Guinness — it’s not only good for you, it’s good for camels! At least, that’s the spin an Irish riding school is putting on it,…
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Part One — The Witch of Percé
Part One — The Witch of PercéAvast ye, lubbers and listen to me sad story, a supernatural tale of revenge, piracy and savage bowel obstructions.
The year were 2012, and I’d plumbed new depths in my quest to best the dread pyrate Capt’n Jacques LaBung.
He were the scurvy dog what kilt me father when I was a snip of a lad. LaBung had me Da executed fer some minor offense such as eatin’ the last of the brie. They strapped him to the wheel — a great stinky brown water-aged cheddar too infested with pollution to eat — and pushed him into the deep.
So, I’d been chasin’ LaBung and his Parmesan picaroons since I were old enough to go to sea. But LaBung and his ship, Le Fromage de Satan, had escaped me lo, these many years.
I’d lost an eye, me prospects and me youth in quest of me revenge. But finally, I’d hit on a way to achieve it — and not just on LaBung, but the whole crew of plugged-up sea-dogs. (The bilge rats were infamous for their cruelty, their love of Quebec water-aged cheddar, and their cripplin’ constipation.)
I’d heard tell of an old sea-witch who was on intimate terms with the Devil hisself, Ol’ Jack Sulfur; and you may not credit it, but Ol’ Jack knows something about yer Quebec water-aged cheddar — the favourite booty of LaBung and his filbustiers.
But Ol’ Jack’s water-aged cheddar turns not the gold of the Quebec Coast, but a deep ebony, darker than a Black Spot, and a sight tastier too, by the legend.
To taste but a sliver would cost a man his soul. And it were such I’d feed to LaBung and his hornswagglers.
The witch lived in a decrepit ol’ shack on the outskirts of Percé, and she greeted me at the door, as though she knew I was comin’. Probably got me email.
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A BLOG by any other NAME
Online diarists throw Pepys Rule to the wind and let it all hang out in cyberspace
by Mark A. Rayner
(Appeared originally in The Ottawa Citizen, March 31, 2002.)
If all the world’s a stage then the soliloquy belongs to the diarist. The diary has been a monologue, a confessional, a historical document, and usually not for public consumption until its author was dead. The famous 17th century diarist Samuel Pepys knew the rule. He kept his journal entries secret by writing them in an enciphered shorthand.
But today diarists are more likely to post their thoughts on the web than they are to encrypt them. These journals called web logs — or blogs as they are known to netizens — are online diaries authored by Internet users who’ve turned the web into their own personal soap-box, sharing their innermost thoughts, feelings and opinions.
It cost Heather Hamilton her job.
Hamilton, a web designer and writer in Los Angeles, began her lively and entertaining blog (dooce.com) as a way to flex her writing muscles. She liked the built-in audience of family and friends that came with her blog. Several months ago she began posting stories about her annoying coworkers; she described them not by name, but by characteristics.
“These were stories meant to entertain an audience made up mostly of people who have worked in my industry, people who would most likely recognize some of the same mannerisms in those that they’ve had to work with themselves,” says Hamilton.
One of the audience members took exception to her blog, and sent an email to every vice-president in Hamilton’s company, directing them to the offending entries. “They laid me off immediately, with no warning and without giving me any opportunity to explain the motives behind my website,” says Hamilton.
Hamilton is one of an estimated 500,000 blog authors – or bloggers – worldwide. Web logs are created using free software that makes it easy to post messages on the web, without having to know much about HTML or web publishing. New entries go at the top of the page, pushing older ones down chronologically.
When blogs first appeared in 1999, they generally included a mix of links, pithy commentaries, and personal notes, but now the vast majority are more like private diaries than anything else.
It’s a sign of the times, says Allan Gedalof, professor of English, film and popular culture at The University of Western Ontario. He thinks web logs are in the same order as people going on the Jerry Springer show to reveal intimate details of their lives. “What is more important,” asks Gedalof, “privacy or a desire for their 15 minutes of Andy Warhol fame?”
A recent linguistic phenomenon helps to explain it. “The distinction between ”˜fame’ and ”˜notoriety’ has been lost,” says Gedalof. Now they’re synonymous. It doesn’t matter if you’re being recognized for something good or something bad. All that matters is that you get recognized.