So I've been procrastinating again, proof that things are going just fine. I'm past 29 pages of writing already, and still going strong. Mostly today was spent finishing what would be approximately the third chapter of Fighting Gravity and making a few visual aids of what I'm working with. Mainly maps.
I love maps, you know. They make it so much easier for me to visualise where the characters are evolving. I think I had one for OiH, but I might have lost it. Anyway, I made a map of the world of FG, with plenty of self-indulgent details. Fun!
Of course, I also have been working on finding a way to reduce video file sizes. An uncompressed video can easily weigh as much as 1Gb, which is more than annoying when you're looking for a webhost. So I played around in Adobe Premiere Pro, the program that can do everything and more, confident that it provided a way to encode videos that didn't take up as much space.
And, being the techie genius that I am (that last part may or may not have been irony), I have finally found one. My 900Mb file became a 93Mb file. It's like a miracle!
Also, that means I can upload it to Internet for you to see.
Here are the YouTube and Google Video links, in case.
Before you even comment on how I wasted a few precious hours of my life (I won't even argue with you on that one), know that the making of that video was necessary for two reasons:
1. I love TP and was in a post-game depression and
2. I seriously wanted to experiment with Adobe Premiere Pro, in order to figure out all its nifty little functions.
By the way, yes, I used the word 'nifty'. I like that word. It's fun to say. Niiifty. Nifty. NIfty. NiFTY. Nifty. So many ways to say it.
Of course, since that video's been sitting on my drive for a few weeks now, unseen (except by my brother, who had this to say: "Um. Okay. Are those cookies? Can I have some? Thanks. Want to see a Halo music video?" so his opinion doesn't count), I haven't been working on it during my procrastination breaks, though I'll admit that isn't such a bad idea. Hm...
My lack of a life doesn't alarm me, by the way. Some people have less of a life than me, I'm sure, and if I did get one, there would be no more Zelink AUs from this side of the planet. As a result, I've fully assumed my role and position in this world: I am a Zelink AU writer with world domination plans. Not that you just read that.
And now, would you look at that. It's 1:20AM and I'm still awake, even though I have to get to work tomorrow morning. This morning, to be more precise. Bugger. I better go to bed now.
All in all, a productive day. :)
Love,
CM
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Quick post
To assure you that I am writing. Intensively. Writing my next story, I mean. The one I mentioned before. The futuristic Zelink, I mean.
As an additional detail, it'd be a war/science-fiction/fantasy/romance type of story. The tentative title, by the way, is Fighting Gravity, a concept intimately related to some of the content in the story. And before you ask, no, it's not a space story.
Anyway, trust me. I'm still alive. And I'm working hard at making something that could be on par with Only in Hyrule's success (mission impossible, I sometimes think, but it's best to stay positive). FG would be so different from OiH that it shouldn't be comparable.
As with OiH, I'll try to have a few buffer chapters before posting anything. As I cannot predict the final length of this particular story (it is multi-chaptered, considering I'm not even done with the "introduction" segments and I'm already reaching the end of page 19, roughly chapter two), I don't know how many chapters I'll want to have completed before posting the first one.
The story's outline is vaguely set out in my mind, in a state where I can still freely change it but also use it to orient my characters. I know where I want to get, but in order to keep myself working on it, I can't plan everything out from the start. What's the point, after all? It'd be like spoiling the story for myself.
And yes, I know that last sentence sounded stupid, but when I write, I need to enjoy it, or else it comes out half-assed and tasteless. What's the point of writing something funny if you're not laughing until you cry yourself? What's the point of writing an exciting scene if you don't feel your stomach knot and your throat tie?
I need to feel the same enjoyment in writing as the one I want you, the readers, to feel when you'll read it for yourselves.
So. Will I pressure myself into writing it? Definitely not. I have a good feeling about this one, and I really want it to work.
After mentally calculating, in a very vague way, at the rate where things are going, I could have a 30-chapter story on my hands, or approximately 300 pages (OiH had 217 in size 11 Times New Roman). Rejoice or weep, it's all up to you, but this story needs to be told, and I'm sure you'll like it.
Love,
CM
As an additional detail, it'd be a war/science-fiction/fantasy/romance type of story. The tentative title, by the way, is Fighting Gravity, a concept intimately related to some of the content in the story. And before you ask, no, it's not a space story.
Anyway, trust me. I'm still alive. And I'm working hard at making something that could be on par with Only in Hyrule's success (mission impossible, I sometimes think, but it's best to stay positive). FG would be so different from OiH that it shouldn't be comparable.
As with OiH, I'll try to have a few buffer chapters before posting anything. As I cannot predict the final length of this particular story (it is multi-chaptered, considering I'm not even done with the "introduction" segments and I'm already reaching the end of page 19, roughly chapter two), I don't know how many chapters I'll want to have completed before posting the first one.
The story's outline is vaguely set out in my mind, in a state where I can still freely change it but also use it to orient my characters. I know where I want to get, but in order to keep myself working on it, I can't plan everything out from the start. What's the point, after all? It'd be like spoiling the story for myself.
And yes, I know that last sentence sounded stupid, but when I write, I need to enjoy it, or else it comes out half-assed and tasteless. What's the point of writing something funny if you're not laughing until you cry yourself? What's the point of writing an exciting scene if you don't feel your stomach knot and your throat tie?
I need to feel the same enjoyment in writing as the one I want you, the readers, to feel when you'll read it for yourselves.
So. Will I pressure myself into writing it? Definitely not. I have a good feeling about this one, and I really want it to work.
After mentally calculating, in a very vague way, at the rate where things are going, I could have a 30-chapter story on my hands, or approximately 300 pages (OiH had 217 in size 11 Times New Roman). Rejoice or weep, it's all up to you, but this story needs to be told, and I'm sure you'll like it.
Love,
CM
Monday, May 21, 2007
Shad's Eyes are Blue!
Dark blue, actually. I owe thanks to The Destined and Stephanie for answering this ultimate question (and okay, you too, Scarlet, but only because you make awesome Jell-O) by taking time out of their busy schedules and looking at the game disk because I'm too incompetent and lazy (ahem) to do it myself.
I promised, as thanks, to dedicate a haiku to them and forward a thank you message written by the Linkster himself. The haiku was a little dusty, but it was there in my stuff, begging to be shared. Here goes, and don't laugh. There's a reason I don't do poetry.
The bread in my mouth
Tastes like ashes―
I need a new toaster.
Deep, innit?
Okay, you can stop laughing at me, now.
Do not ask what I was on when I wrote it. It was probably late in the evening, and I might possibly have been procrastinating. And making toast.
At any rate, my procrastination tactics have improved. My being on vacation does allow for more time to, theoretically, be spent on writing. So I need more elaborate ways of not doing what I both enjoy and seek to avoid at all costs.
Like drawing.
I'm not the most prolific artist, but I typically do one of two things when I'm not listening in class: I write or I draw.
For instance, my love of LoZ and AUs (mostly a combination of my two loves) gives stuff like this. (For full view, Right-click and "Save Picture As", or the equivalent in your browser.)
And okay, it's fun to draw when I should be writing, or write when I should be working. There's a hierarchy here.
Before you ask, the symbols on his sleeve spell out "Courage", and the ones on the bottom are my initials, "CM".
I wouldn't put my real initials, though they appear on the original sketch.
There's something about drawing a singing (or screaming ―depending on your views) Link that makes you ponder the all-important "what does Link's voice sound like?" Because no one really heard it. And screams don't cut it. My screams dont sound like my talking or my singing. (Spare me cracks on my singing, please.)
(Because how would you know whether or not I have talent for singing?)
(Oh, hush. Just don't say anything, alright?)
