Unleash the drummer in you with this virtual drum kit.
Thursday, November 27
Last week, it was reported that over half of the prime-time programming for all the major networks that week consisted of Law&Order and CSI episodes in their various incarnations. Let me repeat that: Over half of the prime-time programming consisted of Law & Order and CSI episodes. That's a lot of eggs in them there baskets. And that's not even counting syndication on other channels.
And yet, that wasn't too much Law & Order for me.
I've been a fan of Law & Order since I discovered it way back in its second year. In fact, it has consistently been one of my favourite shows ever since I first saw it. My favourite of the L&O series is the original "two separate yet equally important groups" version, but I do find the SVU spin-off to be a close second. I'm not a fan of the other spin-off, 'Criminal Intent', basically because of the 'brilliance' of the character played by, I believe, Vincent D'Onofrio.
I don't have anything against CSI. From the few times I watched it, it seems to be a good show. It's simply that I haven't allowed myself to become a fan of it.
I guess it's a testament to the popularity of these series that network executives will run them so often through a week. But, come on. Over half. That's a little pathetic.
Wednesday, November 26
A friend pointed out to me, in a rather off-handed way, that lately some people, seemingly of the Jewish faith seem to have a vested interest in Christmas. There are a handful of Jewish performers, notably Kathie Lee Gifford and Barbara Streisand, who've released Christmas albums. I assume David Berenbaum, who wrote the screenplay for "Elf" is Jewish. When this was pointed out to me, I didn't really give it much thought.
And then, last night, I was watching TV and there was a commercial for Kay Diamonds. In it, a man whom I assume is Jewish (admittedly I assume this only because he has some of the physical attributes stereotypically associated with Jews) asks his girlfriend if she believes in Santa Claus. She says 'Yes' then he says: "He helped me pick this out" and gives her a diamond necklace in a jewellery-box.
I don't put any weight or criticism on this, other than I just find it somewhat odd. Then again, I don't believe in the Christian religion and yet I enjoy celebrating the season. I'll have an album coming out shortly.
Tuesday, November 25
The experiment of NHL Outdoors was rather interesting, but, ultimately, nothing that needs to be repeated, I don't think.
It was great to watch the (Ford-sponsored, if you hadn't noticed) Legends game and I was surprised that I got choked up for a moment when Guy LaFleur was introduced. The image of these legends scraping the ice with shovels between periods was fantastic. Seeing these players made me realise, however, how the current game lacks a superstar. Yes, there are great players right now, but none that stand out, head and shoulders above the rest.
I loved the image of Jose Theodore with the touque over his goalie mask during the game.
Mostly, though, being a Habs fan, I was glad that Montreal won the game.
I've always been envious of those people who can comfortably cross their legs when they're sitting down. Those with the long, Jimmy Stewart-thin pegs that fit together so well, one atop the other, knee above knee, top leg dangling all loosey-goosey.
Me, I'm blessed with a couple of work-horse legs, the trunks you call on when you need an anchor for the tug-of-war. I have the thighs of an ass. When I cross my legs, there's no dangling limbs, no looseness at all. It's all about contained pressure. The energy consumed to keep the top leg crossed over the bottom is enormous and barely worth the bother. There it trembles and quivers, the right ankle perched at right angle on the left knee, gravity thrusting its constant force down, down, down on the right knee which hovers over nothingness, unsupported. A coiled weapon, ready to be unfurled and sprung upon the unsuspecting, held back only by sheer force of will.
There's no comfort in that friends.
Friday, November 21
So, I was browsing through the referring sites to this Monster and noticed for my first time some google search referrals, and I browsed through those. The search that caught my eye: "riff de la bum smell"
Plug that into your google search, and the Monster gets top billing. I feel so honoured, yet bad for the searcher, who, I assume, didn't find what they were looking for here. Let me rephrase: I hope they didn't find what they were looking for here.
The Beatles' album Let It Be - Naked was released this week. As much as I am not a fan of the over-orchestration of the 30 year old Phil Spector-produced 'original', it's quite evident, after listening to 'Naked' that some form of production was required to make these songs come 'alive'. As the album title implies, the songs presented on 'Naked' are in their most basic form, and as such, are pretty flat and unexciting.
Somewhere between the over-produced Spector version and the un-produced Naked version, lies a better version of this album.
