The Ryndex » BlahBlahBlah

Words I Use

Tin Foiled — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 11:52:44 +0000

I know! It’s been ages, hasn’t it? Here’s what the what’s been:

I ran the 2008 Paris Marathon on April 6th. In fact, I sprained my ankle two weeks before, and I was sure I was going to miss the big event (a bitter thought when you consider that I started training in October). I kept it rested and safe, and took a 3km trial run the day before the marathon. It was completely pain free, so I ran with it! I ran faster than in 2007, but slipped almost 2000 places in the overall rankings somehow (about 13,000th out of 29,000 participants).

I also took a big, big trip to Canada, which I’d love to write a bit more about. In the meantime, I thought I’d post this neat little image composed of words that I use frequently in my blog (courtesy of Wordle).

Casse-tête

Tin Foiled — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 17:08:21 +0000

This Sunday, I was invited to a brunch with some friends in the fifteenth arrondissement. The food was excellent, the conversation superb and the walk in the parc Andr� Citro�n was charming.

Speaking of charm, between the main plate and the cheese course, the five-year-old disappeared into his room, and came out with a hand-lettered sign reading:

aide
chodeuse
nise
touse

It took me a second, but I got it! Do you know what he was saying?

Semi-Marathon de Paris 2008

Tin Foiled — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 09:17:28 +0000

I went to a dinner party the night before the first race of 2008, but I only ate plain pasta and bread, and I went home to bed before dessert. A half marathon isn’t really a big deal. I’d already ran three or four equivalent or longer runs around le jardin du Luxembourg (or the Luco, as I’ve never ever heard the locals call it).

But running the Semi-marathon de Paris 2008 is the best way to practice for the Marathon de Paris 2008. I wanted to test out my pre-race routine.

I got up two hours early, showered and ate a bowl of fromage frais (between yogurt and cottage cheese), an orange and a half Litre of water. I got dressed, pinned my race bib on, pinned my metro pass to my pocket, strapped my timing chip to my shoe. It was chilly out, so I grabbed a sweater from my “to donate” pile (it was my nice, warm green sweater that had slightly discoloured in the sun).

Even at my station, the metro was filling with runners, and it became more and more full as we approached the Château de Vincenne. My first stop, of course, was the open air urinal. The line is usually very short, especially in comparison with the portables.

Then I went to my cage. They separate runners into classes, and verify your bib as you arrive. Last year, I signed up for the slowest class and arrived at the last minute so I was at the end of the crowd — it took me about 12 minutes just to arrive at the starting line after the race had begun!

They play Chariots of Fire in a loop during this little purgatory between firing the pistol and when your timing chip actually crosses the starting line.

This year, I self-classed myself into the 1h40 group, so there were only four “Chariots of Fire” minutes. I threw my sweater to the side of the road while waiting.

I kept my first few kilometres deliberately slow while the crowd thinned out. I skipped the 5km water break and passed the first 1h40 pacer soon after. These pacers, or lièvres (literally hares) run the race carrying huge flags or balloons, and help you run consistently.

At 10km, I had made up my first slow kilometres with just a bit extra to spare. I took a little bottle of water at this station, and drank about half of it over the next two kilometres, then threw it to the side of the road. I’ll pick up litter during the year to compensate, or at least tut disapprovingly when I see it.

I skipped water and sponges at 15km. About this time, I passed the second 1h40 lièvre. This means that I had worked my way from the back to the front of the group, and I was going faster than I had planned.

At 16km, I had a stitch in my side. I haven’t had a stitch since the beginning of my training. Ow, my organs! I kept my pace, stretched and breathed and it went away. At 18km, it happened again, and I had to slow down… so many people were passing me it felt like I was going backwards.

Then I realized that with a bit of a push, I could break a new milestone… and I really pushed. The stitch went away, but the sky turned pink and sparkly.

My official time was just under 1h39… but remember the four minutes of purgatory? That was foreshadowing and you’ll see all that and more when I get my book deal (“Petit Canadien: In Paris, In stitches, In Vino Veritas”). In fact, my chip time broke 1h35! I came in the top 15% of finishers! Overall, it wasn’t easy, but it was mostly painless and I enjoyed myself more this second time around.