I bet Link's voice is kind of boyish ―you know, adult but not deep and rumbly. On the mellow, boy-next-door side. Sort of like your typical punk rocker's singing voice.
Except Link wouldn't be a punk rocker. Would he?
Eeesh. If I knew anything about the world of music, I'd probably seek to explore that particular mystery about Link further.
After much searching and harassing our favourite Hero of All Things Awesome, he finally agreed to send me this. The thank you note for those who helped me find Shad's eye colour, I mean. I may or may not have used threats to get him to agree.
I should, of course, have considered the fact that Link writes in Hylian, not in English. Oh, sure, he included the Old Hylian AND the New Hylian spellings, but that gets us nowhere, does it? But it's okay. I researched the letters online and found this is what it translates to:
"On behalf of CM, even though I don’t know why she asked me to write you a note, since I have nothing to do with her, thank you for finding Shad’s eye-colour.
"Um. Whatever. That’s just stupid.
"Excuse me. I have to go kick some moblin butt.
"May the Triforce be with you.
"Link
"P.S. No matter what this Zelink thing she is talking about happens to be, concretely, I believe I want some."
I think I shouldn't have bothered him during training. Then again, you can't blame him for being so curt. You can totally tell he just has to turn his back one minute for the foes of Hyrule to spring forth in throngs. No rest for him, huh?
Maybe he'd be better off as a punk rocker. At least he'd be shoving off rabid fans instead of rabid bulblins.
;P
Love,
CM
I promised, as thanks, to dedicate a haiku to them and forward a thank you message written by the Linkster himself. The haiku was a little dusty, but it was there in my stuff, begging to be shared. Here goes, and don't laugh. There's a reason I don't do poetry.
The bread in my mouth
Tastes like ashes―
I need a new toaster.
Deep, innit?
Okay, you can stop laughing at me, now.
Do not ask what I was on when I wrote it. It was probably late in the evening, and I might possibly have been procrastinating. And making toast.
At any rate, my procrastination tactics have improved. My being on vacation does allow for more time to, theoretically, be spent on writing. So I need more elaborate ways of not doing what I both enjoy and seek to avoid at all costs.
Like drawing.
I'm not the most prolific artist, but I typically do one of two things when I'm not listening in class: I write or I draw.
For instance, my love of LoZ and AUs (mostly a combination of my two loves) gives stuff like this. (For full view, Right-click and "Save Picture As", or the equivalent in your browser.)
And okay, it's fun to draw when I should be writing, or write when I should be working. There's a hierarchy here.
Before you ask, the symbols on his sleeve spell out "Courage", and the ones on the bottom are my initials, "CM".
I wouldn't put my real initials, though they appear on the original sketch.
There's something about drawing a singing (or screaming ―depending on your views) Link that makes you ponder the all-important "what does Link's voice sound like?" Because no one really heard it. And screams don't cut it. My screams dont sound like my talking or my singing. (Spare me cracks on my singing, please.)
(Because how would you know whether or not I have talent for singing?)
(Oh, hush. Just don't say anything, alright?)
I bet Link's voice is kind of boyish ―you know, adult but not deep and rumbly. On the mellow, boy-next-door side. Sort of like your typical punk rocker's singing voice.
Except Link wouldn't be a punk rocker. Would he?
Eeesh. If I knew anything about the world of music, I'd probably seek to explore that particular mystery about Link further.
After much searching and harassing our favourite Hero of All Things Awesome, he finally agreed to send me this. The thank you note for those who helped me find Shad's eye colour, I mean. I may or may not have used threats to get him to agree.
I should, of course, have considered the fact that Link writes in Hylian, not in English. Oh, sure, he included the Old Hylian AND the New Hylian spellings, but that gets us nowhere, does it? But it's okay. I researched the letters online and found this is what it translates to:
"On behalf of CM, even though I don’t know why she asked me to write you a note, since I have nothing to do with her, thank you for finding Shad’s eye-colour.
"Um. Whatever. That’s just stupid.
"Excuse me. I have to go kick some moblin butt.
"May the Triforce be with you.
"Link
"P.S. No matter what this Zelink thing she is talking about happens to be, concretely, I believe I want some."
I think I shouldn't have bothered him during training. Then again, you can't blame him for being so curt. You can totally tell he just has to turn his back one minute for the foes of Hyrule to spring forth in throngs. No rest for him, huh?
Maybe he'd be better off as a punk rocker. At least he'd be shoving off rabid fans instead of rabid bulblins.
;P
Love,
CM
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Celebrations!
I'm finally done with exams! Odds are my grades will not only kick butt, they'll also take numbers.
BRAGGING TO FOLLOW I'm at least ten points above the group average in every subject I had, assuming my finals don't suck ―which they won't.
Get this. Summary so far:
Gym ―me: 75% ―group: 52% (they're written tests, remember)
Genres ―me: 80% ―group: 70%
French ―me: 82% ―group: 62% (my grade will definitely go up, though, because I did great on my final essay)
Philosophy ―me: 84% ―group: unavailable (estimated to be around 60%)
Scenario/Editing ―me: 84% ―group: 73%
Journalism ―me: 89% ―group: 67%
Comics ―me: 92% ―group: 68% (I simply do not understand the group average on this one)
English ―me: 93% ―group: 75%
I mean. Seriously. And most of those should go up because of my finals. Awesome.
BRAGGING DONE.
Sorry about that. Sometimes, a girl needs to reassure herself.
Anyway. My employer called and I'm working again this very weekend. She scheduled me. I didn't even sign the season contract yet (I'm doing that tomorrow). This woman is really motherly, but she clearly hasn't come across reliable employees of late.
Word has it two employees from the fitness department stole a good few thousand bucks from the store. It's this top-secret thing with the police and all. Short story of it, I had to sign a police declaration that garanteed I wasn't a criminal, and gave Sears (oh, oh, that's where I work, oh em gee) the right to look me up in police files. Except I don't have police files.
But hey, suit themselves. I'm not exactly an international spy case. They won't be having a treasure hunt about me.
It was Mom's birthday today. She spent most of the day doing nothing ―it's her idea of rebellion, which for a housewife is pretty intense― and we had fun. I dropped by school for an hour, to finish my Comic exam― then came home.
There are kittens living under our porch. I didn't know about it until I sat at my computer in the basement and looked out the small ground-level window to my left. An adorable kitten was looking straight me, his furry little paws pressed against the windowpane. His sibling was rolling in the grass just behind him, attacking the long blades on the side of our house. It was the cutest thing since the Picori.
I called Mom and we looked at the kittens as they rolled around in the grass outside our house. It was really cute.
And then we found out they live under the cement slab of our front step. There's a really narrow space under it where the ground sunk, and they would dart in and out of it, tackling one another.
There are four kittens that we know of. A black and white one, a grey one, a black one, and the fourth I only know of because Mom spied on them. So I don't know what colour he is. But apparently, their dad is a street cat, big and wet and territorial, and their mother is also a stray, though I haven't seen her myself.
We don't mind, because... um... they're kittens. How can anyone think they're a hindrance? And it's not like they're eating our plants or anything. They bury their poop in the ground... Seriously. Cleanest and cutest squatters ever. We want them to stay, but we won't feed them, in case they get dependant. They need to learn how to survive.
I don't really understand why there are stray cats in my neighbourhood, but I certainly won't complain. There used to be plenty of stray cats on the Mediterranean coast where I spent so many of my childhood summers. I love cats. They're so smart and sleek and I love the way they move.
Anyway. If Link ever brought home a stray kitten, I have half a mind to think that it'd look like the ones living under our porch. No way could a sane woman resist a guy carrying a kitten like those.