Thursday, November 20
I was listening to some music tonight, and Bud the Spud started playing, which reminded me of a sketch I wrote a long time ago, called The Church of the Blessed Sebago. Basically, it was a reverent recitation of Bud the Spud as if it was Gospel, written as bible verses. It was kind of a one-joke bit that never really went anywhere, and never really saw the light of day.
But the sermon did end with this Potato Grower's Prayer, which I rather like:
“Our tuber, which art in red soil
How good thy taste baked.
Fried, mashed or broiled, thy will be sold
To Cavendish Farms as much as to McCains.
Give us this day our maximum yield
And forgive us our PVY-n
As we forgive Maine their transport embargoes.
And lead us not into land use dilemmas
But deliver us from erosion
For thy pay the mortgage, the power, the grocer
For ever and ever, Amen.”
Wednesday, November 19
The following is not a fully-realised socio-scientific theory. In fact, it has only been tested a few times. Hardly enough to warrant endorsement of its viability or validity from the scientific-sociological community. And each time the theory has been tested, I believe, the theorist has been inebriated. Then again, so too were the subjects. However, based on the amazing similarity of results in each test, the theory does seem promising.
The theory is this: Commenting to a drunk man (test subject) about his teeth will cause insane vocal ramblings and violent physical manifestations to emerge from the test subject.
Case Study #1: Test subject was situated near the planted cannon on the Cow's corner. Pleasantries and cordialities were conveyed between the test subject and his group, and the scientist's group. The scientist then mentioned, in a purely innocent and off-handed manner, that the test subject's teeth appeared to be similar in size and stature to the teeth of actor Gary Busey. Test subject appeared not to recognise the Busey name, yet still became overwrought with fury and anger at the very idea. Subject's flailings arms and legs were, fortunately, subdued by subject's clique. Not so subdued were the subjects threats of violence to scientist as scientist continued his way to The Dip.
Case Study #2: Test subject was encountered on sidewalk outside the establishment known formerly as "The Playhouse". After pleasantries and cordialities were conveyed between the test subject and his group, and the scientist's group, the subject's group began to cross the street to where the Petro-Can station is situated. At some point in this crossing, the scientist mentioned, again in a purely innocent and unprovoking manner, that the test subject had "Tignish Teeth". There was a momentary lull in the experiment as the very concept of "Tignish Teeth" took its time to sink in. By the time the test subject made it across the street, it was presumed by members of his clique that "Tignish Teeth" is likely an insult. Upon hearing this, the subject was overcome with fury and anger and began to wildly flail his arms, legs, and limited vocabulary. Attempts by scientist to explain the definition of "Tignish Teeth" only seemed to infuirate the test subject even more, to the point where he was seemingly frothing at the mouth as he was loaded into the cab of his clique's pickup.
Even though this theory is yet only a theory, please be careful when out clubbing. Do not comment on a drunk man's teeth, no matter how innocent and innocuous you believe your comment to be.
Tuesday, November 18
Sunday, November 16
I went to the Reel Island Film Festival's presentation of RIFF Shorts 3 (this year's third screening of shorts). I went because 'Florid', a movie I co-wrote and acted in, was being presented.
Let me tell you about 'Florid'. It's a 22 minute black comedy about 4 street bums who, deep in the middle of an Island winter, try to raise enough money to go and bum in the warm sun of Florida. It's got a lot of genuinely funny laughs, some enjoyable performances, some pretty funny lines, and some really bizarre, ugly (intentional), and embarrassing (less so intentional) moments too. It's a film many people seem to enjoy. But it's not the best movie, story-wise. There are wide gaping holes, scenes missing, and the ending probably needs an interpreter. Yet, it is funny. However, because of its shortcomings, I believe 'Florid' would have trouble getting into most 'Real' film festivals.
Let me tell you about the RIFF Shorts 3. I would suggest that 'Florid' (yes, even after discounting any bias I have), and perhaps one or two others, were the creme of the crop. Most of the rest were pure claptrap. (Note to editor: remove 'most of'). Probably an hour and a half, out of the two hours, was intolerable at worst, bland at best. From what I heard, the other screenings were comprised of just as many awful films too, with only a few worthwhile entries.
