Ha! I liberted my iPhone. Broke it from its chains, unlocked it so I can use it with any cell phone provider, not only the cruel one who tied me up in the 3-year contract. Especially exciting is the fact that I can buy prepaid SIM card and not pay the outrageous data roaming charges my dear provider loads on me if I dare to use internet on my iPhone while abroad. As a bonus, I am typing this post using a Bluetooth wireless keyboard with my phone instead of the touch-keypad built into the system. You gotta love the endless possibilities of the device which is built to do so much more than we're stuck with if we blindly follow the rules.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
"Serve It Cold", a podiobook
by Ronnie Blackwell
(downloaded from podiobooks.com)
A crime mystery story which, I just found out, you can enjoy for free on Google books - just click the picture for the link. However, I enjoyed the podcast dramatization by dancingcatstudios.com. The story has lively characters and the dramatization gave them distinctive voices with charming southern accent. The plot was a bit on the weak side, but all together I was really drawn into the story until the very end. Johnny C, a private detective, is hired by a college professor to follow his beautiful wife and collect evidence of her infidelity. That he does on the very next page, because she is not hiding her affair with the client's brother. Johnny C follows the couple to New Orleans, where we were given a whiff of the old French Quarter through a palette of colorful local characters. When Johnny C's client ends up shot dead in his house, things speed up a little, but not too much; things never get too fast in American South. Disappointingly, the conclusion doesn't conclude anything, as unlikely character becomes a prime suspect, but was let go for the lack of evidence, personal inconvenience she held for the local judge and the fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous. Unconvincing, but because I managed to fall in love with the characters well before the ending, I'm inclined to forgive.
(downloaded from podiobooks.com)
A crime mystery story which, I just found out, you can enjoy for free on Google books - just click the picture for the link. However, I enjoyed the podcast dramatization by dancingcatstudios.com. The story has lively characters and the dramatization gave them distinctive voices with charming southern accent. The plot was a bit on the weak side, but all together I was really drawn into the story until the very end. Johnny C, a private detective, is hired by a college professor to follow his beautiful wife and collect evidence of her infidelity. That he does on the very next page, because she is not hiding her affair with the client's brother. Johnny C follows the couple to New Orleans, where we were given a whiff of the old French Quarter through a palette of colorful local characters. When Johnny C's client ends up shot dead in his house, things speed up a little, but not too much; things never get too fast in American South. Disappointingly, the conclusion doesn't conclude anything, as unlikely character becomes a prime suspect, but was let go for the lack of evidence, personal inconvenience she held for the local judge and the fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous. Unconvincing, but because I managed to fall in love with the characters well before the ending, I'm inclined to forgive.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
"Crucifixion and Other Fictions", a podiobook
by Mina Samuels
(Audiobook downloaded from podiobooks.com)
Yet unpublished collection of 13 short stories, read by the author. Skillfully woven tales well worth listening to. I hope they'll be published soon. Three of the stories are the 9-11 stories, but although the terrorists' attack on New York features as a life changing event for the main characters, it is not the focal point of the stories. Rather, they show snippets of ordinary life altered by those extraordinary circumstances.
Remaining ten stories are moments in lives of ordinary Americans, easy to identify with and well crafted. The common theme would be children, but only loosely, or maybe parenthood. In some stories children are yet unborn, in others they are only briefly mentioned adults, or a constantly crying newborn. The collection leaves the impression that the author was dealing with some children-related issues, whether it is pregnancy or some other development, it reflected in these stories.