I haven’t set my goal for the marathon yet, but my goal for the next semi-marathon is (a) 1h33 minutes and/or (b) not look like Timmy’s pet turkey in my official picture(s).

Page 123

Tin Foiled — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 15:09:59 +0000

So, my good friend Rhino75 threw a meme torch at me. I’m to follow his instructions (pick up the book I’m reading and write down the sixth to eighth sentence) and then pass it along to someone else. Well, I’m up for a giggle:

Lubin doesn’t trust Rowan because once upon a time, Rowan called shots. It was at her command that they were all recruited so long ago, damaged goods damaged further: memories rewritten, motives rewired, conscience itself refitted in the service of some indefinable, indefensible greater good. “Because she was a corpse,” Clarke repeats.

Technically, I couldn’t flip to “page” 123… (For modern, civilized readers, a “page” is a unit of measurement that was used back when text files were printed and glued together. Some hobbyists still read this way, even when they have a perfectly functional mobile phone to read on! It’s charmingly archaic, like the “gallon”, “inch” or “social conscience”.)

However, I jumped to the 123rd screen in my mobile text reader in my current ebook, βehemoth, by Peter Watts. It’s an intensely good read, and it’s free. After bickering over the publication of the book with his publisher, he ended up giving it away. Two of his previous give-aways were my top books of 2007 — and they’re both required reading before βehemoth.

By the way, Marshall McLuhan always recommended judging a book by an entire page, not just a few sentences (and it was page 69, apparently because he was a pervert and/or a Canadian).

I have to tag somebody to carry on? Can I tag the butcher?

2007 Year in Review

Tin Foiled — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 17:41:10 +0000

Welcome to naught-eight! Can you believe it? Crazy times, and we’re already 8% into the new year! The talented Frog with a Blog put together a nice retrospective video (check me out licking my fingers at 2 minutes, 15 seconds). In the same spirit, I’d like to present my annual report for 2007.

Guests and Travel

I didn’t have many guests in 2007, but they were awesome. I went to Lisbon with JJ and London with Zed. Nanners and Susan came down from Jolly Old for a weekend, and Mo and Afraa came up from Montpellier for a weekend.

I started and finished 2007 with my Christmas vacations to Canada. I lost a trip to Lisbon, because I went to the wrong airport (non-modifiable, non-refundable ticket).

Movies

Note that all star ratings have been normalized to a 0.0 to 1.0 (inclusive) interval.

Total: 53
Average rating: 0.7 stars
Worst movie: Solaris, starring George Clooney. 0.15 stars
Best movies: A three-way tie (at 0.9 stars) between C.R.A.Z.Y., The Science of Sleep and Hairspray
Number watched on planes: 6

Although I watched slightly more than one movie a week, there was a 51 day period in the summer where I didn’t watch any.

Books

Total: 28
Average rating: 0.71 stars
Total pages: 10,990 (average 29.5 a day)
Average reading time: 8.18 days
Number in french: 18
Number read on my mobile phone: 3
Worst book: No One to Trust by Iris Johanssen, 0.4 stars. It wasn’t that bad, either, but it was obviously an airport book.
Best books: Once again, a three-way tie, but all by the same author. Peter Watt‘s books Blindsight, Maelstrom, and Starfish each earned 0.9 stars. He is a lunatic. And he gave away these three books on his website for free…
Fastest read: Tuesdays with Morrie, by Mitch Albom (260 pages, 0.6 stars) read in the morning of May 19th. And Digital Fortress by Dan Brown (383 pages, 0.6 stars) read on the airplane on December 28th.

Running

Total distance: 640.2km
Total time: 55.52 hours
Number of sessions: 60
Overall average speed: 5min12 per kilometer, or 11.5 km/hr.
Longest run: 42.195km, of course, on April 15th. My chip time was 3h58 (5min36 per km, or 10.61 km/hr).
Fastest run: 14.5km on December 16th, at 4min27 per km, or 13.44 km/hr. This was in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

Work

Total hours: [redacted]
Average lunch break: 1h13
Total commute time: (estimated) 450-500 hours
Total vacation days: [redacted]
Total RTT days (time off in lieu of overtime): [redacted]
Total supplementary holidays: [redacted]
Total statutory (bank) holidays: 8
Total sick days: 1

Miscellaneous

Total number of birthdays: 1
Number of times dumped by email: once, I think…
Blogged: 11
Blog comments: 8 (not too bad!)
Unique visits: 15,022, of which 85.7% were robots.
Top keyword: gallette de roi.
2007 New Years Resolutions: 3/5.