So, I once again ask: Why must PEI continue to celebrate mediocrity? Especially where artistic endeavour is concerned, Islanders sure seem content to support, and create, blandness. And with the unwritten "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" method of criticism in full effect and force on PEI, it's sure to stay that way for some time. The worst offense someone could perpetrate on an Island theatrical production, for instance, would be to say something negative about it in public. The underlying reason for the fear of public criticism, I believe, is "We're only a small island, and we're not that good, so we don't deserve to be held up to the standards of the rest of the world." This, of course, is bullshit.
Another question: Why in the hell is this festival 5 days long? Where in the hell were they going to get enough content to warrant 5 days of screenings? (Tuns out they didn't) I suppose someone was told Real festivals are 5 days long, so RIFF had to do the same to give the appearance of a Real film festival. Quality of content, be damned! If RIFF looks like a real film festival; if RIFF sounds like a real festival; if RIFF smells like real festival, then that's the goal. That makes it easier to get funding for next year. Trouble is, the sound this year was terrible and the smell this year was shit.
Here's what I'd do with next year's RIFF: make it a weekend long, only. Get someone in who doesn't have trouble saying "I'm sorry, your film isn't good enough."
Friday, November 14
Tonight's episode of Joan Of Arcadia, as written up in the TV Guide: God asks Joan to convince Adam not to enter his sculpture in the art show.
Okay, first of all, since when does God 'ask' anything? Secondly, why doesn't God just phone Adam himself and ask him not to enter? Better yet, why not just give Adam severe cramping and diarrhea, so severe that it keeps him from entering his sculpture in the art show?
I've never seen the show, probably never will, but it sure sounds like Joan's got God and/or Adam pussy-whipped.
If the quote in the title (in reference to The Strokes 'Soma') of this post doesn't get you the check out these music reviews from kindergarten kids, then maybe this excerpt will:
In reference to the song "You Stood Out From The Crowd" by The Salteens:
MA: Do you like the song?
Ana: This is my bracelet that my mom gave me. You can't have it.
MA: It's very nice. What do you think of this music?
Ana: I heard this song in my class. But I wore my dress and I wore my jacket.
MA: Felipe, do you like it?
Felipe: Oooooh! Oooooooh!
Alejandro: He's pretending to be monkeys. And monkeys can't talk!
MA: Ok. Monkey, can you tell me in monkey language if you like it?
Felipe: Ooooh! Oooooh! (high, squeaky voice) I don't like it! I like to climb a tree!
Thursday, November 13
I don't know who else caught the Chretien tribute on TV tonight. I saw about 40 minutes of it, and I don't know if it's my advancing age, or what, but I rather enjoyed what I saw.
I turned to it just as a wicked jazz trio were cooly burning down the joint (don't get me to explain the physics of that). Sorry, didn't remember the name of the piano jazz guy (which, by the way, is perfect Canadiana: a big tribute to your leader, and many of the performers are not household names), but they kicked it.
That was followed by the hosts' banter. One host was Justin? Trudeau, the other's name was Caslladh Shdohidsh (my ears avoided hearing her name). Their schtick was pretty standard, although Justin seems like a kinda hip, comfortable guy. In fact, their banter seemed very relaxed and off the cuff, even though it obviously wasn't. So, kudos to them (can someone please inform them that I deemed their efforts kudos-worthy?)
Of course, one of the crosses we Canadians have to bear (bare?) is the bilingual official functions. I don't mind it when people speak French then English. I don't like the interpreter, though. An interpreter is necessary if one is watching the House of Commons (then again, so is Nembutol), but when it's a casual speech or emcee situation, the interpretation really bugs me.
It was at this point that Karyn called out from the bath "What is that? It sounds like an American rah-rah propaganda type show". I said that this show was, in fact, just the opposite of what the Americans would put on air, and that the next act was living proof of that theory.
The next act, of course, being some aged senator (no, not Daniel Alfredsson) and his two cronies performing a version of Seven Spanish Angels. Good god, I thought. Were BNL booked elsewhere? Gripping the couch cushion, I prepared myself for the worst. Turns out it was the highlight of the 40 minutes that I watched. They were fantastic. Not the greatest singers, looked nervous and all that, but it was totally charming. And charming in the best way, not in the 'grade 4 recital' charming way.
The Barra MacNeils performed next, but I yawned through that bit of done-to-death East Coast Representation. Then came Cirque de Soleil. Outstanding.
