce que je l’ai déjà vu ?
Quelle saison. De merde. Comme si le parallèle entre la magie et la drogue n’était pas assez lourdaud, il a fallu qu’ils en rajoutent un avec le sexe. J’aurais préféré que Willow devienne franchement méchante, qu’elle menace de détruire la Terre entière d’ici la fin de la saison, comme c’était vaguement suggéré dans la confrontation entre elle et Giles, au tout début. Mais non, ce serait trop simple, et pas assez… nul.
Il faut que je copie ce post dans un coin, pour me souvenir, quand l’idée me reprendra, pourquoi je dois garder Canal+ et ne pas prendre une carte UGC. Je suis déjà bien assez misanthrope comme ça, et surtout j’aime voir et entendre mes films.
Not much blogged these days. That’s because the window, uh, shutters? are broken. So it’s cold at night, and my throat hurts, and I’m now thinking it’s not because of the Buffy soundtrack. And my head hurts, too. And I want to eat all the time but there’s not enough room in my stomach. (Though that part is hardly new.) And my blanket isn’t warm enough—and, no, I don’t need a human blanket, because in a couple I’m always the one heating up the bed (and I’m not saying this with sexual innuendo, although on second thought maybe I should). And, uh, well, so, as I was saying, the nights are cold because it’s my birthday, uh, that is, because it’s February, so I, uh, did I mention I’m sick? Cause that was pretty much the original point of that post. So if I didn’t mention it, it’s time I do. Or maybe I’d better go to sleep, but the main reason I’m not going is that I’m afraid it’ll be worse tomorrow. And the day after, and so on and so forth until I die of pneumonia in front of my computer screen. (Because obviously the last of my strength would be devoted to moving the keyboard and screen next to me on my bed; what do you think a blogger would do in his last hours?)
Maintenant qu’il y a des centaines de blogueurs qui wannabe sur camstory, est-ce que ça ne serait pas le moment d’exploiter le nom du concept du nom, et de mettre en place des votes pour choisir quelles cams doivent retourner en division 2 ?
(Note to self : Quand j’ai de la fièvre, je me mets à faire des comparaisons footballistiques. Me suicider.)
It’s never too late to learn: I was watching the quarterly sex-related issue of the otherwise serious economic show Capital, and found out the escort-boys on the web (well, the report was obviously about escort-girls, not boys) were perfectly legal—straight from the mouth of a police officer. Of course, it won’t be true anymore as soon as our right-hand government get their paws on that, but I’m still surprised. And I’m also surprised by my surprise: why have I ever been convinced that it was illegal?
Now all I have to do is to get myself into serious body-building, and I’ll be ready for my new career. (Yes, Mother, I’m kidding.) (No, Mother doesn’t read the English version, and I don’t really call her
Phew. It took me three days, but here we are: the new portfolio is online. Now, you’ll think it’s not quite spectacular, and it wasn’t worth spending two days without posting, but you’re wrong. I know that, because I read your thoughts (or maybe they’re just very predictable?), and because I’m so much more intelligent than you I can’t be wrong.
I spent a day and a half sorting through my pictures, making new thumbnails (because 50 pixels was just a little bit small), adding a few images, and reorganizing everything. But what’s most important is I worked on the code for a day: the original point was that the portfolio would be easier to update, that I would be able to add pictures in just a few minutes—not having to edit files in a dozen directories each time, and launch a general makefile that would only work one time out of ten. The previous version was actually a bit awkward, and as a result I hardly ever bothered adding new pictures when I made some. And I figured it was a pity, me making pictures and not uploading them. And it would only be more of a pity in the future. In the coming weeks. Maybe even by the end of this week, if everything goes as well as it can. Because I may soon make much more pictures. Because. I may. If everything goes as planned, if the ground doesn’t open and swallow me, and I don’t break an eye in the meantime. Pictures, pictures, pictures. Soon, soon, soon. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Garoo, photographer. At last. With a portfolio. Updated often.
By the way, and as a consequence, the picturelog has been removed: it made no sense to have on one hand a photolog updated regularly, and on the other hand a portfolio updated just as regularly. All past pictures have been moved to the blog, and in the future I’ll have a choice between posting photos here, or just inserting thumbnails with links to the portfolio. It didn’t make much sense to separate text from images anyway.
Pictures. Soon. Garoo. Everywhere. Can’t wait.
It’s always hardest to write a review about a movie when there’s nothing to criticize. Oh, yeah, there’s one thing: I should have recorded it. And a second: I don’t know if I ve been confusing this with another movie, or if I’m so desperate for romanticism that I’m projecting my fantasies, but I spent the whole movie waiting for the two boys to make out. And in fact, no, there’s actually nothing hinting to that. I don’t know where I got that from. Maybe from the fact that both were cute, besides being excellent actors and having very well-written parts.
