Sunday, March 6, 2011
I heart financial daily
Who'd've thought I'd be saying that. Me, who usually has ten copies of business recorder retrieved faithfully from the library but never read, in my bag at all times? But financial daily is engrossing. How could so much interesting information be filled in one newspaper? I have yet to find an article that bores me. I recommend it all those blissful ignorants out there who grow lethargic at the very sound of a newspaper rustling open. The financial daily will draw you in like a cheap love story, trust me, you will not be disappointed.
Demonarchy
The sun rises on an empty town by the sea. Taut and fake as an inflatable castle, it seems unnatural, as if a cover has been thrown across it to hide it and allow it to mingle with its surroundings. Slowly, as the sun crawls its scorching way higher into the sky, people began to emerge. Dressed in bright yellows and reds they seem to be excited about something. They have twenty drums between them and two cars and they all pile up greedily into the wagons. Those that cannot find a cube of space on the packed cars are perfectly agreeable about dancing the entire way on foot. Nothing can corrupt thier ardent excitement, today is a day for a picnic, for a celebration, for loud music and entertainment in their otherwise mundane lives. Today they will stand together and be heard. It's a democracy and today is voting day.
They turn on thier cassette players, each little tape-recorder singing a different melody for a different politician till the singing voices, shouting themselves hoarse, become one song that nobody is even listening to. They start thier rhythmic stampede down the streets shouting, jeering and chanting. Dumh-da-da-dumh-da-da-dumh-da-da-dumh. People in sleek black cars slide thier sleek black shades down thier long refined noses and observe patronizingly. Oh, how sweet. Until the stampede gets rowdier and rowdier as each man, engrossed in his own little dance doesn't notice the one that falls down and gets trampled by the many dancing feet. More men trip and fall and get trampled on but except for a few kicks from the remaining annoyed dancers they don't recieve any attention. It's a very lord-of-the-flies-we-are-dancing-around-the-putrescent-pig's-head moment. The thin aristocratic lips curl and the shades slide back up those long noses as the windows are rolled up in hasty derision, what dreadful barbarians. One of the dancers gets a look at the contemptuous faces and as somewhat of a joke hurls a ball of newspaper lit on fire at thier car. Screams erupt as a small explosions sounds and the cars jerk to a halt and people stream away like ants. We're finally making a difference, ecstatic the dancers light more newspapers on fire hurling them at random, enjoying the participatory shouts from those who get hit. The ones who can't get their hands on newspapers make do with stones and cheer as shards of glass erupt into the air catching the sunlight like a thousand glittering diamonds. Little demons grinning behind thier maddened eyes, the dancers spill greedily across the towns, armed with stones and fire. They are standing together and being heard, but the democracy has given way to anarchy.
The sun has reached quite a peak in the sky and is now stirring lazily in a pool of red, deep yellow like the yolk of an egg. The dancers, exhausted and bored, flicking away flies with thier dirt filled hands finally arrive at their destination under an enormous tent. So tired are they, that they look up gratefully at the angels who hand out small lunchboxes of food and are, in return, prepared to hear what the angels' god has to say. The god stands a long way away on a red stage and his voice booms out magnificently. They barely understand what he says but they know he feels the way they do, he has the same vibrance in his voice that they had felt just this morning and he is reviving them. They cheer for him and are ready to stain thier thumbs with ink just to get another lunch box and dance the way home. The aristocrats with thier shattered cars are now bolted deep within the safety of thier massive houses, shaking thier heads and muttering. The world is going to the dogs, they say, and then pick up the phone to call thier assistants telling them to have another hundred bags of sugar locked up so that the prices rise. Money is essential after all. If only one had enough money, now look my little veruca salt needs her pony, they would have time to vote out those barbarians on the streets. So the thumbs stain with ink and hundreds upon hundreds of sleepy votes are cast, as the sun slides down the sky leaving a purple smear, in exchange for a banana. Because those who possess the means possess no fire, and those who are ablaze are an infernal mob, we are riddled with monarchy.
They turn on thier cassette players, each little tape-recorder singing a different melody for a different politician till the singing voices, shouting themselves hoarse, become one song that nobody is even listening to. They start thier rhythmic stampede down the streets shouting, jeering and chanting. Dumh-da-da-dumh-da-da-dumh-da-da-dumh. People in sleek black cars slide thier sleek black shades down thier long refined noses and observe patronizingly. Oh, how sweet. Until the stampede gets rowdier and rowdier as each man, engrossed in his own little dance doesn't notice the one that falls down and gets trampled by the many dancing feet. More men trip and fall and get trampled on but except for a few kicks from the remaining annoyed dancers they don't recieve any attention. It's a very lord-of-the-flies-we-are-dancing-around-the-putrescent-pig's-head moment. The thin aristocratic lips curl and the shades slide back up those long noses as the windows are rolled up in hasty derision, what dreadful barbarians. One of the dancers gets a look at the contemptuous faces and as somewhat of a joke hurls a ball of newspaper lit on fire at thier car. Screams erupt as a small explosions sounds and the cars jerk to a halt and people stream away like ants. We're finally making a difference, ecstatic the dancers light more newspapers on fire hurling them at random, enjoying the participatory shouts from those who get hit. The ones who can't get their hands on newspapers make do with stones and cheer as shards of glass erupt into the air catching the sunlight like a thousand glittering diamonds. Little demons grinning behind thier maddened eyes, the dancers spill greedily across the towns, armed with stones and fire. They are standing together and being heard, but the democracy has given way to anarchy.