The last thing I saw before I switched to Survivor was the hosts announcing: "And now, Oscar Peterson!!" Oops, Oscar's not ready yet. Fill Fill Fill...fill fill fill...fill fill fill. They were still filling time when I turned the channel. When I turned back during a commercial, I saw a couple of awful "congrats' from the common-folk, and then the end of Paul Anka (as opposed to Paul Anka's end...and I am, you know... opposed to Paul Anka's end) singing what appeared to be a vegas-y rendition of My Way. So, maybe the 40 minutes I saw were the best?
All in all, this was a much longer post than I expected. But, then again, so was Chretien's reign, so it all works out in Paul Anka's end.
It's taken me a full two weeks, after my abysmal pigskin prognosticating in which I went 4-10, to summon up the courage to post another round of weekend picks. Last time, I went up against 50/50 odds, up against the toss of a coin. I lost, with the coin getting 6 of 14 correct.
This time I go up against what I consider will result in a sure victory for me. I test my NFL picking skills against the skills of an NFL Neophyte, a mere babe-in-the-woods. This week I take on my 10 year old son, who chooses to know nothing about football.
So, here are the picks this week. (MP) indicates my picks, (CP) indicates Cameron's:
Texans at Bills MP: Texans CP: Bills
Redskins at Panthers MP: Panthers CP: Panthers
Rams at Bears MP: Rams CP: Rams
Chiefs at Bengals MP: Bengals CP: Bengals
Cardinals at Browns MP: Browns CP: Cardinals
Ravens at Dolphins MP: Dolphins CP: Dolphins
Falcons at Saints MP: Falcons CP: Saints
Giants at Eagles MP: Eagles CP: Eagles
Jaguars at Titans MP: Titans CP: Jaguars
Chargers at Broncos MP: Chargers CP: Chargers
Jets at Colts MP: Colts CP: Jets
Vikings at Raiders MP: Vikings CP: Raiders
Lions at Seahawks MP: Seahawks CP: Lions
Packers at Buccaneers MP: Packers CP: Buccaneers
Cowboys at Patriots MP: Patriots CP: Cowboys
Steelers at 49ers MP: Steelers CP: 49ers
If I lose this week, next week I go up against my interpretation of cloud formations.
Only 13% nerd. A very tolerable level of nerdity, if you ask me. Find out how Nerd you are here.
My test results:
You answered "yes" to 13 of 100 questions, making you 87.0% nerd pure (13.0% nerd corrupt); that is, you are 87.0% pure in the nerd domain (you have 13.0% nerd in you).
Your Weirdness Factor (AKA Uniqueness Factor) is 26%, based on a comparison of your test results with 378675 other submissions for this test.
The average purity for this test is 73.7%.
Wednesday, November 12
I have a thick head of straight, fine hair. For as long as I can remember, it's been the same style, same look. Parted on the side, combed back off the forehead. Also, for as long as I can remember, I've used gel to keep it in place. Over time, I have become far too dependant on the gel, to keep my hair in place. Too much in place, I realise, but, over time, it's gotten to the point where I couldn't go out without the gelled-hair.
But no more! Today I went gel-less for the first time in years. Yes, the hair was all over the place, all floofy and whatnot. All down over my forehead and straight and floofy. I don't particularly like the feel of hair on my forehead, but by god, I'm gonna stick with it.
Let's see where this gel-free head of hair takes me.
Tuesday, November 11
At the cenotaph today, a couple of things struck me:
1) it's rather neat to hear the low rumble of a few hundred people mumbling The Lord's Prayer.
2) the song "God Save The Queen" fails me on both counts (or I fail it?). I don't believe in God, and I don't respect the divinity, or observance, of royalty.
3) I've further pinpointed what it is about the Remembrance Day ceremony that gets to me, emotionally. It's when the veterans, each one, comes up to the monument and salutes. I imagine them, in that salute, remembering a particular awful memory, momentarily reliving the extraordinary hell of losing a friend or comrade, or the less-extraordinary hell of wet boots in the midst of gunfire, or the hell of whatever. That moment of salute, when the old soldier is once again the soldier he once was, rips a bit of my heart out of me.
Monday, November 10
Of all the 'holidays', Remembrance Day is the one that means the most to me. Really, it is the only one I can stand behind and endorse. It's the only one that moves me. The religious holidays are nice for getting together with family and friends, but to my non-believing mind, they don't have much of an impact. Thanksgiving is okay, but there is that 'we stole your land' vibe to contend with. Canada Day (our wedding anniversary, btw) is always fun, and does a good job at instilling the patriotic feeling, but it's just a carnival.