Two teenagers end up sole survivors from a class trip, and give themselves one year to accomplish twelve
tasks then commit suicide: it’s an original starting point, full of promises, but one that can also be spoiled in a billion different ways, and the fact that the movie is good is quite a miracle. I guess the best idea is to start easy: despite the tragical aspect of the suicide pact, the first half-hour is more of a comedy, centering around the easiest or weirdest tasks the boys start out with, and it only becomes serious afterwards. Thanks to the cheerful beginning, what comes next can afford to be sincerely touching, not too easy or artificial. The fun parts are quite fun, the moving parts are quite moving, the actors are perfect and the directing is quite appropriate.
Funny that user reviews of this movie on IMDb are very contrasted—love it or hate it. I guess you need to be subject to the Peter Pan syndrome in order to like it. And, well, if you aren’t, then why are you reading my blog?
Oh, and I’d just like to know how come the French adapters chose to translate the title to
A summer to live it all, when the action spans between two new year’s days, as the original title implies.
Damn—if I had known, I’d have watched Band of Brothers.
Across the ocean : If that’s the kind of material Americans are drowned with everyday, it’s no wonder they can’t hear European protests… (via boingboing.net)
Cute : (via stormwerks.com/linked)
It’s a recurring debate—the last instance I remember was when a Stargate SG1 episode was aired several months ago. Would it be possible to survive a sudden decompression?
I always thought the human body should be resistant enough, adaptable enough to go through that. Well, it turns out that not only has the question been largely documented, but it looks like it did happen once in real life, which allows scientists to be pretty sure about what happens:
In 1966 a technician at NASA Houston was decompressed to vacuum in a space-suit test accident. […] He lost consciousness in 12-15 seconds. When pressure was restored after about 30 seconds of exposure, he regained consciousness, with no apparent injury sustained.
This pretty much settles that. You double in size for a while (it’s written elsewhere in the article), but afterwards everything’s fine (there are risks of temporary blindness and stuff, but globally you have a fair chance of surviving it unharmed). Isn’t the human body an extraordinary machine?
Oh, and a tiny detail for those of you kids who might be tempted to try this at home:
Note that this discussion covers the effect of vacuum exposure only. The decompression event itself can have disasterous effects if the person being decompressed makes the mistake of trying to hold his or her breath. This will result in rupturing of the lungs, with almost certainly fatal results.
So the Stargate version, where Carter told O’Neil and Teal’C to exhale in sync with the decompression, was as realistic as can be. Except that, when they were in vacuum, they should have swollen to double their normal volume, but I guess it would have looked too nasty for TV.
While we’re at it, the same memepool post points to a live-action remake of the famous gore scene in Alien 4, only with a crab instead of the alien. And I’ve got only one word to describe that: Eww. I can only hope the poor thing is in crabs paradise by now.
If you have an idea you’re too lazy to implement, someone will end up having the same thought and doing it themselves: looks like it doesn’t only apply to websites, but also to blocked sinks. Apparently, it grew bored of being blocked and seeing nobody seemed to care, so it just fixed itself. If only it could work the same way for everything…
I missed writing. During the two days I spent redesigning my portfolio, I didn’t realize: I didn’t miss it, I was fine just minding my business. But right now, after I’ve written just a couple of posts, I see I missed it. I like writing. So maybe that’s what I really am. A writing. Uh, a writinger. A… writing person, y’know. It’s late, and just logged back on to type this, though I was about to slip into my covers. It’s that bad. Or that good.
I feel so much more accomplished now that I filled up my daily quota of words. So I am actually addicted. Help!
Trillian 0.74 Patch D : Reportedly fixes ICQ2Go incompatibility
Japanese freeware developers often have ideas for original programs—the kind of gadgets you can’t live without once you’ve tried them—and it’s quite a pity most of them aren’t ever translated to English.
So, for today, here are two excellent little programs, that you can download on system13’s page: a simple Alt-Tab replacement that uses the up/down arrows and the mouse wheel, and a… uh, thing, that allows you to access your desktop icons in an… undescribable, but incredibly intuitive, way. It’s too bad it doesn’t work correctly with WindowFX shadows, but it’s still worth a try.
So this is it? Jef Raskin’s revolutionary interface is a text editor that displays special characters for spaces and tabs when the cursor is over them, and has a vi-like Mozilla-like basically-Unix-like functionality to search text? Whoa. How revolutionary. You know, when they said most of the Mac’s interface was pretty much stolen from research at Xerox’s PARC, I think they may have been right. All they need now is someone else to borrow ideas from. Might be a good thing Raskin doesn’t work for Apple anymore…
One prosecutor argued that my attorney should not be able to review the electronic evidence with me on a laptop computer, because I could somehow break into the Bureau of Prisons computers and release myself from custody, or write a virus/worm that would somehow leak out from the computer and wreak havoc upon the free world. I was astonished that the judge bought into these scenarios, even when my attorney pointed out the laptop did not have modem or network capability.