(Audiobook downloaded from podiobooks.com)
Yet unpublished collection of 13 short stories, read by the author. Skillfully woven tales well worth listening to. I hope they'll be published soon. Three of the stories are the 9-11 stories, but although the terrorists' attack on New York features as a life changing event for the main characters, it is not the focal point of the stories. Rather, they show snippets of ordinary life altered by those extraordinary circumstances.Remaining ten stories are moments in lives of ordinary Americans, easy to identify with and well crafted. The common theme would be children, but only loosely, or maybe parenthood. In some stories children are yet unborn, in others they are only briefly mentioned adults, or a constantly crying newborn. The collection leaves the impression that the author was dealing with some children-related issues, whether it is pregnancy or some other development, it reflected in these stories.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
A Christmas of Long Ago
Close to midnight on Christmas Eve people dusted off their best winter clothing; family walked to church slowly, dressed to the nines; kids behaved, holding hands with their belonging adults; the older men lifted their hats when passing a woman; women nodded back stiffly and gracefully. The crowd gathered in front of the neighborhood church. The breath of their chatter rose in small vapor-clouds into winter air. Watched from the side it looked like a comic book scene with empty speech-bubbles raising from their lips. Slowly, they funneled through the narrow door into the candlelit belly of the church rich with the aroma of incense. On their coats people brought their own scents of spiced cooked wine, oven-baked ham and cookies.
Throughout the service they all stood with their heads bowed and sang the hymns together. At the end they shared love with their neighbors by shaking their hands and women faking the kiss on each other's cheek by kissing the air. Young boys would try to strategically position themselves next to the girls and, though the kiss was traditionally shared by two women, they'd plant one on the girl's cheek, causing some healthy blushing. On occasion, although rarely, a girl would return the kiss, and both would move away with matching redness spread over their faces and ears.
After the service people returned to their homes in groups of a few families together, walking slower and talking louder. It was a festive night, once upon a time in the land and the time of my youth.
Throughout the service they all stood with their heads bowed and sang the hymns together. At the end they shared love with their neighbors by shaking their hands and women faking the kiss on each other's cheek by kissing the air. Young boys would try to strategically position themselves next to the girls and, though the kiss was traditionally shared by two women, they'd plant one on the girl's cheek, causing some healthy blushing. On occasion, although rarely, a girl would return the kiss, and both would move away with matching redness spread over their faces and ears.
After the service people returned to their homes in groups of a few families together, walking slower and talking louder. It was a festive night, once upon a time in the land and the time of my youth.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
More Christmas bitchin'
Every year I complain about the Christmas songs overkill. This year it drove us so far that we stopped listening to our favorite radio station CHFI, because they declared themselves the "Toronto's official Christmas station," and for weeks play nothing but Christmas music.
I have problem with them advertising the station as official Christmas station. As far as I know, OFFICIAL means that someone has to give them the title, and I could swear that Toronto City Council never debated such thing. So, if it's officially not confirmed that they are the official station, than this is false claim, false representation and misleading of the public. Though, I'd forgive them all that if they'd only ease off on terrible re-re-re-renditions of always the same Christmas classics. It's alarming how uncreative the musicians have become, especially this year. But then, I guess there are only a few Christmas songs and there are so many so-called artists these days and each of them needs to record some sort of Christmas song. At the end the innocent listener pays the price.
Okay, after all this bitchin' I admit there's a Christmas song that makes me smile. It goes: "I want a hippopotamus for Christmas and only hippopotamus will do..."
Sadly, one of the mobile phone providers - Telus - is using the song for their Christmas commercials with a squeaky-clean hippo prancing about the pristine white space of the TV screen. It, of course, makes perfect sense, because every Canadian hippopotamus naturally has a need for a mobile phone, so she can call her hippo-mamma in Africa and complain about the snow and Canadian frigid winters.
I have problem with them advertising the station as official Christmas station. As far as I know, OFFICIAL means that someone has to give them the title, and I could swear that Toronto City Council never debated such thing. So, if it's officially not confirmed that they are the official station, than this is false claim, false representation and misleading of the public. Though, I'd forgive them all that if they'd only ease off on terrible re-re-re-renditions of always the same Christmas classics. It's alarming how uncreative the musicians have become, especially this year. But then, I guess there are only a few Christmas songs and there are so many so-called artists these days and each of them needs to record some sort of Christmas song. At the end the innocent listener pays the price.