Emergency Backup Pants

Tin Foiled — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 14:33:11 +0000

Unfortunately, I spilled hot coffee on my jeans this morning.

Fortunately, I always have emergency backup pants at work (in this case, my suit).

Unfortunately, the legs are too slim for the boots I wore this morning.

Fortunately, I have no problem going about in my socks.

Unfortunately, I spilled coffee again on my emergency backup pants.

Fortunately, it was just a dribble. I’ll just have to wear the suit home today so I can take it to the cleaners.

Ta-dah! That’s my story. Best story so far of 2008.

You make me feel like a naturalized frenchman…

Tin Foiled — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 13:52:08 +0000

I took a day off work to recover from a serious party I was giving Sunday, and I decided to take advantage of my free afternoon to launch the beginning of the naturalization process.

The main prefecture in Paris (Ile de la Cité) directed me to a cute little prefecture just off of Notre Dame. The security guard made me quack like a duck before letting me in. I’m not making this up.

Mme. Welcome gave me a number (84) and I sat for an hour… As my number approached, I heard Madame arguing with some poor non-French who had the misfortune to have brought in a document that was translated by his consulate, instead of by an avowed French translating service. She brushed him off, and determinedly rang my number.

There’s a certain look perfected by the French fonctionnaire. And since I’m feeling a bit sexist — which I need to practice anyway if I’m going to be French — this look is always mastered by the middle-aged French woman at the “welcome” desk. With carefully neutral eyes and an ultracompetent set of the mouth, she’s letting you know that whatever it is you want (and it’s all the same to her), you can’t have it and you won’t get it.

Glancing at my carte de séjour for a fraction of a second, she informs me that I’ve only been in France for two years and ineligible. At this time, the man whose translated documents were insufficiently sanctified interrupts with a flurry of new papers from his stockpile. “Non monsieur,” she tartly informs him, “I will NOT look at any more of your documentation. It is insufficient and that is the end of it.” She looks back at me.

“But, I distinctly remember living in France, at the same address and the same job for nearly six years…” I weakly protest. My cheeks are already flushed, and I know know that all is lost…

There are two techniques to efficiently deal with a French civil servant: (1) Reach for all the charm you can muster and ask them (buttering your voice with admiration and respect) how they would handle this problem, or (2) find a way to be passed to someone else and try again. The third option is to give up.

In this case, before I could give up, Madame sighed and did something most gracious: she typed my name in the computer and helped me. Apparently the date on my resident card is confusing because my status was changed in 2005.

Now I have the form, a list of documents to collect and mail off to the prefecture. I could be French as soon as 2009!

Sicko

Tin Foiled — Fri, 21 Sep 2007 14:30:46 +0000

What’s wrong with Michael Moore’s new scathing rantumentary on universal socialized health care?

Nothing.

I went to the theatre from the privileged position as a Canadian living in France. His newest film, Sicko, goes over the health industries in my home and host country as well as England and Cuba (all with their socialized medical systems) and compares them extremely favourably to the USA.

As in his other films, Mr. Moore has an agenda. He strongly believes that a medical system centralized and controlled by the government instead of being regulated by the invisible hand of private industry is superior in every way — for the doctor, the patient and the taxpayer. I agree.

As in his other films, he’s an adept narrator, editor and filmmaker. He supports his thesis with examples and stories, bringing along highly personal anecdotes and interviews. He’s engaging and emotional.

As in his other films, he’s combed the public records, highlighting his ideas with the histories of public officials and health industry tycoons. He adeptly strings together accounts of corrupt lobbying and lawmaking, unethical and murderous business practices, facts and studies.

As in his other films, he’s unabashedly unbalanced. He’s borrowed the “pry-from-my-cold-dead-hands” rhetoric that we usually see on the right. He’s selected his examples carefully and edited his film with narrow precision — no “yes, but…” or “even if…” or “in spite of…” waffling that peppers the sophisticated and civilized speech of the left.

He’s not here to debate the pros and cons of socialized medicine. He’s picked his side and he’s here to convince you.