Just a few dozen years ago, judges could understand by themselves what was happening in a trial. Now we’re in a transition period, where most judges currently in place have grown in a siliconless world, and they have no other option than listening to the most convincing expert (or non-expert). We are living fascinating times. And it’s really not the best time to do anything even remotely illegal on your computer.
And I… have a blog. A publication space, under my own personal legal responsibility, where I write text I hardly even proof-read. I’ve got to be insane. Well, I am anyway.
That’s frustrating. It’s typically the kind of idea I should have had. I already wrote a virtual card script (as seen on gayattitude (w)), and I’ve been thinking for a while of adapting it to garoo.net, in order to use my pictures. And I’ve also been thinking of creating a funny shirts shop on cafepress. But I never did consider combining both ideas, and making alternative cards for holidays. I’d note-to-self that I should make some for the next holidays, but I know I won’t remember. Besides, you can make funny stuff about Christmas or Valentine’s Day, but there’s not much to be made of Easter cards or whatever.
This should be the happiest day in my life. Well, maybe just second after the first day I ever ate chocolate. There. Now. I’ve got a Powershot G3. A beautiful digital camera, high resolution, with lots of complex settings, so that I’ll be able to fill up my (ex-)picturelog and my recently reworked portfolio.
But there’s a hitch. Something inside is making a nasty click sound every time I switch from recording to playing, or when the camera’s getting ready to make a picture. Like a mirror, a filter, a something that seems to be switched. Just like the mirror’s noise in an SLR, except that it’s not an SLR and there shouldn’t be a mirror in there. Should there? I’m sure I had read a forum thread about that someday, but I can’t find it back. (Maybe because I’ve been searching for a G3 bug, and it was actually about the G2?)
Anyhow, I’m gonna have to mess with the customers service. Which is never pleasant, but is even less so when it’s about a birthday present. There should be a law against defects in presents. At least, at the time people offered wooden toys, they could test them before. Why doesn’t anybody offer simple, cheap wooden toys anymore? Huh? I wish I’d had one, instead of a top-of-the-line digital camera I’ve spent two years asking for.
Okay, in the meantime, it does work, and it should make nice pictures. Tomorrow I’ll buy a bag for it (the beast is so much bigger than I thought, it’d never fit in my jacket’s pocket) and I’ll be filling up my portfolio in no time.
If everything works out fine.
Be my anti-valentine : Cards for that notsospecial someone (via bitful.com)
As I was setting foot on the rue de Rivoli, I knew I was gonna be sorry for hurrying to buy a bag for my camera on a Saturday afternoon. I hate humanity—or, more exactly, I hate human individuals, but as a whole. Those who take their time, those who change lanes on the sidewalk, those who think they’re in a hurry but actually slow down those who really are (and I always am), those who shout on the phone in the subway, those who rush to another counter even though you’ve been waiting for longer than them, those, those, those. All of those, and the others too, I hate. And I couldn’t find vanilla incense in the shop where I bought some a couple of years ago. And the bag I bought is huge, ridiculous and terribly conspicuous, but at least it’s all padded. And, more importantly, it exists, it’s there, it’s mine, and my camera’s inside. Add to this the fact that a fr.rec.photo.numerique regular told me the noise my G3 makes is perfectly normal, and all of that means I can finally, at last, now, really and definitely start making pictures. I’m beginning as soon as tomorrow—well, maybe, if I find someone I can shoot, because Sundays aren’t quite ideal for taking landscape pictures in Paris).
Que Groo disparaisse sur la pointe des pieds, c’est très bien, même s’il devenait attachant dans le rôle de l’amoureux éconduit ; que Lorne parte, c’est n’importe quoi, même s’il était assez mal utilisé ; mais Cordelia ?! Et puis quoi encore ? Les Puissances ont passé trois ans à se servir d’Angel Investigations comme d’un bureau de recrutement pour un nouvel ange ? Je n’aime pas cette fin de saison. Bien sûr, le plan de Connor pour se venger d’Angel est bien vu, mais je ne le trouve pas très original, je n’aime pas tellement le fait que tout ça repose sur le mensonge de Holtz et le fait que Connor le croie sans chercher la moindre preuve, et surtout ce n’est pas comme si on pouvait craindre qu’Angel reste trois siècles sous l’océan. Et cette fin en queue de poisson, sans même qu’on sache ce que Cordelia devient vraiment… Soit elle est devenue ange juste au moment où Angel avait besoin d’elle, et c’est vache, soit elle va profiter de ses pouvoirs pour le sauver dès l’épisode 4.01, auquel cas le cliffhanger repose sur un malentendu, ce qui est très malpoli.