Other news. Lord Llama (my brother) is coming to the end of his high school years, too. His prom is soon, and he and his girlfriend are competing for the position of speaker at the graduation ceremony. Fact is they're among the most eloquent (and spunky) people in the promotion, so they were convinced to make the student speech.
Anyway. The winner gets to step onstage at the ceremony and read their speech. Because they're not exactly the traditional lovey-dovey sort of couple, LL's girlfriend wrote a speech, and my brother entered the contest as an afterthought, to give her some competition. They're both very verbose (family thing, perhaps?).
So Mom guilted me into helping him. I don't know why, because he's fully capable of writing a decent and funny speech. Not to mention he's got a quirky style. But anyway, I said I'd help him because he's set on beating his girlfriend to it. And having been to the same school until last year, I know how to talk to the uptight, almost-fascist school administrators (it's a private school, doo dee doo).
So, hardly out of school and I'm already working on something at another. But whatever. It involves writing (or, helping someone to write), so it's okay.
Besides, my drought of inspiration ―you have no idea how painful wanting-to-write-and-not-being-able-to-for-lack-of-inspiration can be― has dampened a little bit, so I've started something new. And just talking about it probably jinxed me, but whatever.
If I don't croak (metaphorically, of course) in the middle of it, it would be a multi-chaptered story again. Futuristic. Zelink. The works.
But I'll shut up now, because I've given you so many previews to stuff I've been unable to finish already, and it's a bummer for everyone. Seriously. It kills.
But hey, it's all part of my creative process. Now you feel my agony!
...
List of movies I must see this year (updated list): Because you care.
Shrek 3 (TOMORROW, I CANNOT BELIEVE I WON'T SEE IT JUST YET!)
Pirates of the Caribbean: At the World's End (Because, um... Johnny Depp. Pirates. Swashbuckling. Self-explanatory.)
Becoming Jane (So sue me; I'm a fan of Anne Hathaway.)
Ocean's Thirteen (No need to justify. Plain awesome screenwriter. I would kill for skills like these.)
Fantastic 4: Rise of the Silver Surfer (Okay, so maybe I enjoyed the first movie... That doesn't make me a weirdo. Ahem.)
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (apparently, it's finally a decent adaptation!)
The Simpsons Movie (Dude. It's the Simpsons. Doh.)
The Nanny Diaries (Because chick flicks are a guilty pleasure.)
Silk (I'm also a fan of Kiera Knightley. That woman is too beautiful for her own good. Actually, I hate her for that particular thing.)
Enchanted (Classic animation, live-action, princesses and hot guys. Need I say more?)
Seriously. Any movie with hot guys needs to be sent my way. There aren't nearly enough attractive and demographically anti-statistical people in the movies. I see enough realism in my every day life. I don't mind shelling out ten bucks a ticket to see sexy men on the big screen.
And now, if you ever ask me why I write romantic comedies... Now you know. It's because of chick flicks with hot guys in 'em.
They're inspiring, okay?
Not to mention, I'm a girl at heart. You can't play tough and detached every day of the week. You also need some sort of clichéd love story from time to time.
Besides, Scarlet, Prophet and I still have places to fill in our 451 Hot Guys List.
... Maybe one day I'll tell you about that particular episode.
Okay, back to writing. Wish me luck!
Love,
CM
P.S. Okay, seriously. What colour are Shad's eyes? From Twilight Princess, I mean. I will write a haiku for the person who checks their game disk for me and answers that particular question. I am not kidding. And yes, you're right, I could check for myself, but I'm afraid starting a new game will detract from the all-important writing aspect of this thing.
To whoever is first to tell me what colour Shad's eyes are, I'll send a haiku. With a thank you note from Link himself.
BRAGGING TO FOLLOW I'm at least ten points above the group average in every subject I had, assuming my finals don't suck ―which they won't.
Get this. Summary so far:
Gym ―me: 75% ―group: 52% (they're written tests, remember)
Genres ―me: 80% ―group: 70%
French ―me: 82% ―group: 62% (my grade will definitely go up, though, because I did great on my final essay)
Philosophy ―me: 84% ―group: unavailable (estimated to be around 60%)
Scenario/Editing ―me: 84% ―group: 73%
Journalism ―me: 89% ―group: 67%
Comics ―me: 92% ―group: 68% (I simply do not understand the group average on this one)
English ―me: 93% ―group: 75%
I mean. Seriously. And most of those should go up because of my finals. Awesome.
BRAGGING DONE.
Sorry about that. Sometimes, a girl needs to reassure herself.
Anyway. My employer called and I'm working again this very weekend. She scheduled me. I didn't even sign the season contract yet (I'm doing that tomorrow). This woman is really motherly, but she clearly hasn't come across reliable employees of late.
Word has it two employees from the fitness department stole a good few thousand bucks from the store. It's this top-secret thing with the police and all. Short story of it, I had to sign a police declaration that garanteed I wasn't a criminal, and gave Sears (oh, oh, that's where I work, oh em gee) the right to look me up in police files. Except I don't have police files.
But hey, suit themselves. I'm not exactly an international spy case. They won't be having a treasure hunt about me.
It was Mom's birthday today. She spent most of the day doing nothing ―it's her idea of rebellion, which for a housewife is pretty intense― and we had fun. I dropped by school for an hour, to finish my Comic exam― then came home.
There are kittens living under our porch. I didn't know about it until I sat at my computer in the basement and looked out the small ground-level window to my left. An adorable kitten was looking straight me, his furry little paws pressed against the windowpane. His sibling was rolling in the grass just behind him, attacking the long blades on the side of our house. It was the cutest thing since the Picori.
I called Mom and we looked at the kittens as they rolled around in the grass outside our house. It was really cute.
And then we found out they live under the cement slab of our front step. There's a really narrow space under it where the ground sunk, and they would dart in and out of it, tackling one another.
There are four kittens that we know of. A black and white one, a grey one, a black one, and the fourth I only know of because Mom spied on them. So I don't know what colour he is. But apparently, their dad is a street cat, big and wet and territorial, and their mother is also a stray, though I haven't seen her myself.
We don't mind, because... um... they're kittens. How can anyone think they're a hindrance? And it's not like they're eating our plants or anything. They bury their poop in the ground... Seriously. Cleanest and cutest squatters ever. We want them to stay, but we won't feed them, in case they get dependant. They need to learn how to survive.
I don't really understand why there are stray cats in my neighbourhood, but I certainly won't complain. There used to be plenty of stray cats on the Mediterranean coast where I spent so many of my childhood summers. I love cats. They're so smart and sleek and I love the way they move.
Anyway. If Link ever brought home a stray kitten, I have half a mind to think that it'd look like the ones living under our porch. No way could a sane woman resist a guy carrying a kitten like those.
Other news. Lord Llama (my brother) is coming to the end of his high school years, too. His prom is soon, and he and his girlfriend are competing for the position of speaker at the graduation ceremony. Fact is they're among the most eloquent (and spunky) people in the promotion, so they were convinced to make the student speech.
Anyway. The winner gets to step onstage at the ceremony and read their speech. Because they're not exactly the traditional lovey-dovey sort of couple, LL's girlfriend wrote a speech, and my brother entered the contest as an afterthought, to give her some competition. They're both very verbose (family thing, perhaps?).
So Mom guilted me into helping him. I don't know why, because he's fully capable of writing a decent and funny speech. Not to mention he's got a quirky style. But anyway, I said I'd help him because he's set on beating his girlfriend to it. And having been to the same school until last year, I know how to talk to the uptight, almost-fascist school administrators (it's a private school, doo dee doo).
So, hardly out of school and I'm already working on something at another. But whatever. It involves writing (or, helping someone to write), so it's okay.