The sun has reached quite a peak in the sky and is now stirring lazily in a pool of red, deep yellow like the yolk of an egg. The dancers, exhausted and bored, flicking away flies with thier dirt filled hands finally arrive at their destination under an enormous tent. So tired are they, that they look up gratefully at the angels who hand out small lunchboxes of food and are, in return, prepared to hear what the angels' god has to say. The god stands a long way away on a red stage and his voice booms out magnificently. They barely understand what he says but they know he feels the way they do, he has the same vibrance in his voice that they had felt just this morning and he is reviving them. They cheer for him and are ready to stain thier thumbs with ink just to get another lunch box and dance the way home. The aristocrats with thier shattered cars are now bolted deep within the safety of thier massive houses, shaking thier heads and muttering. The world is going to the dogs, they say, and then pick up the phone to call thier assistants telling them to have another hundred bags of sugar locked up so that the prices rise. Money is essential after all. If only one had enough money, now look my little veruca salt needs her pony, they would have time to vote out those barbarians on the streets. So the thumbs stain with ink and hundreds upon hundreds of sleepy votes are cast, as the sun slides down the sky leaving a purple smear, in exchange for a banana. Because those who possess the means possess no fire, and those who are ablaze are an infernal mob, we are riddled with monarchy.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Computer Thrills
5:10 p.m. Friday, 4th march 2011
I was taking tea upstairs for my dad (it was sloshing in the cup quite a bit because I was very sleepy and zombie-like), and he started telling me about a medical rep. who comes to the hospital where he works. Mr. Rep's facebook account got hacked. Obviously, I instantly interrupted my dad, he should deactivate his account. But the story aparently wasn't so simple. Mr. Rep's hacker had, craftily, already changed the password to something of his liking so Mr. Rep was locked out of his own profile. So Mr. Rep sat down in front of his (flickering blue?) computer screen and began tapping out a message to the facebook authorities. Could they please put a restraining order on the guy? Or at least deactivate his account for him? The account got suspended and Mr. Rep breathed a sigh of relief. But a couple of days later, browsing for himself on facebook he comes upon his old profile, alive and functioning well enough and he was online! He hurriedly typed out an IM to the other Mr. Rep hoping to find a kindred soul. But he was disappointed. The hacker was thoroughly enjoying the situation and calmly informed him that he intended to use this profile for his own (villanous?) ends and that Mr. Rep should stop chasing after his own identity. Undaunted, Mr. Rep racked his brains and ultimately crept out (in the dead of the night?) to a CD store to find the 'Teach yourself how to become the ultimate hacker' CD. Then, hunched over with craftiness, a blood vessel popping in one sleep-deprived eye he rubbed his hands together gleefully and told my dad he was going to hack the hacker's hacked account in such a hackful way that the hacker would never have the nerve to hack anyone's privacy again. Then, chuckling in a mad, I-will-create-frankenstein sort of way he scurried down the corridor back home looking rather like a squirrel on a secret mission to gather nuts...
Yes, those are the pictures that went through my mind while my father was talking. Make of it what you can.
:)
I was taking tea upstairs for my dad (it was sloshing in the cup quite a bit because I was very sleepy and zombie-like), and he started telling me about a medical rep. who comes to the hospital where he works. Mr. Rep's facebook account got hacked. Obviously, I instantly interrupted my dad, he should deactivate his account. But the story aparently wasn't so simple. Mr. Rep's hacker had, craftily, already changed the password to something of his liking so Mr. Rep was locked out of his own profile. So Mr. Rep sat down in front of his (flickering blue?) computer screen and began tapping out a message to the facebook authorities. Could they please put a restraining order on the guy? Or at least deactivate his account for him? The account got suspended and Mr. Rep breathed a sigh of relief. But a couple of days later, browsing for himself on facebook he comes upon his old profile, alive and functioning well enough and he was online! He hurriedly typed out an IM to the other Mr. Rep hoping to find a kindred soul. But he was disappointed. The hacker was thoroughly enjoying the situation and calmly informed him that he intended to use this profile for his own (villanous?) ends and that Mr. Rep should stop chasing after his own identity. Undaunted, Mr. Rep racked his brains and ultimately crept out (in the dead of the night?) to a CD store to find the 'Teach yourself how to become the ultimate hacker' CD. Then, hunched over with craftiness, a blood vessel popping in one sleep-deprived eye he rubbed his hands together gleefully and told my dad he was going to hack the hacker's hacked account in such a hackful way that the hacker would never have the nerve to hack anyone's privacy again. Then, chuckling in a mad, I-will-create-frankenstein sort of way he scurried down the corridor back home looking rather like a squirrel on a secret mission to gather nuts...
Yes, those are the pictures that went through my mind while my father was talking. Make of it what you can.
:)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)