Et une mention spéciale, bien sûr, à TF1, qui est pour le coup absolument inégalable. Une chance que la saison vienne de sortir en DVD, parce que voilà ce que je trouve sur tvtome :
Lilah: Don’t think about me when I’m gone.
Wesley: I wasn’t thinking about you when you were here.
(after having sex with Wesley)
Lilah: Your former boss has a soul and you’re losing yours. Why, you’re just new all over, aren’t you?
Oui, dans la version originale, Lilah et Wesley sont censés coucher ensemble. Je suppose que c’était trop sexuel pour TF1 ? A moins qu’ils aient juste coupé pour faire rentrer l’épisode dans leur case horaire. Oh, ce n’est pas comme si c’était important, deux ennemis qui couchent ensemble…
Je hais Joss Whedon. Vous voyez, on a une relation d’amour-haine, tous les deux, et cette semaine on est plutôt dans une période haine. Enfin, surtout moi. Parce que lui, il s’en fout, il continue à être très occupé à se disperser et gâcher son talent. Imbécile. Je t’avais pourtant dit que même toi tu n’étais pas capable de faire quatre séries en même temps.
Vous le saviez, que la saison 6 de Buffy était la saison moralisatrice sur les vraies choses de la vraie vie qu’elles sont mal et qu’il faut pas le faire ? Oui, vous le saviez, il y a déjà eu la drogue et le sexe pour le sexe. Ben il manquait le viol. Manquait. Le quart d’heure sur le viol collectif dans Buffy, il ne fallait pas oser, ils ont osé. Je n’ai qu’une chose à dire, et c’est
putain de merde. Mais si j’en avais une deuxième, ce serait que le principe en soi de faire une parabole sur le viol exclut que la victime elle-même s’écrie
Mais c’est comme un viol ! Parce que, forcément, côté subtilité, c’est… euh, subtiquoi ? Non, c’est ma faute, là, je parle de subtilité dans un post sur la saison 6 de Buffy, c’est une erreur.
Et s’il n’y avait que ça, ce serait supportable. Il faut aussi bâcler tous les dialogues, ceux qui ont été si intelligents et bien écrits pendant cinq ans. Et puis on va rajouter un plagiat de Men In Black, pour le fun, parce que c’est fun, de plagier, parce que quand on bosse sur une série aussi connue et populaire que Buffy on peut dire que c’est un hommage et ne pas avoir de remords. Et puis on va aussi faire une référence à Once More With Feeling, puisque c’était le seul bon épisode de la saison, alors on va faire une soirée années 30 (ou 50, je sais pas, venez pas m’embêter) au Bronze, pour rappeler l’épisode musical, sans se soucier que ce soit complètement inapproprié par rapport à l’identité du lieu. Et j’oubliais : on va prendre un personnage qui a connu toutes les souffrances possibles l’année précédente, qui a finalement vu sa soeur se tuer pour lui sauver la vie, et on va en faire une adolescente complètement conne comme sont forcément toutes les adolescentes (c’est ce qu’ils disent, dans le manuel du parfait scénariste en dix leçons, alors ça doit être vrai) pour remplir l’espace quand les paraboles subtiles ne donnent pas assez de matière.
Quelqu’un peut m’expliquer pourquoi Spike a passé la saison 5 à dire qu’il ne pouvait pas faire quoi que ce soit qui fasse souffrir Buffy, et maintenant il passe son temps à la torturer ? C’est parce que Marti Noxon a pris les commandes qu’on est passés en mode
les hommes sont des porcs, ou c’est juste pour équilibrer, parce que les féministes avaient détesté le personnage de Glory ?
Et, tant qu’on y est, est-ce qu’on pourrait aussi me dire comment ils ont pu oser finir un épisode sur
Alors quoi, je me sers de lui ? C’est monstrueux, je suis monstrueuse ! et, dans le suivant, faire comme si tout était naturel, comme si elle était la parfaite petite amie amoureuse et épanouie ?
Je devrais toujours garder un pot de Ben & Jerry’s au congélateur pour les cas d’urgence de mauvais épisodes de Buffy. Regardez-moi ce travail, j’en suis réduit à me jeter sur une vieille boîte de litchees au sirop pour me consoler de deux épisodes minables. Si ça continue, je boycotte et je n’en parle plus sur mon site.