Besides, my drought of inspiration ―you have no idea how painful wanting-to-write-and-not-being-able-to-for-lack-of-inspiration can be― has dampened a little bit, so I've started something new. And just talking about it probably jinxed me, but whatever.
If I don't croak (metaphorically, of course) in the middle of it, it would be a multi-chaptered story again. Futuristic. Zelink. The works.
But I'll shut up now, because I've given you so many previews to stuff I've been unable to finish already, and it's a bummer for everyone. Seriously. It kills.
But hey, it's all part of my creative process. Now you feel my agony!
...
List of movies I must see this year (updated list): Because you care.
Shrek 3 (TOMORROW, I CANNOT BELIEVE I WON'T SEE IT JUST YET!)
Pirates of the Caribbean: At the World's End (Because, um... Johnny Depp. Pirates. Swashbuckling. Self-explanatory.)
Becoming Jane (So sue me; I'm a fan of Anne Hathaway.)
Ocean's Thirteen (No need to justify. Plain awesome screenwriter. I would kill for skills like these.)
Fantastic 4: Rise of the Silver Surfer (Okay, so maybe I enjoyed the first movie... That doesn't make me a weirdo. Ahem.)
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (apparently, it's finally a decent adaptation!)
The Simpsons Movie (Dude. It's the Simpsons. Doh.)
The Nanny Diaries (Because chick flicks are a guilty pleasure.)
Silk (I'm also a fan of Kiera Knightley. That woman is too beautiful for her own good. Actually, I hate her for that particular thing.)
Enchanted (Classic animation, live-action, princesses and hot guys. Need I say more?)
Seriously. Any movie with hot guys needs to be sent my way. There aren't nearly enough attractive and demographically anti-statistical people in the movies. I see enough realism in my every day life. I don't mind shelling out ten bucks a ticket to see sexy men on the big screen.
And now, if you ever ask me why I write romantic comedies... Now you know. It's because of chick flicks with hot guys in 'em.
They're inspiring, okay?
Not to mention, I'm a girl at heart. You can't play tough and detached every day of the week. You also need some sort of clichéd love story from time to time.
Besides, Scarlet, Prophet and I still have places to fill in our 451 Hot Guys List.
... Maybe one day I'll tell you about that particular episode.
Okay, back to writing. Wish me luck!
Love,
CM
P.S. Okay, seriously. What colour are Shad's eyes? From Twilight Princess, I mean. I will write a haiku for the person who checks their game disk for me and answers that particular question. I am not kidding. And yes, you're right, I could check for myself, but I'm afraid starting a new game will detract from the all-important writing aspect of this thing.
To whoever is first to tell me what colour Shad's eyes are, I'll send a haiku. With a thank you note from Link himself.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
A night on the town
Ah, yesterday was the longest day I've had in a while. Up on the menu: pwnage, pwnage, Disney, cadavers, spaghetti, underground cities, rapists, and long subway travels.
It was a nice day, overall, if kind of ruined by my final realisation: as awesome as downtown is, you are never safe.
But anyway. Let me start with the beginning.
At 8:00 I had to give in my Comics project: a full-size comic board with four-page justification document. I'd gone to sleep at 12:30 the night before because my teammate was a slacker and hadn't done the doc properly (let's just say he didn't do much ―anything actually― for the comic itself). So it was all my work. But whatever, it got nothing but good criticism and I had the confidence that it was done well.
Pwnage? Check.
The day was cut up by an excursion outside, around the back of the cegep, by the riverside. It's a nice location. We have an island park just for us students, with peace and quiet (and dead campfire pits, not that anyone knows who had the guts to start a fire on the island).
And then I rushed to finish my notes page for my philosophy essay, which was worth, I kid you not, 40%. I had 3 hours to complete it, and let's just say I was lucky to actually understand what it was about, because I can assure you 80% of people don't.
In case you were wondering, it was about the Absurd, the myth of Sisyphus and suicide. Sisyphus was that Greek guy who was punished by the gods for defying death; he had to roll a rock to the top of a mountain, and at the last second, the rock would always roll back down. He had to do it for all eternity. Anyway, we had to explain why, according to Albert Camus (french writer and philosopher), the absurd of Sisyphus' life didn't lead, as one might believe, to suicide, but rather to life and happiness.
And you're like, "What?"
I was like that too. So were PB's girlfriend and Matthew, a guy who was at my old high school and who hangs around with us when he can.
But guess what. The essay? Easy as pie.
I finished in an hour and a half. Matthew finished fifteen minutes before me. PB's girlfriend finished at the same time as me.
This would have made my day all on its own, but I have to admit that seeing the arrogant prick who sits beside me's face fall as he saw me stand with my final copy was the cherry on top. Seriously. That guy has been mocking me all session because I would always argue with the teacher, and he'd insult the fact that I'm a leftie (okay, who even does that anymore? What kind of a retard is he??), and basically flaunt the fact that being in social science is so much better than liberal arts.
He's a smart guy, but he's a jerk about it. So rubbing in his face that my previous essay beat his grade by 3 points (I got 87%, he got 84%, and oh, how smug he'd looked right before I got my grade) and that I also finished my awesome essay yesterday long before he was even done with the first paragraph of development was a sweet, sweet vengeance.
Good feelings all around.
I came home. It had been agreed in the family that my brother would bring his girlfriend home and the five of us (Mom, Dad, my brother, his girlfriend and I) would head downtown. I wanted to see the exhibition at the Fine Arts Museum about Disney, and my brother's girlfriend wanted to see Body World 2 at the Science Museum in Old Montreal, so we split up in the subway and arranged for a meeting spot at the end of the evening.
The exhibition was awesome, even more so because I'd studied Disney's influences in my film classes. It was great. But we finished soon and decided we were hungry, so we went onto Ste-Catherine avenue (one of the most lively and popular shopping streets in Montreal) for supper. It was crawling with people, and we stopped at Reuben's for a quick supper (spaghetti!).
There's something electric and exciting about downtown. It feels so young and bustling, and there are so many young students all over the place. It's seriously one of the best spots ever. Not to mention the sights and smells. For a girl who is used to peace and quiet, a change of pace and a breath of newness is always welcome. Of course my parents were being reminiscent, but I just enjoyed it all.
Especially the underground city of Montreal, rife with glass ceilings, multiple level shopping malls, ethnic boutiques, restaurants, and just about everything you need to survive without having to go outside. It's seriously one of my favourite spots ever, because it's safe and fun to explore.
Eventually, though, the time came for us to head back to the car, which we'd parked near an out-of-the-way subway station, because you do NOT go downtown with a car. It was almost time for the meet-up with my brother and his girlfriend.
I like the subway. Having seen New York's metro system, I can say that Montreal's ―excuse me, New Yorkers―is way better. The ceilings are high, the stations are wide, and each station was decorated by a different architect/designer. It was built in 1966 for the Expo '67, or Universal Exhibition of 1967 in Montreal, which is considered by most Montrealers like the event that not only propelled Montreal to the rank of an internationalized city, but also forced city industrials to create a vast transport system. It also was the reason for the construction of LaRonde, which is now home to the largest and fastest rollercoaster in Canada.
Anyway. The metro. Mom, Dad and I got off at the right station and went up the first flight of stairs.
Here I'd like to say that my day had been great thus far. In fact, I thought that nothing could ruin it.
I was wrong, apparently, because my mother and father ambled a little ways away ―Mom wanted to grab a free newspaper from the newsstand, and I noticed two guys at an ATM. One of them was getting cash, and the other met my gaze. I looked away. There's this trick, see, that if you don't want anything to do with someone, you don't look at them and they'll back off.