Remembrance Day, though, is Honest and True.
I wonder what kind of soldier I'd have been in a combat situation. I would hope that I'd be the type who was among the first up the hill, or the type who'd sacrifice my life for others. I suspect, however, that I'm more selfish, more cowardly, more analytical than that. Of course, it's because I've lived my life completely in a safe and secure country that I can afford to be selfish, cowardly and analytical. I wonder how I'd perform in a combat in which I truly believed I was fighting for right. I don't know. For that lack of knowledge, I am thankful.
What I do know, though, is that I get very emotional at the Cenotaph when the old soldiers march and the bus of ailing veterans drives by. I appreciate true and honest sacrifice.
This is something of a confession: I've always appreciated the acting stylings of Jason Bateman. His talent, I thought, always was better than any TV show in which he could be found. Perhaps I'm confusing 'talent' with 'ability to convey his likable personality', but whatever it is, he made bad shows better.
Now he is in the new Fox sitcom Arrested Development, along with Jeffrey Tambor (of Larry Sanders fame), David Cross (of Mr. Show fame) and other quirky, enjoyable castmates. [I feel so Matt Rainnie, gone link crazy!] I saw my first episode (the series' second episode) last night, and I found it quite funny. I recommend everybody check it out quickly, as I fear it'll be cut down and cancelled soon by lack of viewership. This is the norm for most shows that don't stick to the basic rules of sitcom success.
Saturday, November 8
or "The Voyager Probe Has Left The Building"
Yes, after more than 26 years and 8 billion miles of hurtling through space, the Voyager space probe is leaving our solar system. How can we put that in perspective, in terms of how that relates to the rest of the universe? Here's one explanation that caught my imagination:
If the universe was 100km long, then Voyager has so far travelled the grand total of 10 millimetres.
Also, the nearest stars to us are multiple light-YEARS away from us. So far, Voyager has travelled one-half of one light DAY.
Thanks to Steven Garrity for pointing me to the theory of everything. Now I'm looking for a spoon to scoop up my brain, since it's leaked out of my ears upon watching the 3 fantastic hours.
String Theory theorizes that *everything* is based on, and created from, infintesimally small strings of energy. How small? It's impossible to imagine. However, imagine that an atom (already too-impossibly small to imagine) is the size of our universe (already too-impossibly large to imagine). A single string would be the size of a tree in this universe-sized atom. That's small.
String Theory was discovered/invented/imagined so that a single, unifying mathematical equation or formula could be used to explain our universe. The problem with String Theory is that it cannot be proven or disproven. Scientists are excited about it because the math seems to indicate that it's viable, even if they are forced to invent/imagine a universe in which 11 dimensions must exist for string theory to work.
Of course, after watching the program, I am now an expert, and have a valid opinion on the whole thing. My opinion is this: String Theory is as valid to string theorists as the existence of God is to Christians. It is no more factual and likely than any other philosophy of existence. To me, there are simply too many leaps of faith, assumptions, and if-then scenarios required of string theory, many of which are unprovable, to put my faith in it.
If this kind of stuff interests you in the least, I highly recommend watching this. It's mind-blowingly fascinating.
Friday, November 7
So far, I've managed to identify 42 of the 95 pop icons from the quiz at this site. It's an .xls file, so you need some type of Excel program in order to open it.
Some of them are pretty tough and obscure. The majority are music related, with a slight 80's and British slant to it. One of them is Rick Astley, for cripe's sake, so what does that tell ya?
In reference to this story about what Prince Charles did or didn't do, I would just like to make it clear that I also heartily disclaim any knowlings or involvementations of any and all such events which have and/or have not taken place; also I impunicate myself from any and all such events which may have taken place but not with my direct involvementary physication or brainial attunedness; or of any and all such events which may have taken place, and of which I was informationally implicatory to, yet moralistically disinclinated from.
That being said, does anyone have any idea what Prince Charles supposedly was involved in?
Wednesday, November 5
The first year of 24, I was sucked into it big time. I could look past the wonky time-jumps (5 minutes to drive from downtown L.A. to the outskirts of town?) and illogical plots and motivations, and just enjoy the action-packed goodness that year 1 of 24 provided. I even enjoyed the situations that Jack Bauer's daughter Kim got herself into.
