My new address is http://blog.zog.org.
Not because I was immensely dissatisfied with Radio, just because TypePad is the better service. That, and Robb's Law: I don't want to have a weblog (any website really) on a domain that I don't own.
Ik ben verhuisd
Mijn nieuw adres is http://blog.zog.org.
Niet omdat ik heel erg ontevreden was van Radio, maar gewoon omdat TypePad beter is. En omdat ik er een website kan hebben op mijn eigen domeinnaam.
zondag 23 februari 2003Slapel iedereen.
Voilà, ik ben voor 't echt begonnen aan een filmscript. En ik ga het deze keer helemaal afmaken, en verfilmen, al was het maar met plastieken poppen.
Ron schrijft zijn films in het frans, awel dan doe ik het in het engels. Alhoewel, misschien verander ik het nog wel naar het vlaams. Alhoewel, vlaams is niet direkt een taal waarin een lovecraftiaanse horrorfilm tot zijn recht kan komen vrees ik.
EXT. MORTUARY -- NIGHT
Two men exit the mortuary. They are walking backwards,
schlepping an IRON COFFIN behind them. We hear a series of
loud clangs as the coffin thuds down the few steps down from
the mortuary's front door. With the third or fourth thud,
the coffin lid slips off and the coffin turns over, spilling
its contents. We see a MUMMIFIED HAND; the rest of the coffin
is hidden in shadows.
JOHN
Urgh! Christ!
The men sit on the steps, on both sides of the overturned
coffin. They look utterly dejected.
JOHN
Man... This sucks. I don't know why
we agreed to go through with this.
MICK
Shut up.
JOHN
I mean, it's not like we're getting
paid for this, is it?
MICK
Shut. Up.
JOHN
And anyways, why us? Why doesn't he
get his bloody women to do this?
MICK
John--
Mick is gritting his teeth now and clenching his fists.
JOHN
I mean, he's got, what, like six
of 'em now, right?
MICK
--shut. the fuck. up.
Mick is doing his best to stay calm. He is clearly not in
the mood for light banter. He may be beginning to realise
this was not a good idea, but as he sees it there's a job
to be done, he intends to do it and forget about the whole
thing. The sooner this is over, the better.
MICK
Fucking. Put. The fucking. Hand.
Back. In the fucking coffin. Put the
fucking lid back on the fucking
coffin, close the fucking coffin--
JOHN
Whoa, man--
Mick snaps.
MICK
And fucking shut the fuck up! If I
hear one more bloody sound from you,
so help me God I'll have your other
foot amputated and pickled, and I'll
have it force-fed to your children
with next week's Sunday roast. Got
that?
't Is van SAS en straks van 24 op bbc2.
En ondertussen ben ik zwaar aan het twijfelen tussen C# en VB.NET.
Ik heb zo de indruk dat vb.net eenvoudiger zou kunnen zijn, maar aan de andere kant, ik programmeerde zo graag in C++ in de tijd... Ha, operator overloading...
Ik hoorde daarjuist Bart De Pauw op de Pappenheimers zeggen "spreekt één woord frans en poept gelijk nen tijger - moi".
Haha!
De mol!
Ik dacht echt dat het Corry was, maar nu is die weg. Enfin, 't is nu alleen nog maar hopen dat ze Sandra nog eens in badpak tonen.
Tiens, een amerikaan die niet kneejerkgewijs "france surrenders" zegt.
George Will saw fit to include in his latest Newsweek column this joke: "How many Frenchmen does it take to defend Paris? No one knows, it's never been tried." That was certainly amusing. One million, four hundred thousand French soldiers were killed during World War I. As a result, there weren't many Frenchmen left to fight in World War II. Nevertheless, 100,000 French soldiers lost their lives trying to stop Hitler.
On behalf of every one of those 100,000 men, I would like to thank Mr. Will for his clever joke. They were out-manned, out-gunned, out-generaled and, above all, out-tanked. They got slaughtered, but they stood and they fought. Ha-ha, how funny. In the few places where they had tanks, they held splendidly.
Союз нерушимый республик свободных
Сплотила навеки Великая русь
Да здравствует созданный волей народов
Единый, могучий Советский Союз!
Славься, Отечество наше свободное,
Дружбы народов надежный оплот!
Знамя советское, знамя народное
пуст от победы к победе ведет!
[
Do you know someone who needs hours alone every day? Who loves quiet conversations about feelings or ideas, and can give a dynamite presentation to a big audience, but seems awkward in groups and maladroit at small talk? Who has to be dragged to parties and then needs the rest of the day to recuperate? Who growls or scowls or grunts or winces when accosted with pleasantries by people who are just trying to be nice?
If so, do you tell this person he is "too serious," or ask if he is okay? Regard him as aloof, arrogant, rude? Redouble your efforts to draw him out?
If you answered yes to these questions, chances are that you have an introvert on your hands—and that you aren't caring for him properly. [The Atlantic]