But I did notice, however, out the corner of my eye, that said guy nudged his friend and nodded to me. I didn't think much about it, since, and I'm not saying this to brag (I only brag about kicking someone's smartassedness back where it came from), it's not like guys don't check me out regularly anyway. It's flattering, and nothing bad comes out of it, so...
I headed for the escalators. I knew my parents were following me, so I climbed on.
I turned to say something to my mother, and that's when I started feeling very uncomfortable. The guy who'd ―and this is the right term― spotted me was on the step just behind me, and my parents were right behind him.
I don't know if you've ever been on an escalator and had someone on the step RIGHT BEHIND YOURS, but it's awkward, right? You want them to back off.
Since it was around nine and there wasn't anyone else on the escalator but me, the guy, and my parents ―though apparently he didn't realise they were my parents―, I took a step up, to put some distance between me and the guy. He tried to follow, but that's when my mother put a hand on the ramp between him and me, and my dad took the space next to her. The guy looked annoyed, but then I said, "What time is it, Mom?"
We reached the top of the escalator, and got on the next one (there are two long escalators in this station to head back up to street level), but the guy didn't. He just looked a little peeved and turned on his heel back down the stairs. My mother looked at me sharply and said, "Do you know what that guy was trying to do?"
I could guess, thanks.
Mom continued, "Do you know?"
I nodded. "I'm not stupid, Mom."
She looked upset. I was upset too.
"He would have trailed you, waited for you to be outside and..."
I know.
Dad didn't say much. He was just pissed off. Mom, on the other hand, was more verbose. "Did you see him? He gave the signal to his friend and they were going to... My god, what would you have done if you'd been alone??"
I didn't answer. Truth is, I don't know. There was no one else in the station. I'd have been, well, "attacked". Mom was frustrated, and she took it out on me. "God, you shouldn't just walk off like that. Do you know how dangerous it is?"
I shot her a Simmer-Down-Please look. "Mom, I knew you were there. I saw you."
She calmed down and just looked upset.
That didn't resolve my problem. What if I'd been alone? Seriously. There was no mistaking it; my mother has had to deal with her fair share of metro freaks, and I was smart enough to know what those two guys had been planning.
There's no explaining how many different thoughts ran through my head as we walked back to the car. Why do guys target women like that? I mean, fundamentally, how can they live with targeting women like that?
And there was some guilt, too. Should I call the police, prevent those guys from spotting another woman tonight? What if someone else gets hurt?
But more importantly, what if this situation happens to me again and I turn out to be alone? Because odds are it will happen again. Being trailed by eager rapists, I mean. I know I have nice legs and I wear heels and nice, knee-length skirts regularly. I can't just live my life in fear of being attacked so wear sweatpants for the rest of my days.
Dad stayed at the street corner to wait for my brother and his girlfriend, who hadn't arrived yet. I asked Mom, "What if I'd been alone?" She's dealt with this before, she knows how to handle that kind of thing.
And she told me to do four things:
1. Keep your purse under hand and close to your body;
2. Keep your back to the wall as often as possible;
3. Always travel with a group of people, strangers or friends. If you're in the middle of the group, they can't get so close that they'll harm you;
4. Get self-defence classes.
The last point seems most effective (four pages to be read) in terms of confrontation, though number 3 is the most commonly used. In retrospect, I have to admit that self-defence, even though I know a few techniques, completely flew from my head at the time. This shouldn't happen, obviously. It should be an automated reflex.
That is to say, before I move into a downtown apartment, I am definitely getting self-defence classes. It's not safe being a woman who likes skirts at night, as depressing as that thought is.
But I can't help loving Montreal. I won't let two guys get to me or affect my impression of the city. There are freaks everywhere, but there aren't a thousand cities like Mtl.
So, for all you girls (and guys, too), make sure to stay safe. Downtown is way more exciting than the suburbs, but it's also way more risky. If you don't get a lift from a friend, or if you don't have anyone to travel with until you reach your destination, call a cab. It's not safe to be walking the streets after nightfall, and it's a foolish idea to put yourself in a dangerous situation if you can avert it.
Seriously: 50$ taxi fare or life-scarring assault? The choice is not hard to make.
Lotsa love,
CM
It was a nice day, overall, if kind of ruined by my final realisation: as awesome as downtown is, you are never safe.
But anyway. Let me start with the beginning.
At 8:00 I had to give in my Comics project: a full-size comic board with four-page justification document. I'd gone to sleep at 12:30 the night before because my teammate was a slacker and hadn't done the doc properly (let's just say he didn't do much ―anything actually― for the comic itself). So it was all my work. But whatever, it got nothing but good criticism and I had the confidence that it was done well.
Pwnage? Check.
The day was cut up by an excursion outside, around the back of the cegep, by the riverside. It's a nice location. We have an island park just for us students, with peace and quiet (and dead campfire pits, not that anyone knows who had the guts to start a fire on the island).
And then I rushed to finish my notes page for my philosophy essay, which was worth, I kid you not, 40%. I had 3 hours to complete it, and let's just say I was lucky to actually understand what it was about, because I can assure you 80% of people don't.
In case you were wondering, it was about the Absurd, the myth of Sisyphus and suicide. Sisyphus was that Greek guy who was punished by the gods for defying death; he had to roll a rock to the top of a mountain, and at the last second, the rock would always roll back down. He had to do it for all eternity. Anyway, we had to explain why, according to Albert Camus (french writer and philosopher), the absurd of Sisyphus' life didn't lead, as one might believe, to suicide, but rather to life and happiness.
And you're like, "What?"
I was like that too. So were PB's girlfriend and Matthew, a guy who was at my old high school and who hangs around with us when he can.
But guess what. The essay? Easy as pie.
I finished in an hour and a half. Matthew finished fifteen minutes before me. PB's girlfriend finished at the same time as me.
This would have made my day all on its own, but I have to admit that seeing the arrogant prick who sits beside me's face fall as he saw me stand with my final copy was the cherry on top. Seriously. That guy has been mocking me all session because I would always argue with the teacher, and he'd insult the fact that I'm a leftie (okay, who even does that anymore? What kind of a retard is he??), and basically flaunt the fact that being in social science is so much better than liberal arts.
He's a smart guy, but he's a jerk about it. So rubbing in his face that my previous essay beat his grade by 3 points (I got 87%, he got 84%, and oh, how smug he'd looked right before I got my grade) and that I also finished my awesome essay yesterday long before he was even done with the first paragraph of development was a sweet, sweet vengeance.
Good feelings all around.
I came home. It had been agreed in the family that my brother would bring his girlfriend home and the five of us (Mom, Dad, my brother, his girlfriend and I) would head downtown. I wanted to see the exhibition at the Fine Arts Museum about Disney, and my brother's girlfriend wanted to see Body World 2 at the Science Museum in Old Montreal, so we split up in the subway and arranged for a meeting spot at the end of the evening.
The exhibition was awesome, even more so because I'd studied Disney's influences in my film classes. It was great. But we finished soon and decided we were hungry, so we went onto Ste-Catherine avenue (one of the most lively and popular shopping streets in Montreal) for supper. It was crawling with people, and we stopped at Reuben's for a quick supper (spaghetti!).
There's something electric and exciting about downtown. It feels so young and bustling, and there are so many young students all over the place. It's seriously one of the best spots ever. Not to mention the sights and smells. For a girl who is used to peace and quiet, a change of pace and a breath of newness is always welcome. Of course my parents were being reminiscent, but I just enjoyed it all.
Especially the underground city of Montreal, rife with glass ceilings, multiple level shopping malls, ethnic boutiques, restaurants, and just about everything you need to survive without having to go outside. It's seriously one of my favourite spots ever, because it's safe and fun to explore.
Eventually, though, the time came for us to head back to the car, which we'd parked near an out-of-the-way subway station, because you do NOT go downtown with a car. It was almost time for the meet-up with my brother and his girlfriend.
