| about |
| create weblog |
| news |
| tutorial |
| faq |
| contact |
| show template |
|
|||
 |
|
|
|
|
|||
 |
|
|
|
|
|||
|
 |
|
|
||
the unbearable lightness of blog
This is a weblog open to the public. Anyone can register and start posting here. Find something cool on the net? Leave a link. Anyone who registers can comment on the blog items!
Jun 2001
Wunsaponatime...I wonder if I could do it with a blog and where it'll lead me.It's my first one. Hope to be able to throw up my thoughts and make you interested. CYA
Jun 2001
elo
no to zaczynam z tym blogiem 
Yi Yi
Yi Yi is renown writer/director Edward Yang's Canne Film Fest/Best Director portrayal of the struggles of a multi-generation Taiwanese family coming to terms with the ins and outs of modern Taipei existentialism.
Sounds complicated? Well, the film is, but its intended message is not. Through the evolution of stories that surrounds the family, time is compressed as we 'live' and experience a complete life cycle from birth to death via tales of 'growing up' at each stage of one's life.
One can sit through Yi Yi with a microscope and be in awe of its intricacies, but is that really what it's made for?
The sole purpose of any creative medium is to strike the hearts of its audience and stimulate emotional responses; There's a certain key in all of us that when strucked, we will be moved to the point of laughter, anger, sadness, or happiness, and it is the purpose of art works to explore that and remind us that we are human by allowing us to "feel". For this reason, any creative work that moves you, whether it is by the hand of Monet or some five year old child, is a good work of art, and likewise, if it doesn't do that, it could be the most technically brilliant piece of work, but it is nevertheless, meaningless.
Yi Yi is good. So good in fact that parts of its dialogue were so realistic, I could have sworn I've heard the exact lines over and over again while growing up in Taiwan because it is so distinctively 'Chinese'. This brings to mind how amazing it is that human experiences are so commonly shared.
Yang, through the voice of a child, tried to tell us that he 'wants to tell people stories about themselves that are not seen'. Well, Yi Yi, a movie about how life is really not all that complicated, it's just a matter of living one step at a time, certainly done that on many levels.
Thanks Penny for the suggestion ^_^!
Jun 2001
LAKERS RULE!
I saw Kobe at the parade today downstairs from work, he's so hot!
Jun 2001
LAKERS SUCK!
Shaq is just a fat ass who elbows his way through to score. Kobe is waaaay overpriced liked his beef counterpart, Iverson takes him to culinery school anyday and make sh*t-kabob outta his game.
Iverson's awesome! He runs and jumps all day like he's, *sniff*, *whiff*, *snort*, you know!
Jun 2001
Top Ten Crimes of Fashion
From this article about the Top Ten Crimes of Fashion, comes #1, Christina Aguilera. OMG... Outta control.
Jun 2001
Code break
Hey Mr. We::blog. How about supporting Japanese? I'd be happy to translate the "edit post" dialog.
Here's how I determine language on my page
-----
# figure out which browser is running
if (defined($scriptargs{'browser'}))
{
$current_browser = $scriptargs{'browser'};
$current_version = $scriptargs{'bversion'};
$sticky_browser = 1;
}
elsif ($ENV{'HTTP_USER_AGENT'} =~ /J?PHONE/i)
{
$current_browser = "cell";
$current_browser_version = "1.0";
}
elsif ($ENV{'HTTP_USER_AGENT'} =~ /DoCoMo/i)
{
$current_browser = "cell";
$current_browser_version = "1.0";
}
elsif ((($ENV{'HTTP_USER_AGENT'} =~ /Mozilla/i) && !($ENV{'HTTP_USER_AGENT'} =~ /MSIE/i)))
{
$current_browser = "netscape";
$current_browser_version = "4.7";
}
# $current_browser = "j-phone";
# $current_browser_version = "1.0";
# get default lang for browser type
$current_lang = BrowserAttr('deflang'); # current language
# which language does our actually browser want
# we only support Japanese and English currently
{
my @langs = quotewords(";", 0, $ENV{'HTTP_ACCEPT_LANGUAGE'});
foreach $lang (@langs)
{
if (!(lc(substr ($lang, 0, 2)) cmp "ja"))
{
$current_lang = "japanese";
last;
}
if (!(lc(substr ($lang, 0, 2)) cmp "en"))
{
$current_lang = "english";
last;
}
}
}
# see if the user specified a specific language
if (defined ($scriptargs{'lang'}))
{
if ($scriptargs{'lang'} =~ /^japanese$/i)
{
$current_lang = "japanese";
$sticky_lang = 1;
}
elsif ($scriptargs{'lang'} =~ /^english$/i)
{
$current_lang = "english";
$sticky_lang = 1;
}
}
---
First I set the default lang to English. Then I lookup the browser and I have a table that has default languages or each browser. I had to do this because J-Phone and i-Mode phones don't send the fact that they are Japanese.
Then I also check to see if the user specified a language (or a browser) . This is by adding "|lang=japanese" or "|browser=ie". That allows me to test it without having to switch browsers.
Then in my case I have my own openfile function like this
sub gatopen
{
my $fname = $_[1];
if (defined ($current_lang_ext) && $current_lang_ext cmp "")
{
my $lastdot = rindex ($fname, ".");
if ($lastdot > 0)
{
my $tname = substr ($fname, 0, $lastdot) . $current_lang_ext . substr ($fname, $lastdot);
if (-e $tname)
{
$fname = $tname;
}
}
}
}
my $result = open($_[0], $fname);
if (! $result)
{
printf ("*** ERROR: can't open $fname: $!");
exit 0;
}
return ($result);
}
Basically, at some point $current_lang_ext gets set to "-j" if it's in Japanese mode and "" if it's english. So for example if I try to open file "myarticle.htm" it will first check to see if "myarticle-j.htm" exists and if so it will return that.
Anyway, that's one way to do it. If you feel like adding the support I'll be happy to translate (or get translated) the main forms (login, signup, post, and maybe even the default template)
What do you think?
Oh, and the code above will probably all get re-formated. Maybe you should support the <preformat> tag ;-)
Jun 2001
Short story by Haruki Murakami
Sorry, it's LONG ^_*!
*********************************************
100% Girl
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl. Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert. Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose. But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her – the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world. After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart. Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards. How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?" Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was
Eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street. "This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily? And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were.
The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them
unmercifully. One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank. They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was
thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.
Marketing lessons
Lesson 1:
You go to a party and you see a SEXY girl across the room.
You go up to her and say "Hi, I'm great in bed, what about it?"
That's direct marketing.
Lesson 2:
You go to a party and you see a SEXY girl across the room.
You give your friend a tenner.
He goes up and says "Hi, my friend over there is great in bed, what about it?"
That's advertising.
Lession 3:
You go to a party, you see a SEXY girl across the room.
She comes over and says, "Hi, I hear you're great in bed, what about it?"
Now that is the power of branding.
Lesson 4:
You go to a party and you see a SEXY girl across the room.
You are wearing a hot pink "I'M GREAT IN BED' T-shirt and you jump up and down and around to try to get her attention, but still she ignores your presence and sticks to a loser she's been seeing for years.
That, as we've all come to accept, is a banner ad.