Cryptonomicon

Recently read it, ie finished like 2 weeks ago, but I decided I'd put some interesting stuff on my blog so that other people could go beyond drawing from my all-encompassing and reader-worthy life experiences and actually read something interesting once or twice...

by Neal Stephenson. It's pretty much a story of buried treasure split between four characters: Randy Waterhouse is a present-day programmer trying to make ends meet and working with his friend Avi on his latest information-tech-business-foray, Lawrence Waterhouse is an Allied intelligence officer in WW2, and Bobby Shaftoe and Goto Dengo are troops on opposite sides of that same war. Each of them is through numerous events drawn to the Philippines, where their histories intertwine and each plays his part in the search for the Japanese war gold, most of the time doing so quite unwittingly.

Stephenson's techyness comes through greatly in his writing, allowing the immediate plot to be distracted by Randy's hacking and coding, Lawrence's statistical analysis and pipe organ playing, and guest star Alan Turing's code making and breaking. The thick plot is almost as circular as the Kite Runner but never enough to be predictable, dragging the reader on a fantastic journey to the ends of the earth with each character before pulling them all together in one final giant twist at the end, where every little nuance and hidden link collides in one near-perfect plot finish.

Must-read, especially if you like intellectual stuff with quirky algorithmic puzzles :D
like, 9.3/10 if I have to

bringing home the bacon

There is one thing that I love more than anything else in the world that doesn't involve people or active participation by me. It's also the reason why I can never be a Muslim or attend the Vegan Academy.

I consider breakfast incomplete unless I have dark crispy sizzling bacon straight off the pan into my triple-bacon-single-and-tomato-n-stuff with extra bacon sandwich.

And tonight I had a home-made bacon banana pineapple pizza, which was ultra sick because I completely stuffed myself and now I'm going to have weird pizza-induced dreams. We all know what happened last time :P

Epiphany again

So, in true me style, I've managed to change my career choice while lying in bed at like 1am. Again.

I've realized that I'm the kind of person that likes numbers, and turning things into numbers. If I have to play on people's emotions, I do it through calculation and probabilistic flow diagrams. I have a lot more fun acquainting myself with a new musical instrument than with a new female friend, and when I am forced to, then it's all graphs. As soon as I notice people walking past a certain spot, I automatically start placing variables above and below the line. My own productivity, especially with regards to music, is a carefully managed mood map accounting for chance and unexpected occurrences.

(with regards to the female friends, it's usually because they throw my equations waaaaay out of line with an incalculable Rkf, or Relationship Konstant (Females). Twice already I've had someone suddenly turn out to be interested in me when they, by all rights, shouldn't. Wait, three. No, four. um. nevermind.)

So, here goes nothing...

le footy

So, after much thought and deliberation, and years spent unable to join cool conversations, I have decided to man up and start supporting association football. Which is quite a move, because I am severely disadvantaged due to several reasons:
1. I don't watch/possess a TV
2. I don't have unlimited/mobile access internet
3. I really really suck at footy. But that's just me.

But it's really nice, because all I needed to do was a bit of internet snooping and I was able to engage in intellectual conversation regarding the latest log standings, despite not really understanding how okes qualify into the Champions League.

So, which team? There are two obvious choices for me, teams which I used to be a huge fan of, I mean back in the day when I played Fifa '99. I remember back in the day when Man United won everything, Aston Villa lost everything, and no-one was any wiser. This time around, Villa wasn't a real choice because they're pretty much about to get relegated, read: sucky players which you can't actually tune. United have just turned into absolute stuck-up glory hogs, but when (a) Rooney retires/gets fired/gets transferred and (b) Ferguson dies, then I will support United again.

For now, it's Newcastle. And obviously my footy trivia isn't up to scratch yet...

(After fencing soccer one day)
...
Me: "Well, I support Newcastle now. I'm into soccer!"
Alex: "Oh really? Hey Rob, Sam is now into soccer... Name 5 Newcastle players, then!"
Me: "ummmm... "
Alex: "Okay, just three."
Me: "Well, there's that Demba oke"
Alex: "Yeah."
Me: "Papiss Cissé" [those two guys are Senegalese strikers who have both scored reeediculous show goals]
Alex: "Wow."
Me: "ummmmmmm...."
Alex: "Come on Sam, one more!"
Me: "... Alan Shearer?"