I like the subway. Having seen New York's metro system, I can say that Montreal's ―excuse me, New Yorkers―is way better. The ceilings are high, the stations are wide, and each station was decorated by a different architect/designer. It was built in 1966 for the Expo '67, or Universal Exhibition of 1967 in Montreal, which is considered by most Montrealers like the event that not only propelled Montreal to the rank of an internationalized city, but also forced city industrials to create a vast transport system. It also was the reason for the construction of LaRonde, which is now home to the largest and fastest rollercoaster in Canada.
Anyway. The metro. Mom, Dad and I got off at the right station and went up the first flight of stairs.
Here I'd like to say that my day had been great thus far. In fact, I thought that nothing could ruin it.
I was wrong, apparently, because my mother and father ambled a little ways away ―Mom wanted to grab a free newspaper from the newsstand, and I noticed two guys at an ATM. One of them was getting cash, and the other met my gaze. I looked away. There's this trick, see, that if you don't want anything to do with someone, you don't look at them and they'll back off.
But I did notice, however, out the corner of my eye, that said guy nudged his friend and nodded to me. I didn't think much about it, since, and I'm not saying this to brag (I only brag about kicking someone's smartassedness back where it came from), it's not like guys don't check me out regularly anyway. It's flattering, and nothing bad comes out of it, so...
I headed for the escalators. I knew my parents were following me, so I climbed on.
I turned to say something to my mother, and that's when I started feeling very uncomfortable. The guy who'd ―and this is the right term― spotted me was on the step just behind me, and my parents were right behind him.
I don't know if you've ever been on an escalator and had someone on the step RIGHT BEHIND YOURS, but it's awkward, right? You want them to back off.
Since it was around nine and there wasn't anyone else on the escalator but me, the guy, and my parents ―though apparently he didn't realise they were my parents―, I took a step up, to put some distance between me and the guy. He tried to follow, but that's when my mother put a hand on the ramp between him and me, and my dad took the space next to her. The guy looked annoyed, but then I said, "What time is it, Mom?"
We reached the top of the escalator, and got on the next one (there are two long escalators in this station to head back up to street level), but the guy didn't. He just looked a little peeved and turned on his heel back down the stairs. My mother looked at me sharply and said, "Do you know what that guy was trying to do?"
I could guess, thanks.
Mom continued, "Do you know?"
I nodded. "I'm not stupid, Mom."
She looked upset. I was upset too.
"He would have trailed you, waited for you to be outside and..."
I know.
Dad didn't say much. He was just pissed off. Mom, on the other hand, was more verbose. "Did you see him? He gave the signal to his friend and they were going to... My god, what would you have done if you'd been alone??"
I didn't answer. Truth is, I don't know. There was no one else in the station. I'd have been, well, "attacked". Mom was frustrated, and she took it out on me. "God, you shouldn't just walk off like that. Do you know how dangerous it is?"
I shot her a Simmer-Down-Please look. "Mom, I knew you were there. I saw you."
She calmed down and just looked upset.
That didn't resolve my problem. What if I'd been alone? Seriously. There was no mistaking it; my mother has had to deal with her fair share of metro freaks, and I was smart enough to know what those two guys had been planning.
There's no explaining how many different thoughts ran through my head as we walked back to the car. Why do guys target women like that? I mean, fundamentally, how can they live with targeting women like that?
And there was some guilt, too. Should I call the police, prevent those guys from spotting another woman tonight? What if someone else gets hurt?
But more importantly, what if this situation happens to me again and I turn out to be alone? Because odds are it will happen again. Being trailed by eager rapists, I mean. I know I have nice legs and I wear heels and nice, knee-length skirts regularly. I can't just live my life in fear of being attacked so wear sweatpants for the rest of my days.
Dad stayed at the street corner to wait for my brother and his girlfriend, who hadn't arrived yet. I asked Mom, "What if I'd been alone?" She's dealt with this before, she knows how to handle that kind of thing.
And she told me to do four things:
1. Keep your purse under hand and close to your body;
2. Keep your back to the wall as often as possible;
3. Always travel with a group of people, strangers or friends. If you're in the middle of the group, they can't get so close that they'll harm you;
4. Get self-defence classes.
The last point seems most effective (four pages to be read) in terms of confrontation, though number 3 is the most commonly used. In retrospect, I have to admit that self-defence, even though I know a few techniques, completely flew from my head at the time. This shouldn't happen, obviously. It should be an automated reflex.
That is to say, before I move into a downtown apartment, I am definitely getting self-defence classes. It's not safe being a woman who likes skirts at night, as depressing as that thought is.
But I can't help loving Montreal. I won't let two guys get to me or affect my impression of the city. There are freaks everywhere, but there aren't a thousand cities like Mtl.
So, for all you girls (and guys, too), make sure to stay safe. Downtown is way more exciting than the suburbs, but it's also way more risky. If you don't get a lift from a friend, or if you don't have anyone to travel with until you reach your destination, call a cab. It's not safe to be walking the streets after nightfall, and it's a foolish idea to put yourself in a dangerous situation if you can avert it.
Seriously: 50$ taxi fare or life-scarring assault? The choice is not hard to make.
Lotsa love,
CM
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Why Deadlines Will Never Kill Me
I'm not dead yet, by the way. I'm just up to there in exams. In fact, if I'm here, writing to you, it's because I'm procrastinating from one of my projects, and not working on it as I should be.
But that's okay, since I kinda had an epiphany yesterday, and I thought I should share it with you (because you care, of course):
Deadlines don't kill. At least, they don't kill me.
Seriously. Being raised to always give stuff in on time, you might think that I'm the biggest nerveball around. But I'm not.
Because, if I have no choice but to give something in on time, then that's it. That's how it'll be. There's no other option. I'll get the work done on time, and that's that.
The idea of just delaying something because I think I won't be able to give it in doesn't even occur to me. If I have time to wonder about it, then I have time to finish the work.
I don't think my teammates quite appreciate how often I saved their behinds with that attitude. Seriously. Right now I can count less than a dozen of people who actively tried to make team projects their business too (and that includes you two, Scarlet and Prophet). Seriously. PB, Kitty, Eva, Josie are on the list... and that's it.
And then if I try to look at my current teammates... well, not to complain or whine, but they aren't nearly on par.
Seriously. It's become routine for me to say, "Okay, do your part, then send the document over so I can revise it and correct your spelling mistakes, alright?"
Does anyone see anything wrong with this picture? That it's taken for granted that they'll make mistakes? That I'll have to correct their stuff because they can't be trusted?
And yet I'm not anxious or nervous or stressed.
That's what the epiphany was all about.
To succeed, you need to 1. do the work, give it in on time; 2. accept nothing but the best; and 3. stay positive.
How do you stay positive? Easy. Think of the end result. You might have done all the work come the end, but it'll be well-done, and you'll have the secret advantage of being the one who orchestrated that success.
Oh, sure. If it's a team grade, everyone will reap the result of your work.
But think farther ahead. When the time comes for them to do that project again, without your help...
Fill in the blanks. It'll be like a sweet, sweet vengeance.
I mean, sweet victory. That's what I meant. Sweet victory. ;)
Love,
CM
P.S. The overload of work in the past two months has been, to coin a phrase, killing me. Not because it's an overload of work, but because it prevents me from doing the one thing that keeps me sane: writing. I swear. PB ―who on occasion writes down his ideas for movies to film with Slim― suffers from the same problem. We can't do what we usually do to keep us sane. But it gives way to very interesting insane conversations... ^^
Anyway, I hope you understand I won't be uploading any stories before a long while, since I need to get over the writer's block, find time, and write a decent story before posting. Apologies for that. I promise to get to it. I'm sure you understand. :)
But that's okay, since I kinda had an epiphany yesterday, and I thought I should share it with you (because you care, of course):
Deadlines don't kill. At least, they don't kill me.