I’m not interested in providing balance, either — although I could certainly tell you that his sloppy kisses to the Canadian and French health care systems aren’t the entire truth. The Canadian system does have longer waiting times, and even those that could afford to can’t jump the queue. The French system is laughably bureaucratic, with paper hurdles and reimbursements to be filled out, pushed to and ignored by functionaries. I know a few British doctors, and none are not nearly as pleased with the NHS as the rosy cheeked millionaire that Mr. Moore interviews… And I’ve had supplementary private health coverage in both Canada and France.

Okay, I’m a waffling leftie, sabotaging my own arguments with my eminent reasonableness. Whatever.

There are inconveniences and inefficiencies in France, Canada and England. In the states, there are blatant and heartless abuses, horrifying fiscal mechanics of weaselly private insurance megaliths that thrive in a marketplace that should not be a marketplace.

I have a friend that explained to me the tactics of an insurance agency blocking the expansion of a hospital in Arizona by buying the surrounding land. Why? It wasn’t an affiliated hospital, and they’d obviously prefer customers/patients use their hospital. That’s pretty much the most screwed up, wasteful thing that I’ve ever heard.

Back to France: I took a sick day yesterday. Of course, it wasn’t scheduled, so I phoned my manager and let him know. Back in Canada, that’d be the end of the story. I’d have gone back to bed and slept until I felt better. Here in France, you need a doctor’s note for any length of sick leave. It isn’t easy to find a drop-in clinic in Paris, and the doctor’s office I picked was pretty busy — the receptionist warned me, but I decided to just sit and read my book (alternately shivering and sweating with my cheerful little fever). I was there three hours. I was tempted to ask for an extra day off of work (and I would have gotten it) just to make it worthwhile.

I paid the doctor cash, and she gave me change out of her own wallet. I stopped at the pharmacy for antibiotics and throat spray. It came to 30€ total, but most of that is reimbursable if I ever bother to send the paperwork in.

Neighbours

Tin Foiled — Fri, 07 Sep 2007 15:16:30 +0000

I’ve had far more fortune in my social circles than I deserve. I mean, I’m perfectly presentable and all and normally almost capable of keeping up my end in a “conversation”, but come on — there’s no way that I’ve attracted such gracious, generous, tasteful and warm friends just using my limited charm.

But, dear sweet-ass reader, I’m not talking about you this time…

On Tuesday night, I decided to fight an oncoming cold with a megadose of sleep. I was in bed and my door buzzer rang. I threw on a robe, and it was my neighbours, who were mortified to have woken me. I reassured them that I was, indeed, in bed ridiculously early and as far as I could tell in my half-asleep haze, they invited me over for a drink the next day.

On Wednesday, I tapped on their door when I got home. They hadn’t prepared a simple drink — It was a full blown discovery of Antillais cuisine. Starting, of course, with a punch.

Punch, in Canada, is light, fruity and frothy… and is so frequently non-alcoholic that we have an English expression for the naughty business of sneaking alcohol into it (i.e. “spiking”) A punch over here, pronounced ponsh, is heavy, heady old rum, sweetened with cane sugar syrup and a bit of lemon. Canadian punch is a just a tickle in comparison (a slightly creepy tickle if it’s served in cut crystal).

I got a surprising amount of neighbourhood information from some of the other guests. Except for crêpes, I seldom eat in my arrondissement. When I go out, it’s normally in another quarter. So I discovered which bakeries were the best at which items, where the fruit was freshest, and (thankfully) where to get the best crêpes nearby. My old favourite crêperie has gone seriously downhill…

The meal was, of course, delicious. They cut up a red pepper that was sufficiently hot that you didn’t actually eat it — you just touched it to your food and then passed it to the next person. We finished with a homemade chicken colombo (which resembles curry), and many desserts.

The next day, they knocked at my door and dropped off additional leftovers. Hooray for neighbours!

Summertime

Tin Foiled — Wed, 29 Aug 2007 10:15:36 +0000

Is there any event so trivial that it can’t be blogged? Rhino seems to think so, making the ridiculous claim that climbing up to the terrace of the Institute du Monde Arabe is not blog-worthy unless something additionally exciting happened up there.

Me, I’m my own excitement. We didn’t even make it up to the top (it closes at 18h00). Whee!

And that’s all I have to say about that…