Okay, after all this bitchin' I admit there's a Christmas song that makes me smile. It goes: "I want a hippopotamus for Christmas and only hippopotamus will do..."
Sadly, one of the mobile phone providers - Telus - is using the song for their Christmas commercials with a squeaky-clean hippo prancing about the pristine white space of the TV screen. It, of course, makes perfect sense, because every Canadian hippopotamus naturally has a need for a mobile phone, so she can call her hippo-mamma in Africa and complain about the snow and Canadian frigid winters.
Busy...
Ever since my online writing classes started I focused all the creative energy to it and there's nothing left for the blog. Besides, days leading to Christmas are always extremely busy at work with everyone doubling whatever they do, so they can take time off for the holidays. That means that I also have to satisfy double the amount of requests for recordings of different kind. It's been a busy week so far, but tomorrow should be a slow day and after tomorrow I won't care--that's when Meg and I start our two weeks vacation.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
eReader
Once upon a time before the iPhone - though I'm not sure how we lived without it - I had a Palm PDA to organize my life. On that Palm was installed eReader, an application for reading ebooks. I amassed an impressive little library of ebooks and always had a few on the Palm for those idle moments before a meeting, or while waiting for Meg, or some such. Then, when we switched onto iPhones, those ebooks stayed on the Palm, gathering virtual digital dust, unused and unread. Until last Friday, when I discovered the eReader application for iPhone, which not only lets me read ebooks on it, but can also import the ebooks we bought for the Palm. So, my micro-sized book shelf is with me again, Hemingway's short stories, which I often re-read in search for style guidance or an inspiration, are back in my pocket, together with several other contemporary and classical volumes. What a treat for a biblioholic like me.
Friday, December 11, 2009
"The Dream Life of Sukhanov", a novel
by Olga Grushin
In mid-1980s Moscow Sukhanov is a 50-something-old Soviet aparatchik, who was once a promising painter, but sold his talent for more in-line job of an art critic and editor-in-chief of a Soviet's prominent art magazine. He is so unconscious in his role that he doesn't detect subtle changes in Soviet Union which is slowly opening up to the rest of the world. Subsequently, he loses his job and his family.
Throughout the book Sukhanov has flashes of memories from his childhood onward and he re-lives them almost like in a dream. The third person narration in those moments turns into the first person account of his thoughts, feelings and events from his past. As Sukhanov deteriorates, the book culminates somewhere between the memories, dreams, hallucinations and twisted reality.
The author, Olga Grushin, is a recent immigrant from Russia who lives in the USA. Her command of English language is astonishing. Although on a few occasions her descriptions seem almost too rich for the story she's telling, it is a captivating read.
In mid-1980s Moscow Sukhanov is a 50-something-old Soviet aparatchik, who was once a promising painter, but sold his talent for more in-line job of an art critic and editor-in-chief of a Soviet's prominent art magazine. He is so unconscious in his role that he doesn't detect subtle changes in Soviet Union which is slowly opening up to the rest of the world. Subsequently, he loses his job and his family.Throughout the book Sukhanov has flashes of memories from his childhood onward and he re-lives them almost like in a dream. The third person narration in those moments turns into the first person account of his thoughts, feelings and events from his past. As Sukhanov deteriorates, the book culminates somewhere between the memories, dreams, hallucinations and twisted reality.
The author, Olga Grushin, is a recent immigrant from Russia who lives in the USA. Her command of English language is astonishing. Although on a few occasions her descriptions seem almost too rich for the story she's telling, it is a captivating read.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Vertigo
I turn in my sleep to the right. Suddenly, the world starts spinning violently. My eyes snap open - the room around me whirls in mad circles from left to right. My stomach reacts and I can already feel the acid raising in my throat. I know this feeling. Desperately, I lurch to the left and lay flat on my back. The spinning slows down and finally the room regains its immobility. My breathing is shallow and fast, my stomach still sits in my throat.