Seriously. Being raised to always give stuff in on time, you might think that I'm the biggest nerveball around. But I'm not.
Because, if I have no choice but to give something in on time, then that's it. That's how it'll be. There's no other option. I'll get the work done on time, and that's that.
The idea of just delaying something because I think I won't be able to give it in doesn't even occur to me. If I have time to wonder about it, then I have time to finish the work.
I don't think my teammates quite appreciate how often I saved their behinds with that attitude. Seriously. Right now I can count less than a dozen of people who actively tried to make team projects their business too (and that includes you two, Scarlet and Prophet). Seriously. PB, Kitty, Eva, Josie are on the list... and that's it.
And then if I try to look at my current teammates... well, not to complain or whine, but they aren't nearly on par.
Seriously. It's become routine for me to say, "Okay, do your part, then send the document over so I can revise it and correct your spelling mistakes, alright?"
Does anyone see anything wrong with this picture? That it's taken for granted that they'll make mistakes? That I'll have to correct their stuff because they can't be trusted?
And yet I'm not anxious or nervous or stressed.
That's what the epiphany was all about.
To succeed, you need to 1. do the work, give it in on time; 2. accept nothing but the best; and 3. stay positive.
How do you stay positive? Easy. Think of the end result. You might have done all the work come the end, but it'll be well-done, and you'll have the secret advantage of being the one who orchestrated that success.
Oh, sure. If it's a team grade, everyone will reap the result of your work.
But think farther ahead. When the time comes for them to do that project again, without your help...
Fill in the blanks. It'll be like a sweet, sweet vengeance.
I mean, sweet victory. That's what I meant. Sweet victory. ;)
Love,
CM
P.S. The overload of work in the past two months has been, to coin a phrase, killing me. Not because it's an overload of work, but because it prevents me from doing the one thing that keeps me sane: writing. I swear. PB ―who on occasion writes down his ideas for movies to film with Slim― suffers from the same problem. We can't do what we usually do to keep us sane. But it gives way to very interesting insane conversations... ^^
Anyway, I hope you understand I won't be uploading any stories before a long while, since I need to get over the writer's block, find time, and write a decent story before posting. Apologies for that. I promise to get to it. I'm sure you understand. :)
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Arglgllbbllglrlgl... (or, What Bilingualism Means)
OMG EDIT: Only in Hyrule just hit the 45 000 hits!
C'est officiel. J'ai perdu la tête. Et je parle en français? WTF?
Hah, scared you, didn't I? In all seriousness, I am going a little insane here, because of school (what else?). Seriously. As PB and I sat during our team meeting today, he took out his agenda and let out a loud groan.
So of course I had to ask, "Qu'est-ce qu'y a?" ("What is it?")
PB just looked at me and said. "T'as vu l'horaire pour les deux prochaines semaines? J'capote." ("D'you see the schedule for the next two weeks? I'm freaking out.")
I just frowned. "Ben, c'est pas si pire que ça." ("Well, it's not that bad.")
"Allô, on a juste un test de connaissances sur comme, quatorze textes en français, demain, à midi, après notre émission radio, en plus de la BD à remettre la semaine prochaine, pis le projet en Films de genre, pis la critique en journalisme, pis―" ("Hello, we only have a knowledge test on, like, fourteen texts in French tomorrow, at noon, after our radio show, plus the Comic project due next week, and the Genres project, and the critique in Journalism, and―")
I stare at him. "Le test de connaissances, c'est demain?" ("The knowledge test is tomorrow?")
He makes an eloquent face. "Ben ouais, ma p'tite. Tu penses-tu que j'me laisse aller à des élans de nausée pour rien?" ("Well yeah, my li'l girl." That's the literal translation, though it's more along the lines of, "darling" in a diminutive or sarcastic way. "D'you really think I let myself suffer pangs of nausea for nothing?")
I put my face in my hands. "Oh, c*lisse." (I will not translate this, though I'm pretty sure you'd all be very interested in a Quebecer Swearing 101 course, considering it's so drastically different from the rest of the world's swearing origins.)
PB just presses his lips together, shrugs, and, as he does so, nods like a monkey. I don't know how to describe it. It could be like an iguana, too. How does an iguana nod? Or maybe a parrot. Yes, it's more like a parrot nodding, but I digress. "Ben, c'est ça que j'me dis, tsé." ("Well, that's what I tell m'self, y'know.")
"C'est pas grave," I say. "Tu vas m'aider... Hein, PB, qu'tu vas m'aider?" ("It's not that bad. You'll help me... Right, PB, that you'll help me?")
He just shoots me a flat, absolutely unheroic look. "Non. Tu vas t'débrouiller toute seule." ("No. You'll get by on your own.") But then he shrugs and smiles.
I shoot him a nasty little glare. "Ouais, pa'ce que j't'ai tellement pas aidé avec tes fautes pour ta dissert' en français." ("Yeah, 'cause I totally didn't help you with your spelling for your essay in French.")
His eyes widen. "J'ai quand même coulé!" ("I still failed!") And he points at me accusingly.
I roll my eyes. "Avec 55% plutôt que 43%." ("With 55% rather than 43%.")
"OK, j'avoue. Mais quand même." ("Okay, I'll admit. But still.")
"Euh, excusez-nous," one of my teammates ―Iza― interrupts us on behalf of the three remaining teammates, "mais on devrait comme peut-être, hypothétiquement, genre, travailler sur le projet radio?" ("Uh, excuse us, but we should like, maybe, hypothetically, kinda, work on the radio project?")
Brought back to reality, PB and I look duly chastened. Lyn smiles awkwardly. "Alors, CM, t'as l'annonce pour la pause publicitaire?" ("So, CM, you have the ad for the ad break?")
I grin and take out my USB key. "Ouais. Écoutez-le et appréciez!" ("Yeah, listen to it and appreciate it!")
PB snickers as I open the file on the computer nearby. He's already heard it, so he knows what to expect.
Here's the file. Please download only once to your computer and listen to it as often as you like. I don't know how much bandwidth I have. I know, it's sad, but if you all limit the downloads to 1, then it'll last longer for everyone.
And here's the script, so you don't go 'wtf!' at it because you find out it's in French. The translations in parentheses are adapted to be grammatical in English, with some terms used as equivalents for francophone expressions.
Narrator: Un crime atroce... (An atrocious crime...)
*door creak*
Narrator: Un tueur tordu... (A twisted killer/murderer...)
*woman's scream*
Narrator: Un seul témoin... (Only one witness...)
PI Assistant: Jack, il est dans ton bureau, mon vieux. (Jack, he's in your office, man.)
Jack the PI: Je vais lui tirer les vers du nez, à ce type. Tu vas voir. (I'll force the info out of that guy. You just see.)
Narrator: Un seul problème. (Only one problem.)
Jack: Comment ça, il est sourd-muet?? (What do you mean, he's deaf-mute??)
PIA: On a travaillé toute la nuit et on a finalement trouvé une solution. (We worked all night and finally found a solution.)
Narrator: Leur seul recours... (Their only recourse...)
PIA: Attends! Son premier mot... (Wait! His first word...)
Jack: Je sais! Je sais. Une vache! Non! Un tricycle aérien! Euh, un stylo autocollant avec une clochette! (I know! I know. A cow. No! A flying tricyle! Uh, a sticker pen with a bell!)
Narrator: S'il y a un film à voir cet été... (If there is one movie to see this summer...)
PIA: Un arbre! Un aaarbre! (A tree! A treeeee!)
