Weblog and Playground of Gord Fynes

Following his lead, in jest, just to show Malcolm Gladwell that not all blog postings are based on the New York Times, here’s something from the Globe and Mail online, in which a Japanese man has pi’d out:

bq. Akira Haraguchi, 60, needed more than 16 hours to recite the number to 100,000 decimal places, breaking his personal best of 83,431 digits set in 1995, his office said. He made the attempt at a public hall in Kisarazu, just east of Tokyo.

So, which would you rather listen to: this recitation, or a CD of paint drying?

Once again, Rick Mercer hits the nail right on the head:

bq. I have to admit, the idea of Conrad Black down at some god awful immigration office stuck in the back of a line behind some poor Somali dude with a bullet in his leg fills my heart with joy.

Who’s going to start making the t-shirts?

So, Sean Penn lights up at the TIFF, subsequently bringing down $605 in fines on the Sutton Place Hotel.

Geez, since when is it legal to smoke anywhere in California? You’d imagine that a Hollywood hotshot like Sean Penn would figure out that just because you’re not at home doesn’t mean you can go ahead and put your feet up on the coffee table just ‘cuz you’re a bad boy and don’t take shit from those South Park asshats. In ordinary circumstances, common sense would dictate that:

a) I’m at an in-doors event with a bunch of people in a hotel

b) No one else around me appears to be smoking

or

c) Shut the fuck up before I punch you in the face and write a nasty letter to the editor

C’mon Sean. What’s $605 CDN, besides the net profits the studio made on I Am Sam?

I’ve been commuting to work for the past two months on a Honda Jazz scooter, which I luuuv. It’s a 49cc with a top speed of about 60-65km / hour. To the average person, that doesn’t seem too fast. But, when there’s nothing between you and the open road except for your clothes, it’s plenty fast. As my friend Brendan likes to say, “it’s fast enough when you’re being launched.”

This morning, I came to a red light at a fairly busy intersection on a four lane stretch of road known as the King’s Highway (Lakeshore for you locals), and I’m first in line for the green. Out of the corner of my eye I see a vehicle too small to be a car, though much larger than your average motorcycle, pull up in the lane beside me. The deep sound of its rumbling engine barely masks the blare of a radio. I turn my head to see a leather-clad man, who I’m guessing is in his mid-60s, sitting on a Honda Goldwing (the big fucker – it’s got a _radio_ for Chirssakes!), cigarette hanging from his open-faced helmet. I do the polite thing and nod as if to say “Good morning, my motorized two-wheeler urban coummuting brethren. A fine morning, ’tis. Would you not concur?” Our friendly, yet brief exchange went _exactly_ like this:

MAN: (smiling) You wanna race?

ME: (without missing a beat) Okay. I’ll give you a head start.

Well, I thought it was pretty fucking funny.