Slow-Mo Water Droplets

Peeing is now at least 6.5 times funnier.

Enjoy.

I'm Not Quite Sure...

what this suggests about we as a people, but it's incredibly interesting, nonetheless.

Apparently, the manner in which we use the Google Searchbar has a dramatic effect on the suggestions that Google's algorithmic brain will produce.

Enjoy.

Chrstphr

No, I'm pretty sure THIS is it.

Knock the Dust Off these Typin' Fingers

Hey y'all (if you're still around)

A couple of random thoughts for the day:

-Will history books continue to be written/published in the future? Considering how much information (in the form of current events) gets published to the internet hourly will there be need/want to reproduce and contextualize a tiny fraction of that information in an attempt to survey the history of this, that, or the other thing?

-If the answer to the above is yes, what information will be included? One major movement in the field of history has been to revisit what we consider to be the "official" history with accounts from the down-trodden (the Jews in Europe, the Slaves in America); but in the internet age the tale of the down-trodden is quite readily accessible (just look at citizen journalism of this year's election crisis in Iran). We don't need the academics to go back and unearth that history. It's already there, albeit in the form of blogs, Facebook status updates and Tweets.

-At what point will I stop watching professional sports with the belief that all of the athletes are older than I am? Growing up it was very easy to understand that the Chicago Bulls were all grown-ups. But now? LeBron James is actually two years younger than I am (almost three considering his late birthday), as is Chris Bosh (2 years and 1 week, to be exact) yet I watch both of those cats play with that same juvenile mentality. When will I begin to think of professional athletes as "young guys"?

Well, I'm back to writing, but I sure as shit wasn't making any guarantees as to quality!

Chrstphr

p.s. The picture above is the fruit of the googling "random picture" labour

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Anyone who has followed my sporadic writing must certainly have noted the, uh, sporadic nature of my writing (ugh, I'm rusty).

There are a few reasons for my on again/off again relationship with online writing.

First, I, throughout the day, come up with (what I think are) great ideas. By the time I get home, eat dinner, finish work and polish off a couple episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond I simply don't have the will power to produce a lengthy account of my witty repartee with representatives of the service industry.

Second, I have killed numerous posts simply because I thought they were shit. This, inevitably, puts me in a bad mood. Why write at all, ever?

Third, I now maintain a second blog for the purposes of the law school and during those times when I feel a flash of brilliance (read: skill that rises just slightly above mediocrity) I feel it more appropriate to funnel that towards the avenue which I have been retained to update.

So, what to do, what to do? Well, there still are definitely times when I feel like writing a short novel, and as such I wouldn't even think of removing/erasing this guy. Almost 180 posts in. We have a history.

But in the interim I have come up with a compromise. I introduce to you my newest venture:

http://christophercrighton.tumblr.com

It's what is referred to by those in-the-know (a sect of society with which I do not identify) as a tumblelog. The point is to provide shorter posts comprised of quick thoughts and multimedia accoutrements. This, I can assure you, accords much more with the way my ADDled brain works (note: I take no feeling of uniqueness in this. If you are a male, aged, 7-64, you probably have ADD. And it's curable: pay attention and don't act like a spazz).

So, the goal will be to post my goings on in this new format, while occasionally coming back to this space to expand on some ideas. And, I will continue to write for Legally Blogged so there will be a readily-available outlet for my long-windedness.

If you so desire, please add the above to your bookmarks and let's weather this change together. Hand in hand.

We can do this.

Courage.

C

UPDATE: For those of you who'd rather not seek out the new blog (maybe because you were friends with both EsseQuamVideri and I and you don't want to have to pick, whatever...) you can follow along in the top right, where the BoingBoing feed used to be.

The Underground Grammarian

Oi,

Years ago I began to read the book Less Than Words Can Say by Richard Mitchell, which was lent to me by one of my favourite high-school teachers. I returned the book to him without finishing it, likely embarrassed that I had kept it for months without getting beyond the introduction. (I will sheepishly admit that my attention span is not much greater now).

That said, I have never forgotten the last line of the introduction: "I am trying to stay awake."

It is ironic that the passage stuck out considering its attack (in my view) of intellectual passivity, a close relation to a stunted attention span. Nevertheless, due to the marvels of electronic cut and paste I thought I would include the tail end of the introduction, probably less for your benefit, dear reader, than my own.

Unsurprising, though, considering this tiny corner of the internet is little more than a slick shrine to shameless self-promotion.

I'll take "Bothersome Alliteration For $500, Alex"

Chris

Consciousness has degrees. We can be wide awake or sound asleep. We can be anesthetized. He is not fully conscious who can speak lightly of such things as basic appreciations and general insights into the knowledge of a discipline. He wanders in the twilight sleep of knowing where insubstantial words, hazy and disembodied, have fled utterly from things and ideas. His is an attractive world, dreamy and undemanding, a Lotus-land of dozing addicts. They blow a little smoke our way. It smells good. Suddenly and happily we realize that our creative capacities and self-understanding yearn after basic appreciations and general insights. We nod, we drowse, we fall asleep.