Jack: Merde, c'est vachement dur. Il est nul, ce mime! (Shit/Damn, this is bloody tough. This mime sucks!)
Narrator: Le silence des muets. (The Silence of the Mutes. ―note that in French, titles don't have caps all the way)
PIA: Fiou... Deuxième mot! (Phew... Second word!)
Jack: Je sens que ça va être long. (I feel this might take a while.)
Narrator: Dans toutes les salles de cinéma près de chez vous. (In all theaters near you.)
Special notes: All voices are my brother's. He's keen on acting and all. And I tweaked a few of them by computer. I'll let you guess which one is closest to his real voice.
Also, the way he pronounces is quite far from how Quebecers usually speak. He was being particularly articulate, and trying to copy the fake-sounding French dubs of English movies.
The background music is 1. part of the Resident Evil 4 soundtrack and 2. Mona Lisa Overdrive from the Matrix Reloaded.
Oh, and it's a play on mimed charades, in case you didn't figure it out. ^^
You can read the birth of the ad in my previous update. It's given PB an idea for a video sketch (he and Slim often do stupid videos with PB's script ideas and Slim's camera skills). So it shall continue to inspire laughter beyond the radio show tomorrow morning.
Oh, god. The radio show is tomorrow. I feel ill.
Love,
CM
C'est officiel. J'ai perdu la tête. Et je parle en français? WTF?Hah, scared you, didn't I? In all seriousness, I am going a little insane here, because of school (what else?). Seriously. As PB and I sat during our team meeting today, he took out his agenda and let out a loud groan.
So of course I had to ask, "Qu'est-ce qu'y a?" ("What is it?")
PB just looked at me and said. "T'as vu l'horaire pour les deux prochaines semaines? J'capote." ("D'you see the schedule for the next two weeks? I'm freaking out.")
I just frowned. "Ben, c'est pas si pire que ça." ("Well, it's not that bad.")
"Allô, on a juste un test de connaissances sur comme, quatorze textes en français, demain, à midi, après notre émission radio, en plus de la BD à remettre la semaine prochaine, pis le projet en Films de genre, pis la critique en journalisme, pis―" ("Hello, we only have a knowledge test on, like, fourteen texts in French tomorrow, at noon, after our radio show, plus the Comic project due next week, and the Genres project, and the critique in Journalism, and―")
I stare at him. "Le test de connaissances, c'est demain?" ("The knowledge test is tomorrow?")
He makes an eloquent face. "Ben ouais, ma p'tite. Tu penses-tu que j'me laisse aller à des élans de nausée pour rien?" ("Well yeah, my li'l girl." That's the literal translation, though it's more along the lines of, "darling" in a diminutive or sarcastic way. "D'you really think I let myself suffer pangs of nausea for nothing?")
I put my face in my hands. "Oh, c*lisse." (I will not translate this, though I'm pretty sure you'd all be very interested in a Quebecer Swearing 101 course, considering it's so drastically different from the rest of the world's swearing origins.)
PB just presses his lips together, shrugs, and, as he does so, nods like a monkey. I don't know how to describe it. It could be like an iguana, too. How does an iguana nod? Or maybe a parrot. Yes, it's more like a parrot nodding, but I digress. "Ben, c'est ça que j'me dis, tsé." ("Well, that's what I tell m'self, y'know.")
"C'est pas grave," I say. "Tu vas m'aider... Hein, PB, qu'tu vas m'aider?" ("It's not that bad. You'll help me... Right, PB, that you'll help me?")
He just shoots me a flat, absolutely unheroic look. "Non. Tu vas t'débrouiller toute seule." ("No. You'll get by on your own.") But then he shrugs and smiles.
I shoot him a nasty little glare. "Ouais, pa'ce que j't'ai tellement pas aidé avec tes fautes pour ta dissert' en français." ("Yeah, 'cause I totally didn't help you with your spelling for your essay in French.")
His eyes widen. "J'ai quand même coulé!" ("I still failed!") And he points at me accusingly.
I roll my eyes. "Avec 55% plutôt que 43%." ("With 55% rather than 43%.")
"OK, j'avoue. Mais quand même." ("Okay, I'll admit. But still.")
"Euh, excusez-nous," one of my teammates ―Iza― interrupts us on behalf of the three remaining teammates, "mais on devrait comme peut-être, hypothétiquement, genre, travailler sur le projet radio?" ("Uh, excuse us, but we should like, maybe, hypothetically, kinda, work on the radio project?")
Brought back to reality, PB and I look duly chastened. Lyn smiles awkwardly. "Alors, CM, t'as l'annonce pour la pause publicitaire?" ("So, CM, you have the ad for the ad break?")
I grin and take out my USB key. "Ouais. Écoutez-le et appréciez!" ("Yeah, listen to it and appreciate it!")
PB snickers as I open the file on the computer nearby. He's already heard it, so he knows what to expect.
Here's the file. Please download only once to your computer and listen to it as often as you like. I don't know how much bandwidth I have. I know, it's sad, but if you all limit the downloads to 1, then it'll last longer for everyone.
And here's the script, so you don't go 'wtf!' at it because you find out it's in French. The translations in parentheses are adapted to be grammatical in English, with some terms used as equivalents for francophone expressions.
Narrator: Un crime atroce... (An atrocious crime...)
*door creak*
Narrator: Un tueur tordu... (A twisted killer/murderer...)
*woman's scream*
Narrator: Un seul témoin... (Only one witness...)
PI Assistant: Jack, il est dans ton bureau, mon vieux. (Jack, he's in your office, man.)
Jack the PI: Je vais lui tirer les vers du nez, à ce type. Tu vas voir. (I'll force the info out of that guy. You just see.)
Narrator: Un seul problème. (Only one problem.)
Jack: Comment ça, il est sourd-muet?? (What do you mean, he's deaf-mute??)
PIA: On a travaillé toute la nuit et on a finalement trouvé une solution. (We worked all night and finally found a solution.)
Narrator: Leur seul recours... (Their only recourse...)
PIA: Attends! Son premier mot... (Wait! His first word...)
Jack: Je sais! Je sais. Une vache! Non! Un tricycle aérien! Euh, un stylo autocollant avec une clochette! (I know! I know. A cow. No! A flying tricyle! Uh, a sticker pen with a bell!)
Narrator: S'il y a un film à voir cet été... (If there is one movie to see this summer...)
PIA: Un arbre! Un aaarbre! (A tree! A treeeee!)
Jack: Merde, c'est vachement dur. Il est nul, ce mime! (Shit/Damn, this is bloody tough. This mime sucks!)
Narrator: Le silence des muets. (The Silence of the Mutes. ―note that in French, titles don't have caps all the way)
PIA: Fiou... Deuxième mot! (Phew... Second word!)
Jack: Je sens que ça va être long. (I feel this might take a while.)
Narrator: Dans toutes les salles de cinéma près de chez vous. (In all theaters near you.)
Special notes: All voices are my brother's. He's keen on acting and all. And I tweaked a few of them by computer. I'll let you guess which one is closest to his real voice.
Also, the way he pronounces is quite far from how Quebecers usually speak. He was being particularly articulate, and trying to copy the fake-sounding French dubs of English movies.
The background music is 1. part of the Resident Evil 4 soundtrack and 2. Mona Lisa Overdrive from the Matrix Reloaded.
Oh, and it's a play on mimed charades, in case you didn't figure it out. ^^
You can read the birth of the ad in my previous update. It's given PB an idea for a video sketch (he and Slim often do stupid videos with PB's script ideas and Slim's camera skills). So it shall continue to inspire laughter beyond the radio show tomorrow morning.
Oh, god. The radio show is tomorrow. I feel ill.
Love,
CM
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