Great idea tonight: going out in Paris to make a few night pictures. Nevermind that half of them are blurred, because the whole point of a digital camera is shooting everything three times. What’s more of a problem is I was that close to having both of my thumbs amputated. Which wouldn’t be convenient for photography (or for many other things: thumbs are important to press the Space key). Do you think someone would have warned me it was—literally—freezing tonight?
The pictures are not ready for publication yet, they need some editing. And I’m not sure I’ll be able to make much of them anyway: G3 reviews showed that the 400 ISO mode was hardly usable at all because of the noise levels, and I must say I do understand why the automatic mode never goes into 400, even if it implies more motion blurs. Anyhow, I’m not in the mood for Photoshopping tonight. I think I’m more interested in my libido these days. And then, I need to make some room on my hard disk. It’s the first time in a year I’m using my CD burner; first time ever I can reach the old drive’s 6x speed (which I could never use on my former computer); first time in months I have more than 600MB free on my drive. I still have exactly ten CDs to burn. Times two, because I’m completely paranoid about my data. I hate spending hours watching the Nero progress indicator move…
I know how I’ll die : (via boingboing.net)
C’était censé être bien ? Le scénario est sans intérêt, et la réalisation tire vers le bas autant qu’elle peut, avec acharnement — une chance encore que Fanny Ardant soit parmi les rares participantes à être avantagées par les coiffeurs et habilleurs du plateau.
Cerise sur le gâteau, ou épine sur la couronne de, euh, d’épines, Ozon a casé parmi les chansons Pour ne pas vivre seul, de Dalida.
Pour ne pas vivre seul, des filles aiment des filles, et l’on voit des garçons épouser des garçons. Je suis le seul à avoir toujours trouvé ce passage insultant ? D’accord, la chanson a plusieurs dizaines d’années, mais le film date de 2002, le choix n’est donc pas excusable. Il n’y a de toute façon pas grand chose que j’excuserais dans l’oeuvre de François Ozon.
Oh my gosh, des hommes qui s’embrassent : Qui me disait que l’homophobie était une légende urbaine ?
Or maybe it’s just because of my testosterone levels, and my blog will be back to normal right at the same time as my charts.
Typically, hackers target reps at offshore call centers in India or Mexico, who they claim are less savvy and have far less training than American service agents.
The article is frightening. Obviously, that’s the drawback of having a worldwide user base: support in AOL India can give out the password to a system AOL account. (Ok, there’s also some terrible database design here.) But I need AOL: I haven’t got broadband, and AOL was the only provider to offer, two years ago, a real flat-rate subscription (contrary to some countries, local communications aren’t free in France).
Ca y est : Lecteur DVD et abonnement vidéoclub, me voilà !
Your passport looks funky : Airport security at its, uh, best (via boingboing.net)
Jeune homme, bien sous tous rapports (enfin, euh…), recherche témoignages sur la fiabilité des forfaits illimités Tiscali, puisque finalement l’offre est devenue permanente.
J’ai écrit le post précédent cinq jours après le lancement d’une offre illimitée sans engagement par Cario, c’est un signe, non ? Je n’aime pas m’inscrire chez des providers inconnus, mais il doit quand même être peu probable que le Crédit Agricole disparaisse dans l’année. Est-ce qu’il se pourrait que j’aie bientôt un provider fonctionnant sous Linux, proposant un serveur SMTP, n’imposant pas une interface propriétaire et ne me déconnectant pas trois fois par soirée ?
Je n’ai jamais vu une série tomber aussi vite et d’aussi haut. En un été, hop, fini, plus de Buffy, remplacée par Melrose Place Minus Sunbathing. Bleh.
There. Since sex doesn’t seem to want to be satisfying, and my remaining Nutella is dry, and I decided not to renew my supply of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, I filled up my belly with what I could find in stock: one pound of curry rice. It’s all warm inside, it’s sweet, but it’s not all that fulfilling on a psychological levels, like, you know, feelings and sentiments and all. But at least I may be done with eating for the day.
Finally I’ve discovered my vocation as an alcoholic. I had been looking for it for years! All I needed was going to the Piétons (a cool, not stereotypical bar in the Marais) and try the melon liquor. Next time I go out, I’ll know what I can order to get drunk.
I need to start watching daily weather reports, or bookmark the Météo France website and check it out everytime I go out. There’s something wrong with breaking a sweat in Paris in February (pictures available soon) (pictures of Paris, not pictures of me sweating). Especially now that I’ve found the backpack I wanted, and I don’t need to carry my jacket all the time. It’s not that simple, though: one of the little drawbacks of having lived as a hermit for two years is, I have completely forgotten how to make the connection between what the breasted anchor is saying on TV, and the clothes I’m supposed to wear (contrary to said anchor) in order not to be cold and not to be hot either, and not die of a pneumonia in a dark and cold and soulless hospital room stinking of other clients’ vomit.
