Well, some of you know him, some of you don't. Here he is, Student Body President of SPC 2002-2003, short and mouthy, on fire for God and loves his youth, married to Annick not even one year yet, the Man of the hour...Andy "the Gab" Gabruuuuuch!




Yes, he is wearing a woman's hoodie. And loving every minute of it. Look at that sassy grin.

Lemme tell you, I've known this guy maybe two months now, and he just keeps getting better and better. Some o' y'all'll tell me that he will continue to get better and better. He is now, as Otto inquired 20-30 posts ago, the youth pastor at my home church in Richmond. I'm sure he'd love a visit from any of you SPC folk that knew him. Heck, he'd love a visit from anyone, such a warm guy. Even so, if you don't want to visit him, come and visit me!!

A sure-fire quality guy.

Thanks to Petko for the pic.

I wish I were an
Oscar Meyer weiner,
That is what I'd
Truly like to be-e-e.
Cuz If I were an
Oscar Meyer weiner,
Everyone would BE
IN LOVE WITH MEEEEE!

I would like to give props to the great sufferers of our day in an attempt to liken myself to their suffering conditions.

Props to the homosexual. You guys, and gals, have suffered persecution and fear for many many years. I can't say decades, cuz I don't know if it's true or not to say centuries. Famous writer Oscar Wilde is thought to be homosexual, and he live in mid-1800's. Sure you practice something that isn't normal to society, but this is the country we live in, one that is free. You deserve all the love that this world has to offer, just as much as the next guy/gal.

Props to the homeless. I can't imainge what it's like to live without a home; somewhere to go to for refuge, support, and love. Still to this day, going down hastings and East side Vancouver, I lock my doors out of fear. It's not right. I wish I could say I knew the source of the problem there, but I just don't, and I wish I could help in a more effective way than going to soup kitchens and feeding you just for a night.

Props to the kids at Children's Hospitals all over. You guys know a thing or two about a life that isn't fair, but you keep trucking, and see it through. You gain a different perspective to life and have the ability to take life's punches better than anyone else; trained as a kid to deal beyond what you should.

Props to the broken-hearted, for it is better to have love and lost than to have never loved at all. You guys have the balls to go out there, have fun, even knowing that you'd probably get hurt. And you did. Keep that confidence, cuz it's my understanding that it gets easier every time. Hopefully though, there aren't enough times that makes it easy enough to love and forget overnight.

Props to those in eating disorder; to the bulimic, anorexic and the obese. For reasons often out of control, the normal function of eating is put way off. Media, chemical imbalance, pychological reasons beyond my understanding all contribute, and usually there is no choice in the matter. Acknowledging the problem is such a feat; took me a long time. It's good to be on the other side.

Props to those with broken families. The trauma and confusion must be unbarable. I only pray that you don't get scarred, and that you don't repeat the same events in your lives.

Props to everyone else who suffers. May those able to help be open, loving and comforting to you, that we be sensitive, and sincere. The world is unfair, but if I could, I'd change it all.

Until then, God bless you all.

All black are violent the same.
All cars polute the same.
All Christians are hypocrites the same.
All phones ring the same.
All bullies immature the same.
All books read the same.
All chinese drive the same.
All get ill the same.
All boys love and dump the same.

Flustered drivers sleeping
And suns far away shining
Some people sitting,
No doubt wondering...

What it's like to see...

The flustered drivers driving
The sun close up and shining
Some people sitting,
No doubt without worries.

Bob sure had one heck of a salmon day. You know the kind, you spend all day swimming upstream only to get screwed and end up dieing in the end anyways.

He arrived late to the Cube Farm. Upon entry, he wasn't feeling very well. He attempted some crop dusting, to relieve his gascious pressure. Sure, he felt mildly better, but crop dusting around the cube farm produced a lot of prarie dogging. Think about it, if someone farted near your desk, you'd want to know who it was.

