“We would like to extend our deepest apologies to each and every one of you,” announced CEO Eric Schmidt, speaking from the company’s Googleplex headquarters. “Clearly there have been some privacy concerns as of late, and judging by some of the search terms we’ve seen, along with the tens of thousands of personal e-mail exchanges and Google Chat conversations we’ve carefully examined, it looks as though it might be a while before we regain your trust.”
Acknowledging that Google hasn’t always been open about how it mines the roughly 800 terabytes of personal data it has gathered since 1998, Schmidt apologized to users— particularly the 1,237,948 who take daily medication to combat anxiety—for causing any unnecessary distress, and he expressed regret—especially to Patricia Fort, a single mother taking care of Jordan, Sam, and Rebecca, ages 3, 7, and 9—for not doing more to ensure that private information remains private.
Lately it’s come to my attention that there are more lurkers here than I can account for. As well, as of earlier this month, there were more than 300 LJ users who have me on their friends lists. That’s thirty decareaders. I think it’s about damned time for you to explain yourselves. Yes, this means you:
1. Who are you and why?
2. (bonus) Recommend some music that you think I would enjoy.
Shock! Scandal! Two Irish brothers were caught fighting at the Burnaby 8-Rinks Sunday night, firmly damaging reputations and causing at least thirteen dollars worth of rumours. Mike McDonald and Daimhin O’Dwyer, witnesses confirmed, began to brawl upon the realization that they had both been sleeping with the same girl. The fight was abandoned briefly as a brave young woman, Sophie Isbister, stepped in and declared a truce. However, the fighting began again only a few minutes later, culminating only when one boy dragged the other over the side wall of the rink head first. Staff completely ignored the entire matter.
16-year-old studies journalism, then runs away to Iraq alone,
Rick and Sophie are asleep in my bed like Jack Spratt and his feverish wife snoring like a pair of adorable kittens. I love them both with the same careless affection, but I’ve been staying up too late lately to go to bed just yet. I’ll join them eventually. First the planet has to rotate a bit. I admit, though, the bed looks terribly welcoming. There’s an inviting heap of extra blankets, because Sophie is mildly ill, with a space on the edge set aside for me to slot into. Already I can feel the body heat radiating off them that’s fogging my windows. A new sensation, but as I’m an old-fashioned girl, warming my room with bodies strikes me as appropriate for winter.
Not that January is cold here, far from it. Vancouver, recently, has been embalmed in a strangely humid spat of warm rainy weather. The constant cloudy skies have been trapping the earth’s energy and not releasing it until night is well fallen. It’s almost irritating as I remember the clear, crisp, and certain winter of Montreal. No waffling seasons there, but clearly delineated passing of time. I love dearly how the trees there have no leaves.
Ignoring UK ban, bloggers publish leaked torture memos.
Reports from the hospital confirm bruised egos, but no one in critical condition. The current prognosis is hopeful. It is expected the rift opened between the two contestants will repair itself in the next few days, as they are currently to be found fiercely debating the politics of drinking Guiness for dinner and haggling over the price of the shepard’s pie to be found in the cafeteria. News about the girl is not as good, nurses tell, her belly having shaken with laughter magnitude of 5.9. She may require the resulting stitches be extracted from her body, but this has yet to be confirmed at the time of publishing.
I have been continually reminding myself that I have to gather Robin up after school tomorrow/today and explain to him where Academie Duello has moved. He’s been slack lately, claiming location ignorance as a reason not to go to his classes. I’ve never been, but I know where it is. It’s now housed in an odd part of downtown, busy yet not particularly thought about, kitty-corner to SFU campus and on top of Waves coffeeshop, the only 24 place with free wireless. I’ve been going over routes in my mind, trying to think of how to show him how to find it from as many directions as I can muster. What buses pass by, what skytrain stations are closest, what streets should he avoid? I have to factor in that Duello is close to Crackton now and Robin is not known for his keen instincts. The junkies wander far enough west that he’s going to encounter them. I’m wondering if I should be teaching him how to notice them too, as well as the landmarks and which way is north. He’s my only source of income at the moment, if he’s grounded due to sheer empty-headedness, I suddenly won’t be able to afford to pay my way. That would be bad. A lesson in How To Tell If The Homeless Are Dangerous is fomenting as I type this, can you tell? Envision something like a cynical Far Side cartoon featuring a city awash in drug culture and you have the basic seed of the idea. Let’s hope that he never has any practical application to apply it to.