The second year of 24, I was sucked into it even bigger time. The illogicals were still there, but the energy and excitement was elevated greatly. The Year-2 "Kim" plotline was ridiculously awful but not to the point where it could derail the show entirely. Scenes with Kim merely had to be tolerated last year.
The following was written between 10:30am and 10:33am:
10:30 tick tick tick tick...
So far this year (granted, only 2 episodes into the 24), the show has been slow to get going, and I am skeptical that it will ever catch fire like it did last year. Both Karyn and I screamed in agony when we saw that Kim was back and inexplicably working as a computer/terrorist expert at CTU. So far, her storyline continues her penchant for whiny, self-absorbed petulance, and this year, it's really dragging me down.
10:32 tick tick tick tick...
But I'll still watch and expect that it will get more exciting than it's been so far. I think the problem this year is that the time-gimmick doesn't seem to play a part yet. That is, the urgency of time hasn't yet emerged in the storyline. I expect it will. I expect I'll continue to hate any scene in which Kim is involved. And I expect you will be able to guess where I am every Tuesday night at 10pm for the next 22 weeks or so.
...tick tick tick tick 10:33
Tuesday, November 4
Parity (through the salary-cap structure) in the NFL means no teams dominate anymore. Means that there still can be some god-awful teams, but that the rest tend to rise to about the same level of quality and ability. It means that it's that much harder to pick who's going to win each week.
At least that's what I'm blaming this week's abysmal record on. Usually, I manage to hover around 60% accuracy. This week, though, my picks fell apart big time.
Out of 14 games played this weekend, I only picked 4 winners correct. Horrendous.
My Toin-Coss experiment, however, managed to get 7 right. 50%. Just what one would expect if winning was a random event. Which, in the NFL, it seems to becoming.
Next week, though, I suck it up and make some more picks. Forget about going against the randomness of coin-flipping. Next week, I take on a babe in the woods. Next week, I go up against my son and his NFL-innocent picks.
Monday, November 3
Okay, I've been reading (to the limit of my comprehension, it seems) responses here to the following puzzle:
You are in hell and facing an eternity of torment, but the devil offers you a way out, which you can take once and only once at any time from now on. Today, if you ask him to, the devil will toss a fair coin once and if it comes up heads you are free (but if tails then you face eternal torment with no possibility of reprieve). You don’t have to play today, though, because tomorrow the devil will make the deal slightly more favourable to you (and you know this): he’ll toss the coin twice but just one head will free you. The day after, the offer will improve further: 3 tosses with just one head needed. And so on (4 tosses, 5 tosses, ….1000 tosses …) for the rest of time if needed. So, given that the devil will give you better odds on every day after this one, but that you want to escape from hell some time, when should accept his offer?
The replies have gotten over my head somewhat, but I'm wondering if they are all missing the boat on what the answer is. Or do I just not understand probability mathematics?
It would seem to me that you should take the devil's offer on the very first day. Because wouldn't your odds remain the same - 50% - each day, regardless of how many flips of a coin you get each day? Isn't it incorrect to make the assumption 'if I have x number of flips today, my chances are greater that one of them will be heads'? Don't you have to take each flip individually, as a separate entity unto itself? And don't the odds remain the same - 50% - for each flip?
In other words: with one coin flip, there's a 50/50 chance it'll turn up heads. In a thousand coin flips, there's also a 50/50 chance that each flip will turn up heads. Am I wrong in assuming that your odds don't improve the more times you flip a coin?
If I am wrong, then am I also wrong in my assumption that the 649 Atlantic from Atlantic Loto is a rip-off? They are selling you the notion that because it's only played in Atlantic Canada, you have a better chance of winning (winning a much smaller jackpot, by the way), when in fact, you still have to match 6 of 49 numbers. They (or, we the gullible buyers) incorrectly imply that you are competing against fewer people so your chance of winning is greater. But you're not competing against others. Your competing against the odds of matching 6 of 49 numbers. So, your chance of winning the 649 Atlantic is as slim as winning the national 649. Or am I wrong on that too?
That is the day I can expect to die, according to The Death Test. I will be 75 years old. There is a 40% chance my death will be from cancer or heart attack. 10% chance that it'll be from alien abduction. 7% chance that either loneliness or auto-fellatio will be the culprit.
Personally, If I have to go then, auto-fellatio seems like the preferred method.
Saturday, November 1
I was nowhere near Canadian Tire today.