I am trying to stay awake.

Daddy's First Car Accident

Bonjour,

I have decided to recount the details of my first ever car accident (10 years of clean driving, now but a distant memory) in the form of a letter to my future children. For the record, these future children are neither currently in utero or even a sparkle in my eye. And if you were to see a sparkle in my eye anytime soon it is likely the after-effect of an all-night ecstasy bender. Kidding, Ma, I don't do ecstasy. Coke is waaaaaaaay better.

Anywho, I felt that I would try a different tone, and alas, this is it.

So, my children, let me tell you about daddy's brush with death and his newfound desire to mail some of his excrement to Avis Rent-A-Car.

See, I was heading westbound on the 402 between Sarnia and London. It had been a long, snowy day, with much time spent on the road. I left my girlfriend's place in Toronto at 4pm, dropped her and her roommate off at Pearson and continued westward. I had already run aground once, lodging myself into an on-ramp divider just past Oakville. The fortuitous passing of a random tow-truck assured me quick passage, and I only had to part with a meager $40. By 10:30 I was only as far as Strathroy and wanted desperately to make it to Sarnia and unwind with friends at a Christmas party. Well, my sons and daughters, I never made it to that party.

Nope, after being stuck behind not one, but two, tractor-trailers I decided to make the pass. While the right lane was as clean as my driving record to that point, the left lane was pockmarked with patches of tightly-packed snow. How big were the patches, you ask? Just large enough to send an accelerating Hyundai Accord careening across the highway, slamming into the guardrail before being hurtled into the snow-filled ditch.

Rattled, but otherwise unharmed, Daddy cursed. Loudly. And then proceeded to figure it all out.

Glancing at my keychain I noticed, "AVIS 24-Hour Roadside Assistance" and a phone number. "Hot dog!" I thought, I'll be out in no time.

The resulting series of phone-calls was so utterly inconceivable and labyrinthine that I felt compelled to leave behind a trail pf breadcrumbs so as to find my way back.

See the toll free number sent me to a cat in Virginia named Chuck (I swear I could hear how thick his moustache was). Don't get me wrong, Chuck was nice and awfully apologetic for my predicament, but he had no fucking clue where I was or what to do for me.

"Well, I'm in the United States, you see."

"Yes, Chuck, that is evident. But I am in Canada, in Ontario, can you please put me through to someone who can help?"

Chuck proceeded to give me the 10-digit phone number I could call. Note, Chuck did not transfer my call but asked me to remember it. Thanks, pal.

Anyway, after talking to the kind lady on the other end she explained that she was stationed out of Ontario, California.

"Sweet Merciful Christ!"

Sympathetic, the woman patched me through to, what she assured me was, Canada. And, technically, it was, although it was little more than an automated answering machine located at Pearson Airport, approximately 300km behind me.

I pressed "1" (because this was a roadside emergency) and was immediately redirected to a real-live operator. Sweet relief!

"Hello, AVIS roadside assistance, this is Chuck"

"Sweet Merciful Christ"

Chuck, the kind-hearted moustache baron that he was, did all he could for me (which amounted to getting me in touch with the answering machine of the AVIS location where I rented the car, closed for the day 5 hours prior) before commenting, "Yeah, sorry, this system has some big problems."

"No, Chuck, don't be so hard on AVIS. Under normal conditions I would have no issue seeking to resolve my issue with someone in Langley, Virginia, but see, tonight, this is my fault, because I got myself into this accident, I am stuck by the side of the road in winter storm conditions and assumed that "roadside assistance" didn't mean "exercise in futility". No, Chuck, I'm the system with the big problems."

Eventually I called the police, contacted an independent towing company and got myself and my crippled chariot back to Sarnia at 2am, $273 later.

The real kicker, though, came the next day when I went to square everything away with AVIS. The insurance side of the issue was fairly straightforward. The rental fees, however, were wonky. My invoice was $100 more expensive than I was quoted. When I pressed the issue, the woman behind the counter made that weird "sssssssss" noise that communicates, "I feel really bad for how much this sucks for you right now but my hands are tied", and says, "Yeah, you didn't fill up the tank when you brought the car back."

"Sweet Merciful Christ"

"Ma'am, I brought the car back on tow-truck. Plus, gas is currently at 62 cents a litre, it should take about $20 to fill up the tank. Plus, what is my guarantee that this vehicle will ever need to be filled up again? If it is towed to Toronto and scrapped you have just made $100 profit from my misfortune. Also, I filled up in Guelph. Most of the gas used from that half tank was to keep warm while I waited by the roadside for an hour trying to get the roadside assistance that your company promised was part of my contract but did not provide, in any way, shape or form. What if I filled a gas can across the road and filled up the car on the lot? Any number of these makes far more sense than what you are proposing."

"Sssssssssssssss"

"Sweet Merciful Christ"


So, children, the moral of the story: rent Enterprise.

chrstphr