How long has it been since the last episode of this? Six years? Seven, maybe? That time I ended up visiting a doctor. The old doctor who checked me up smiled when I described the symptoms. As a med student he wrote the paper on my disease. He told me the name of it, which I forgot as soon as I got better. It is, he explained, a virus which affects the center of balance in my inner ear. It can't be cured, but it isn't dangerous. At least, not dangerous as a disease, though it could put me in harms way if I, say, lose balance while crossing the street. He prescribed a series of exercises which consisted of sitting on the edge of the bed and dropping sideways into laying position first to one side, then to the other. Two weeks later, the vertigo disappeared.
And now it came back to haunt me at 4 AM. I don't dare to turn on my side and my back is soon sore from laying still. It seems sleep is over for the night. Just as before, the spinning starts only when my head is tilted to the right. For the next few weeks I'll have an unpleasant reminder to keep it straight. I get out of the bed, carefully avoiding leaning to the right, and slowly dress for the run.
How long has it been since the last episode of this? Six years? Seven, maybe? That time I ended up visiting a doctor. The old doctor who checked me up smiled when I described the symptoms. As a med student he wrote the paper on my disease. He told me the name of it, which I forgot as soon as I got better. It is, he explained, a virus which affects the center of balance in my inner ear. It can't be cured, but it isn't dangerous. At least, not dangerous as a disease, though it could put me in harms way if I, say, lose balance while crossing the street. He prescribed a series of exercises which consisted of sitting on the edge of the bed and dropping sideways into laying position first to one side, then to the other. Two weeks later, the vertigo disappeared.
And now it came back to haunt me at 4 AM. I don't dare to turn on my side and my back is soon sore from laying still. It seems sleep is over for the night. Just as before, the spinning starts only when my head is tilted to the right. For the next few weeks I'll have an unpleasant reminder to keep it straight. I get out of the bed, carefully avoiding leaning to the right, and slowly dress for the run.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Snow Storm
5 AM. Snow storm, the first for this winter. Bad. Strong winds, wet heavy snow. Snowflakes freeze on the way down and turn into tiny projectiles whipped by the wind. They pelt my face, sting my eyes. I can barely see where I'm going. The wind gusts hit me in the face so hard that I can't breathe. It's a struggle. Every step is pushing against an invisible hand that pushes back into my chest, pulls at my jacket, pounds my head. The icy road is now covered with snow. Its wetness sucks my feet in, I'm running on a carpet too deep for comfort - just pulling the feet out for the next step is an effort. It's an all-out battle. I progress slowly, winning it step by step. The storm throws all its best tricks against me: the wind gusts blow the snow away, there's only a thin layer over ice in places. The pelting snowflakes keep my eyes half-closed. My foot lands on the barely concealed ice, I slip... but there's a pocket of deep snow right beside and my other foot plunges there. Balance regained, I'm saved and push onward.
Near the hospital someone moves on the sidewalk. A man with hands in the coat pockets, head hung low and shoulders high. From the whirling white mass blowing all around us I can't see the leash coming out of one of the pockets, nor the dog until they're so close I could touch them if I stretch my arm. The man looks at me, surprised. I can see his eyes dim in sympathy. I could feel almost imperceptible shake of head - he'd just seen a mad man running in this weather. I plod on, wondering which one of us is crazier.
Near the hospital someone moves on the sidewalk. A man with hands in the coat pockets, head hung low and shoulders high. From the whirling white mass blowing all around us I can't see the leash coming out of one of the pockets, nor the dog until they're so close I could touch them if I stretch my arm. The man looks at me, surprised. I can see his eyes dim in sympathy. I could feel almost imperceptible shake of head - he'd just seen a mad man running in this weather. I plod on, wondering which one of us is crazier.
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