Later, Bob found himself surround by a bunch of mouse-potatoes wanting their e-mail servers fixed, and their phone receivers replaced. Bob sure had his fair share of work to do, until his seagull of a manager flew in, made a lot of noise, shat on everything, then took off. Typical. Now he had his fair share of work to do AND a big mess to clean up.

He started with the servers. They were most crucial. They were the communicaion all those idiot Four-Oh-Fours needed to do their jobs. Suddenly, the most typologically bodacious office babe walked in. Asheley, of course.

"Bob," Asheley said in her most seductively nerdy voice, "Maybe you should try the stapler".

Dumbfounded by her amazing whit and resourcefulness, Bob took her stapler which she readily gave him, and he began some percussive maintenance.

Once Bob stopped, he looked at the server and had an ohnosecond. He realized he had pounded the thing into a heap of trash. Now there was no hope getting it fixed at all!

All integrity, honesty, quality and hard work questionned.

Perhaps the greatest random factor of them all is the frequency of randomness.

My question is, to thee who is inexperienced in "random writings", how are you so viably critic?

Please read my post concerning a governing outline of randomness. I am sure you will be most dumbfounded by its depth and truth.

Well I'd like to send out a HUGE shoutout to our ranDOMinion NOOB. YOU FREAK!

Do you remember the time when your big brother, or little brother, or whoever you shared your LEGO with, would see that wicked cool spaceship you took all afternoon long to make and SMASHED IT TO BITS?!

Yea. That's what Mr Noobface did here. Aparently, I'm not random enough, so he gets to smash my LEGO. Well, Noobface, lemme tell you something about randomness. Sure, our blogs are more or less usually focused on a theme, but there are always KEY random elements (ie: lame/not-lame chart, honourary Stop Five Record).

Also note and recognize the Inspector General of the Quality of the Kingdom of Blue, who inspects all that pertains to quality. I am he, and you are not. The quality of my sometimes lengthy posts is not determined by their length, thus saieth th'Inspector General.

And what of your randomness? Hardly random. Just bash what we would call quality to elevate yourself. Two jabs at me now. I should take this personally, but since you are my future roomey, I will dismiss such actions as pure NOOBFACENESS.

By the way, while I was getting my hair cut I had thought up a wicked cool blog entry to write up, but since these events has happened, they require immidiate attention. Maybe you will all get to revel in its glory at a later date.

---

Noobface's awesomness deletion will be fixed shortly...when I have the time I guess. Maybe I will randomofy some of the key elements, and make it unlike the same as before.

Another day, another dollar.

Another day, another $100,000 dollars for someone else.

That's right, someone selling Ducati motorcycles, like the two, worth together, roughly $100,000, that I handled at work to"day".

You read me, two Ducati motorcycles. Booya!

And to commemorate such an extravagant delivery I have prepared an honourary Stop Five Record. Stop Five Records are the Ducatis of the blogging world. Cheers!

Top Five Products I Have Ever Handled

1. Obviously, today's Ducatis. Never been so stoked. Approx value: $100,000.
2. Biweekly shipments of Gap, Old Navy, and Banana Republic freight, and every-other-month "Newflow" of 4 times regular shipments. An average shipment to one gap store is about 80 boxes a week. You can pack about 4 pairs of jeans ($60x4=$240) or 20 pairs of socks ($8x20=160) into a said box, so I estimate an average value of $200 per box. That's $16,000 a week to ONE store. There are roughly 30 Gap, Gap Kids, Old Navy, and Ban Republic stores in the GVRD and Vancouver Island + Whistler area. Imagine Newflow!.. Approx value: $480,000, and ongoing.
3. Piles and PILES of crap cardboard Toronto seems to think we love. Yup, they come on every pallete, in between palettes, piled here, piled there. Everywhere that cardboard fits, cardboard is shipped. Pretty lame. Approx value: ...crap.
4. A one time shipment last summer, during "back to school sales" we shipped an entire 53' foot trailer full of Toshiba Laptops. They're worth about $3,000 each. Needless to say, EVERY laptop was accounted for (as these very easily go "missing"). I forget how many there were, but we callculated the estimated value to be approximately $500,000.
5. Last week's Tombstones. We lost one. Approx value: Priceless. Sorry again Mr Whitman.

