From July 3rd - July 13.  Roughly

I've met the future, and it is weird.

Arguably too much, even for a busker.

Reading: "Incandescence". Watching: "Hancock". MLP.

Things to strike off my bucket list:

• Get soundly clocked on the jaw by misstrish
• Get soundly humiliated while drunkenly arm-wrestling ni
• Get soundly hungover in oppressive Torontonian heat and humidity

So far Toronto has been a wild success!

I fear there may be pictures...

• Joss Whedon
• Neil Patrick Harris
• Nathan Fillion
• Felicia Day
• "My penis is the hammer."

Have I got your attention yet?

So I had to bang up a nontrivial Excel spreadsheet for the first time in 10 years or so.

HOLY FUCKING FUCK, I can't believe the syntax is still that bad. Everything else in microsoft land has been wizarded and prettified right to death, why the freeze on Excel?

if(this,that,the_other), what decade are we in?

Poor Mohit.

He was so fresh from India that he still sported one of those pompadour hairstyles that are so gentlemanly in Mumbai but positively anachronistic here in the New World. His accent was thick enough to drown baby seals.

He stood in the sundrenched lobby of Toronto BMW, surrounded by pricks in golf shirts that cost more than a set of clubs and by little waif-girls with sparkling purses so small they had to stretch to accommodate an iPhone and a tampon. The golf pricks and the whiny waifs were very displeased, because the rental car outfit associated with BMW had just run out of vehicles.

We'd been waiting for almost two hours.

Periodically, a prick or a waif would come up to Mohit and tear a strip off him while he smiled and nodded. Nobody actually said "Do you know who I am?" but there was a distinctly do-you-know-who-I-am? vibe in the air. After concluding his tirade, one prick unfolded his iPhone and proceeded to tell whoever was on the other end en haute voix how "some clueless FOB" refused to magically call luxury cars out of his brown ass to save the day.

Yes, the rich are different than us -- they're assholes.

"You wanna split my banana with me?" I asked Mohit.

"No thank you sir but thank you sir," he said, smiling glumly.

I ate my banana while Mohit and I talked about India. I asked him if he could arrange for a train for me to hang off the side of, since I really did have to get into the office very soon. He laughed, then excused himself as his telephone buzzed.

There were ten of us waiting there in the sunny lobby. The rental car company managed to scare up two additional vehicles. The question of the moment became: who would score the cars?

First choosies went to a little, sweet old Chinese lady with a ravishing silk scarf. She took the minivan. Then Mohit drew me aside and quietly told me he was giving the second (and final) vehicle to me. "Holy crap -- thank you!" I whispered. "What kind of car is it?"

"There's nothing else to choose from," he apologized pre-emptively.

I frowned. "Dude, what kind of car is it?"

Turns out, my vehicle was a truck the size of a baseball stadium.

Having read the latest in the Union's demands I find myself in a quandry.

Dylan was sent home on Wednesday with an upset tummy