Oh, and I also have to find (again) what to do with my life, since the option I had considered achieving by week’s end seems to turn out completely unrealistic. Back to square one: write a novel. Ideas, anyone?
A good idea, with the advantage of being cleaner, lighter, HTMLier than the various hacks and images you have to place on your blog in order to let visitors know where you live: GeoURL. It seems it’s not the only one, and it looks like GeoTags has a larger audience, since the former bothers to be compatible with the latter; so maybe there are others sites, maybe some of them are better designed than these, or maybe something cute and cool could be made (if only I weren’t so deeply lacking motivation these days…). The nice part is, it’s simple: you only have to insert your longitude and latitude in a META tag on your home page, and there you are, a point on the map (which, as I said, is poorly designed, but well…).
If you want to know which blogs are located within 50 miles around my home (which should cover about the whole Paris suburbs), all you have to do is ask GeoURL, and you’ll get a complete list. And if you want more information about how to subscribe there, it’s all explained here.
Are they really gonna dare to sell this phone? It’s hard to imagine… and yet I think it would be the coolest thing. Not cool as in classy and trendy, but as a fun $500 toy for nerds around the world who need a fourth mobile phone. A big Transformers-like gadget in my pocket, people who look at me like I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien, I’m an Englishman in New York, every time I answer the phone… I want one!
I suppose I should write something about this
documentary, since it just got aired in France. But I don’t know what to say. So I’ll start with quoting an fr.rec.tv.programmes article:
This “journalist” is just a dirt digger who wanted to go sensational over old gossip when the simple interview of michael at home, with his fans and kids, was already a scoop.
Besides, the english journalist certainly blew the opportunity for his colleagues who hoped to make a real Jackson interview. Anyway, for me, he’s an asshole.
There. Sums up quite well what I felt during the whole show. Yes, Michael Jackson is a psychopath (literally: he lives in a distinct reality); yes, he’s completely irresponsible, and his child will need quite a therapy in order to get over that; yes, it’s impressive and even painful for us to see this face move and speak, and realize that there is indeed a human being behind that thing we had only seen in pictures, and couldn’t quite imagine in motion, in use in everyday life. But it wasn’t that bad. He isn’t that bad. Martin Bashir’s worries about Jackson’s children are exaggerated, and his worries about the star’s teenage friends is absolutely ridiculous. Come on, how could Michael be a pedophile, when he’s convinced he’s a child? That’s not how it works…
I was glad to see that, on the last interview, Jackson was finally defensive—I don’t know if his naiveness just worn out, or if his aides warned him about Bashir, but it was comforting to see he quit trusting the guy. Bad idea, however, to launch a public, mediatic counter-attack, in courts and on TV: it provided additional publicity the show didn’t need, nor deserve. And in fact there wasn’t so much material for scandal in there.
Watching the show, I couldn’t help but think of one of my ex’s, who was a fan of Michael Jackson. I don’t know if he still is: it’s an awful time to be a fan of his, and yet there still are plenty of those, as evidenced by the documentary itself.
Oh well, it’s a tough time for the ingenuous.
Cheese-eating surrender monkeys, eh? : Refreshingly intelligent analysis by an American writer (via poxx.net)
There definitely is something hostile in the morning atmosphere. It can’t be temperature, since I get the same feeling in summer as in winter. Actually, the way I react to this has changed in time: when I was a kid, I loved the times we had to get up early, before the sun rised, because I felt like I was visiting an unknown country, braving the dangers of an inhospitable universe, exploring a new world. Which feelings left me when it became more of a routine, and it wasn’t motivated by travels, but by classes, too early, too far from home.
I wonder if this particular atmosphere is created by the light, or if it’s only psychological. After all, it’s all possible: the light wavelength could be different in the early hours, and have an impact on the brain. Or it could be me. That would make sense as well.
1. If archeologists were to analyze your keyboard, what could they find out about you?
That I haven’t cleaned the dust in my room since, uh… ever. And also I eat too much carbohydrate food that ends up sending crumbs in the keyboard. Although I try to avoid those (crumbs, not food), because I’ve got a nice keyboard, and it works well, and it took me eons to find one that would suit me. And it’s encased in metal, isn’t that cool?
2. When you grab your phone, do you always know who you’re going to call, or do you sometimes browse through the directory in search for inspiration?
I feel like I’ve already answered this question. Oh, right, I should: I had already answered this questionnaire once, but I eventually decided to go to bed without posting it. So I’ll check back my notes to see what I had written, and I’ll be right back.
I never grab my phone. At least, seldom of my own will. However, when I’m in Paris, alone and not knowing what to do or where to go, I sometimes take my phone and check out the directory, looking for a name I could call. Which usually leads me to conclude that there’s nobody I want to see, and then I quietly take the train back home.