Kinda sad that a job involving this much in retail-ish funds only pays $12/h. But I do get to drive a forklift, yippie!

Ok and what the heck...proofreading this thing, it suddenly goes WIDESCREEN like the Strong Bad e-mail. Wiggedy whack.

Dave, I am a man of my word, and here is the evidence.

What, do you ask, does a teenager do during his day off? Sleep in. A given. Go to the beach? Not in Vancouver... Maybe the mall then? NOT AT FOUR IN THE FREAKING MORNING HE DOESN'T.

So instead, this teenager, during his "day" off plays video games, cuz everyone's asleep! How lame.

This day off, I became a roller coaster engineer and park manager. Successfully building up four parks in one night. This particular roller coaster of one such particular park that I am going to show to our beloved readers, features a visitor count of over 20,000 over four years, while only boasting 3 roller coasters and half a dozen thrill rides. That's a lot of people for such a dinky park.

Nevertheless! Amidst a menagerie of bashing and dashing last night on MSN with Dave, I left saying, "Bye, I will name a roller coaster after you". Dave, this is the fruit of my all-night labour. Love it or die.

Picture one features a clear view with some commentary. Click the words "picture one" to see it big with clear words, not so dinky thumbnailish... grumblegrumblejklhebjhg...

As you can see, it goes up, and down, and around. If it was possible, I'd slap on some big speakers and subs and play Dead or Alive's "You Spin me Round" while the peoples are on it. Wouldn't that be fun?

Picture two features a data pop-up with some very notably interestingly awesome facts. Now that I sit here writing this, I should have prepared another coaster's data with commentary to have something to compare it against, but alas, I did not. So in my craftyness, here is Playland's "Corkscrew" Statistics for comparisson. Look how roxorz the Dave-Anator really is!

The Dave-Anator is one of the first Custom Designed rides that I have had ANY success with. Ok, ok, it is THE first. Maybe it's because of it's cool name, or well inspired muse? Maybe it is simply favoured by the gods, thanks to the temple of Athena on top of the hill.

In any case, there is no doubt the Roller Coaster Tycoon-ing will continue, but on a less "all-night long" frequency.

Thank You for choosing Park Quality, I am the Inspector General of the Quality and you will listen to me for two more sentences. Here is your park map, your re-entry stamp, and a courtesy umbrella (for all the Ontarians). Enjoy your visit!

---

Lemme know if the photos look like suck, cuz they do on this computer, but this one sucks anyways. It may be because computer suck, or server suck. Lemme know how they look!

Ever wonder what the best feeling in the world is? I look forward to it every day. Atleast once a day, anyways.

Workin hard, and workin up a heat in your boots, it becomes aparent that your non-breathable, steal toed boots are amassing quite the stench upon your feet. Try putting on a pair of skater casuals, that have been sitting out in the car, under a cold, cloudless sky in exchange for ubersuck boots. OH MAN! It's like an "Icy Hot" pack right ALL OVER your feet.

I wish any of you knew what I'm talking about, because I doubt many will ever experience what I get to every day.

Here's one to tickle some pickles.

Today, we shipped roughly 80 tombstone and other mortem memoribilia. The shipments come with packing slips including order numbers and order names. Yes, the names are of the people to whom the tombstones are addressed. 80 people died in order to make that shipment.

There were some white names, some chinese names, I think a philipino name... I handled their stuff! Even some urns. Which were empty...I SINCERELY HOPE.