There's a reason it says "Legend". Hint: It's a term often used with wine and cheese

At this, massive canning ensued. Turns out Shearer, while he did indeed play for Newcastle, had retired in 2006, and in terms of our soccer standards, we might as well be referring to (Sir) Bobby Charlton.

Yes, the goal-keeper is actually wearing leather blacksmith's gloves. And "goal-keeper" is punctuated that way because welcome to 1937

And now my no 1 topic of conversation is how Newcastle still have a chance at making the Champions League even though there is literally one match left until the end of the season. What a convenient job of timing. HENDERSOOOOOONNNNNN!!!!!

The Storm

[This is an essay I wrote for an English task. It was well-liked :) and I would submit it for the Eisteddfod if they didn't change the rules about essay submissions.... dammit! The title I gave it always reminds me of the really really raunchy short story we studied in Canada...]

Thunder could be heard rumbling faintly in the distance; rain began to spit from the sky; the wind was beginning to rise. The last sliver of sunlight was inching behind the ominous, billowing swells of the sky. The trees dotting the hilltops swayed, branches flailing, the wind blindly conducting nature’s percussion. The sea of grass undulated in a rippling spectacle as darkness slowly fell, the tiresome day finally over. The tumult of the coming storm had not yet commenced, but was as certain as the rising of the next morning.

Along those hilltops, curving and snaking around the path of least resistance, lay a faded and hard road. A gritty dirt track, in fact, far too covered in inconvenient pebbles to be seen as well-used, was a more accurate description. Along this track lay a humble cottage, short and squat, built of large stones by ancestral hands. The small chimney poking through the thatching betrayed a hot fire inside as it belched smoke into the thin air. The shutters were closed, but a warm glow emanated from chinks in the wood.

The atmosphere inside the cottage was the antithesis of the exterior, as though it were a sheltered cove, safe from the giant swells outside. The only hint at the coming of the storm was the occasional clatter of a shutter; the thick walls and crackling of the fire blotted out all other sound.

The fluttering flames, though large, were the only source of illumination, casting their orange glow on a table with a solitary bench. On the wall, sometimes hidden in shadow, were hunter’s trophies: skins, heads of animals staring blankly, and the products of these, as jewelry or decorative items. A lone picture frame stood on the mantelpiece, a black-and-white moment of pride frozen in time. A door, shrouded in darkness, led off to an adjacent room.

A man was hunched over the table, well-built but aging, back slouching a little more than expected, hair-ends a little too faded, hands a little too shaky. Maybe one day he had been the epitome of physical prowess, but today he was past his prime. He had discarded a thick cloak in the heat of the interior, and was now clad in roughly-hewn hunter’s clothes. His beard, like his hair, was grizzled and a bit too ungainly, but he had tucked it into his shirt not to disturb the space in front of him.

In his aged hands he held playing cards, no doubt a result of a sojourn in the city. He would slowly twist the deck between his hands, turning it this way and that, and then would place cards on the table in the style of a Russian solitaire. Every card was pinched by the fingers, folded off the deck, and then, after some thought had been given, placed on the table with an audible click. When he had finished, whether in success or failure, he would gather them up and commence again, as the storm battered the little cottage.

That awkward moment when...

So, Eisteddfod madness begins again. AaaaaaAAAAAaaa

But my piano piece is coming along nicely, so it should be fine. Only that Senior Classical Piano is the. most. competitive. section. in the ENTIRE FREAKING ED'FD.

Also, Guy and I have been entered in the Chamber Music section. Which is an issue, because the piece we are down for is Blood to Bleed by Rise Against. As if the title didn't tell you enough, this is most definitely not a chamber music piece. In fact, it's got a screamy bit which I haven't told Guy about yet. In fact, until I told him this morning, he didn't actually know we were even playing :D oh well :D