I don’t like phones. Did I already say I don’t like phones? I don’t like phones.
3. What is the last thing that vexed you?
If I think about it again, it’s gonna vex me again, so I might as well not. Must have been someone who snubbed me on the Internet, probably.
4. What was the last snail mail you sent about, and why didn’t you e-mail it?
Two questions in a row about memory, that’s too questions too many. Ok, does it count when I’m sending checks to my banks to pay them in? Otherwise, must have been documents for the Maison des Artistes (which collects taxes and stuff for, well, artists), and they’re so modern and all that they’re not gonna be on the web anytime soon.
5. At home, are the doors more often open or closed?
Since I’m living with my parents, I always double-lock the door to my room. Well, not exactly, since there’s no lock, but I removed the outside handle, so no one can come and interrupt while I’m… uh, eating or, uh, surfing or, uh, blogging. So, door’s closed. But if I lived alone in a big apartment (and I’m so optimistic these days that it’s an
if and not a
when), I think doors would be more often closed than open. So that monsters and burglars (but mostly monsters) couldn’t get into my room unnoticed. Well, yeah, that’s important.
6. What will your refrigerator never be short of?
Uh… I don’t know, anything can always miss. I mean, some day or another. Well, I don’t know. Nothing.
7. Do you consider important respecting public property, and has your behavior evolved in time?
I don’t put my feet up on subway seats, I throw garbage in the cans, I don’t tag, I don’t destroy bus stops with a baseball bat… yes, I respect public property. And, no, my behavior hasn’t changed, because I’ve always been a timid and fearful boy who’d never have done anything that could get him noticed.
1. Can you list all the ways you use paper towels?
Uh… well, mainly one precise use, for which it is very convenient.
2. What do you do with your shoes right after you’ve taken them off?
Well, I put them down on the floor. So there.
3. If you had to explain what freedom is to a child, in three lines, how would you do it?
Freedom doesn’t exist. But, if anybody asks, it’s when you do what you want to, and you don’t do what you don’t want to. And it doesn’t exist in real life, so don’t get your hopes too high.
4. Could you name spontaneously two women who weighed down on the world’s history?
Spontaneously, no. If I think about it, I should. But, as a consolation, when I replace
men in the sentence, I still have trouble answering. I’m that good with history. Actually, even thinking about it, I don’t know what to answer.
5. A friend of yours has helped you a great deal in the past. Now, he asks for you unconditional support in a something you don’t want to invest in. How do you answer him without sounding ungrateful?
I didn’t create this blog to write about foreign politics. Especially when it would lead me to support Chirac. I already called out to vote for him once (against Le Pen), I’m not gonna flatter his foreign politics, don’t push it.
Anyway, in real life, I’d… uh, lie, I suppose, and make up an excuse.
6. Could you pay to keep on reading a blog you like? Why?
Heh. I didn’t check out what others answered this question (I try not to read the answers to questionnaires I haven’t answered yet but plan to, so I don’t get influenced). But considering the success of my garoothon, I hope there aren’t too many hypocrites who answered yes.
So, as a matter of principle, yes. I don’t know which blog(s) I’d do it for, but I could.
7. How interested are you in events affecting the blogosphere (e.g., Google buying out Blogger)?
Well, that one event is affecting more the bloggersphere than the blogosphere. But, otherwise, I’m interested, and I blog about it.
1. If a movie was made about your life, what actor should play your part?
He would have to be an outstanding actor, the kind who transforms crap into gold. I mean, otherwise, the audience would be dead bored, and I’d be offended. Or else he’d have to be amazingly beautiful, and naked throughout the whole movie. But it wouldn’t be my life anymore. (Because I’m not a naturist.) At least it’d be interesting, and I could hang out on the set all the time, and he’d want to know me better so he could understand my character, and… must be weird sleeping with someone who’s supposed to personify you.
Anyway, who? I guess it’s up to others to tell. And this is not me asking for your opinions, because I’m sure half the answers would vex me.
2. What is the weather anchor really useful for?
To fill up air time, I suppose. On TF1, they employ people with a strange sense of humor; on Canal+ they show breast-girls. But in both cases it serves no real purpose. I never watch the weather reports anyway. And Canal+’s Thal(l?)ia has an absolutely unbearable voice.
Mmm… bad calculation—I’d better write
Thalia (Thallia ?), and it’ll get me lots of new visitors from Google. Does Google reduce the weight of words that appear in the same sentence as
3. How long does it generally take you between the time you get angry, and the time you realize it was trifle?
I don’t get angry about trifle businesses. Shut up. Are you trying to mess with me? You talking to me? You talking to me? Even in writing, I don’t know how to play anger. I never get angry. The most I can do is sulk. But the question is about anger, so it doesn’t apply.