But get this, after we sort them (by destination, as not all tombstones go to the same cemetary), we count and realize we're short one. One's missing. Now usually, when a box of Gap freight (yes, they'll notice if one goes missing, or a trailer for that matter) goes missing they say "We're one short" and that's the end of it. But no, this is somebody's tombstone that is missing, "Tear the place apart". So we whip out the picklist, and verify EVERY box on the pallette to the order, and find out that the dude without a tombstone is a poor chap by the name of Whitman.

I imagine it would say something witty like "Whitman, he was aparently a man pertaining to some whit. Don't dig this grave." But now, it will say nothing.

Can you imagine, worse than losing your father, or brother... That you're at the funeral to present the tombstone, and...low and behold, it's not there either! Can nothing go right?!

Mr Whitman, God bless your soul, I am very sorry your tombstone has not been delivered. We just simply didn't receive it. If you want to blame someone, blame the idiot shippers in Toronto. Yes, they're usually quite dumb about everything related to shipping goods.

Enter the door.

Don't just stand there, go in.

The proprieter of privacy awaits his opening.

Look how he pouts, his face beaten, his build battered. His dignity and strength tested. His only job is to seperate the looker from the Doer, but sometimes, people take advantage of his silent, unwavering stance. They'll beat on him, spit on him, push him around until he can't move, then beat him some more.

Half of the things he's beaten for are not his fault. What you see, and how you see it past him, aren't his fault either. With splintered sides like his, you'd imagine the damage to his surroundings too. He's not always completely capable of protecting the view to the inside because of the way he's treated. In a sense, you see what you do because of the Doer's faults. You witness the Doer, in his action, because he has allowed his privacy to be broken.

For someone who treats this icon of American Constitution with such disrespect, he sure relies on him a lot. You can see everything in plain view, but the Doer doesn't seem to care. Does he care about anything? Not his privacy, not his protector, not the people around him...

You can't let this slide. Go in.

How will you sleep? Where are you going?!

Instead of the half expected woman bashing post that some would think to see here, I post a post praising them!

There is nothing more pleasent than a woman's smile. You could spend thousands of dollars on clothing and make up and manicures, but nothing compares to the free smile. Sometimes, it takes a bit to coax the smile out, but it's always worth it.

Sometimes the smile costs a few jokes, some charm. Sometimes it takes their favourite coffee. Maybe, simply the least complex thing about a woman is her smile.

What of their attention to detail? Always the clothing matches, unless it's sweats, and even then sometimes they do too. Always the t's are crossed and the i's are dotted (in the proverbial sense of life). Their toe nails are painted (a vain activity, if you ask me, but it's the detail!). How about the hours on end getting that stupid strand of hair in the exact right place. Nevermind putting the hair up, how about the hour spent washing it (ask to see my long hair photo, I know the pain that is its maintenance). Always remembering the birthday, always remembering that you forget. Or how about the way she remembers things completely differnt than you do... Like how the first date is never the same to the boy and the woman. There's usually a descrepancy of about a week, unless if they answer the same, then the boy is well trained by his mistress and remembers well what he is taught. Details.

Oh, oh! The way she stares into your eyes. Looking... or maybe just phasing out. But feeling totally comfortable with you. It's the look of acceptance, wonder, admiration. Maybe it's the look of investigation, scrutiny of compatability (as women are always evaluating such a thing).

And last, but certainetly not least, the way they smell. Never foul. Always something...fresh, something great to the nose. Even fresh laundry smell seems to last all day on a woman's clothing. And then step it up with perfume and drive the boys mad!

Women truly are beings of beauty. God did a good job on all of you, this is unquestionable.

I ask myself why we choose to do the things we do.

Well, the foremost answer, which must be undeniable, is because without thought, an action does not exist. So to say that we choose because we think may be a safe saying.

But I'm confused then how people can say they are born homosexual. Or that they said something without thinking. Or how someone would call themselves braindead (even if they're joking, their opinion and point of view must pertain to some level of truth). Didn't all of these people think about things before they did them?

I have been told by many that sometimes I overthink. That sometimes, I choose to think, rather than to do. Is it that my limbs are disconnected from my brain? That I have some sort of a Liberal Government attempting to pass resolutions that keep getting sent around the senate? These thoughts of mine often, too often, go nowhere.

I spent the last hour sitting in my couch thinking. Yes, the red one in my bedroom. I thought about many things, in a way for which a ThinkTank for a crisis prevention group would pay good money. I replayed past scenarios, tried to evaluate my actions, others' actions, and come to conclusions about their personalities, maybe even predict future scenarios and to predict their reactions to certain situations. Before I know it, I've played out my whole life in front of me, dictated not by my actions, but by the predicted actions of others.

So then, if people do what they think, what action should accompany these thoughts? Perhaps the action to overthinking is to get off the couch (usually a cliché tacked to NOT thinking) and do something about any of it. Perhaps the action to overthinking is to go out into the world and test the played scenarios. Perhaps the action to overthinking is one of no action at all.

Instead of every thought being accompanied by an action, the overthink is a collection of thoughts never to be acted upon. One then must wonder, is there no action because there is no plausible preferred action, or is it because he is most comfortable doing nothing?

The overthinking cycle...a glimpse of it right there.

---

An epiphany has struck me, moments after publishing the post. I wonder if the perfect cure to overthinking is to never think at all. But then again, some would say "It is better to have thought and acted than to have never thought at all". If one thought leads to another, don't have the first one. Then maybe you won't ask stupid questions like "What's there to know?"

If we're gonna quote excellent homestarrunner.com good times, I got one:

"DELORTED!"

HAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Pour tous qui sont francophone, je vous n'ignorez jamais!

Aujourd'hui, je travailais, et une dame m'a dit en anglais: "Je n'observe pas la langue francais comme langue nationalle. Seulement l'anglais". Son ignorance est vraiment triste, mais aussi triste est que l'attitude est la mème avec les francs.

En tout cas, je pense que c'est bien trop longue de n'avoir pas eu la chance de parler en francais. C'est presqu'une ans! Hier, je visitais Pasteur Andy et sa femme Annick. Les parents d'Annick sont francophones, et ont parler entre eux en francais. Mais je n'ai pas eu la chance d'avoir un conversation avec euc. Aussi, ils le parlaient un peu trop turbo pour moi, je n'ai presque compris rien.

Je me suis soudainment rendu compte la difficulté associé avec l'essayance d'écrire en francais. Alors je coupe ce poste ci courte. A demain!

Moi, je viens de finir un poste sur un autre site-blog. Vous pouvez le lire à WH473V3R!

Oh man...who's Youth Pastor now? I just finished writing my sermon that I will deliver in a little over an hour, using the HOOK BOOK LOOK TOOK method. YEAH MAN I ROCK.

It is unfortunate that I can not state the official stance of Genius-ness of Random Dominion. Lately, the topic has sprung up in all 3 blogs written by SPC students that I am aware of. The popular opinion seems to be one of gathering and of celebration. You may read "a Fitting Speech from the dominant cultural Genius", which, I may add, is written by a self-proclaimed genius.

In my opinion, Geniosity status declaration is a matter best left to those who are preoccupied with a need for a status at all. Why do some people have to be stated more intelligent than others? Why cause friction for a sence of self-satisfaction?

Also, who can call themselves a genius? Surely, he who knows most knows he knows very little. We look back at Einstein and say "He was a genius." We can look at Einstien from the outside and marvel. I didn't know mirrors reflected intelligence too. My point is, you just can't call yourself a genius, someone else has to do it for you. Self proclaimed geniuses are hardly geniuses.

To this I say, instead of falsifying your own image to yourself, revel in your said intelligence and nurture it, grow it. Intelligence applied turns a thought into an action, and a good one at that. Nothing happens without a thought first.