4. Looking in your environment, can you give out an example of indecency?
There isn’t anyone in my environment not reading my blog, so I guess I’ll pass on this question, thanks.
5. What money games do you, or could you play?
Is that about games where you can win money, or where you can lose some? For the former, I try and play a free online lottery as often as I can; for the latter, except a lottery ticket once in a while (quite rarely actually), I don’t play, and I don’t bet. I hate the idea of losing money so stupidly.
6. What aspect of your life won’t you ever reveal in your blog?
Heh. Lots and lots of things. Basically, everything that’s not so pretty, and I won’t get into detail here either, because I don’t want to give out any clues. And yet, there’d be some material there…
7. If a virus destroyed all the data on your hard drive, what file would you regret most?
I’d miss everything: emails, IRC logs, pictures, Photoshop source files, and all the other stuff. I always keep everything, and the idea of losing it frightens me. Well, I know I’d survive, but still it would be quite stressful. There’s no hierarchy, everything’s important, because these files make up all my life over half a dozen years. Oh boy, I can’t believe I just wrote that. Let me just get my head in the oven, and I won’t be right back.
Looks like it’s questionnaire day over here.
1/ What’s your method to mark a book page?
I leave Mozilla or Word open, and try to memorize where the scrollbar was, in case the program would crash. What? I already said I don’t read books.
Anyway, when I do read, I either use a bookmark, or leave it open, pressed on a flat surface. It’s funny that I wouldn’t dare to imagine folding a page corner, but I don’t mind ruining the binding. However, the whole concept of folding corners is beyond my grasp: it doesn’t stick out of the book (unless you’re an origami expert, of course), so it doesn’t really allow you to find back the page quickly and directly, does it?
2/ Have you ever been tempted to display a frame bought in a store, leaving the template picture that was supplied with it?
Yes, for fun. But I’ve been saved by the fact that I only ever buy a frame when I’ve got a specific picture to put inside, so I’ve got better things to do than leave the original picture inside.
3/ Is there a set of things you love to sort out and classify?
Uh, that I love to sort, no. Because it takes time, it’s tedious and all. But I do sort and class my files, organize my pictures collections, etc.
4/ Someone is about to introduce you to someone after they’ve told you: “You’ll love him/her, he/she is really like you. Same humor, same tastes, everything…”. How do you feel about that?
I fear the worst, and get myself ready for the worst vexation of the month. On the one hand because most people just don’t know me well enough to make me meet someone who’s really like me; on the other hand because someone who’d be that much like me would probably be just a pain in the ass.
5/ Do you have a ritual for falling asleep?
Nope, I get under the blankets, close my eyes, and zzzzzz.
6/ Do you think the Nobel peace prize should reward a person’s action, or what you think they really are?
I think the Nobel peace prize, in itself, is a weird idea: you’re not a good samaritan anymore if you get rewarded for your deeds. As I was searching for a confirmation that the peace prize was the only Nobel that didn’t go with a large sum of money, here’s what I find:
Why does the world take interest in what the Norwegian Nobel Committee decides on who has done the most for peace? Why indeed.
The confirmation I didn’t found: there are a million euros to be won. Which makes the idea even more ridiculous than I thought. And I want Chirac to get it even less. Imagining Chirac getting a million euros—for his action toward peace, of all things! Apocalypse has to be real close, what’s the next step?
7/ Swimming pool.
No, thanks. I’m shy, and I heard that supervisors don’t like people messing around.
8/ Did you have a poker-like activity during school recess (marbles, pogs, etc.)? If so, what was your best take?
I played marbles at some time, but I don’t remember that much abuot it, and I don’t know if I won or lost. At least marbles weren’t as unfair, as capitalistic, as today’s trading cards: we didn’t have to buy loads and loads of marbles to find the right one that would beat all the others.
9/ You’re home alone, in complete silence. Suddenly, for some reason, you say a sentence out loud. How do you feel afterwards?
There never is complete silence around me. Even witout TV or radio, there still are fan noises, and computer beeps, or at least some shouting from the other side of the door. So it just can’t happen to me.
10/ In which circumstances do you have to use pen and paper, witout even imagining being able to use a computer?
None, I think. Which is a pity, because I really enjoyed writing—the pen touching the paper, the screech-screech, and the magic of seeing little intricate designs born of the contact of a metal stick on a sheet of paper. But now I do everything on my computer, and it feels much more natural than anything else. So I guess the only circumstance where I couldn’t envision using a computer would be when I’m writing down blog notes in the subway. In that case, even if I had a Palm or something, I’d… uh… wait, maybe not actually. If I had a small, inconspicuous thing like a Danger hiptop, I think I could use it.