Dave - "No! I'm Buying Slurpee!" says:
there are 5000 people on this rock and almost NONE of them are elegible...
Andrew - cynically reflective says:
single christian females aged 20-24?
Dave - "No! I'm Buying Slurpee!" says:
yeah... NON!
Andrew - cynically reflective says:
sad

Eyes are opened:

A neighbour's house robbed.
An atomic bomb dropped.
A young pilot suicided.
A goverment's budget scandaled.
A temper flared. Angry words spoken.

A fellow blog writer visited. A comment signed.
A compliment delivered.
A job well done.
A lesson learnt.
The gospel, shared.

How often do we walk around with our eyes closed? We wouldn't know where to step, in which direction, to what length.

Why should we live with our eyes closed then? Look out to the world, and see it for what it is! Learn and grow from those in the know.

When I look down the road, at all the opportunities I may have to open someone's eyes, and to make an impact on their lives, do I want to impact them by dropping a bomb on them, or by...?

"Work completion at the cost of insanity. that is devotion if i have ever seen it."

Insanity is worse than death. You become invalid, unable to contribute to society, and everyone thinks you're stupid. I wouldn't go that far for work, but then again I'm not so amazing.

I must say, I am rather excited at the devlopping relationship between ranDOMinion writers/visters and Stop Five Records writers/visiters. First Bryan visits, then Otto! Man...these Stop Five Records dudes are my blog heroes! No doubt the reason our blog is found on blogspot.com (thanks to Dave).

I did a little digging earlier today, killing time before I picked up Jess Kawinsky from the airport, and found an awesome Stop Five Records "top 5". It was made by Blackwood dealing with the top 5 Star Trek episodes. Good call on the Trouble with Tribbles.

In any case...I just wanted to wish everyone a very single "Girls Are Pointless So Why Should We Even Bother" Day (see below post by Dave). Although in general, I disagree with the philosophy and meaning of this day, we need to support the people who feel it. It's like Victoria Day...what the heck?!

Umm whoa, what the heck...the Dube left us a comment! My favourite Jew. ;)

Lemme tell y'all a story. The hero: a little white mouse.

Mouse lived a good life. He ran around, free of obstruction, ate grass and other scrumptious vegetable-like plants. Because of the running and healthy eating, Mouse had a very slender build and a slick tail; the lady mice really dig slick tails.

One day, Mouse was minding his own business, eating some human's grass. It was an overcast day, much like many days of Richmond, and much of General Vancouver Area. But Mouse didn't mind, it was another run-of-the-mill days. No itinerary, no wifey to come home to, Mouse sure had it made.

One human, blonde, late fourties, drives her Ford Explorer around the block and goes, "What the, that piece of trash just moved!" The second human, a passenger in the Explorer does a double take of the piece of trash on their neighbour's lawn and discovers that that piece of trash is actually some kind of animal. He is a teenager, many issues with anger and has many altercations with his father. He says, "Lemme out, I'm going to see what it is". So the second human jumps out to investigate.

Mouse sees this ogre-teenager coming at him and freezes in fear. He's never had a human so close to him before. He had heard of cousin mouses who had dealings with humans, and they all told horror stories; getting needled and making them run for cheeze. Poor Mouse had no idea what was coming.

Teenager boy walked right up to Mouse, who hadn't yet moved, and put his hand on him. He picked him up, and opened his hand and yelled "Hey! It's a mouse!"

Mouse's family decends from a long line of heritage in North America, since long before any Europeans landed. He, nor his ancestors, never spoke English. In fact, this teenager boy's yelling spooked him even further. So spooked that all Mouse could do was let out a plea for help to fellow mice, hoping that there would be some around.

"Can I keep him?" He asked the first human. She set down some guidelines, some rules for him to abide by in order to keep him. "Listen, he's making a chirping sound. It's kinda fun."

Teenager boy took Mouse home, emptied out a drawer of his plastic mobile drawer unit and filled it with saw dust about an inch thick. He put some cat food and water in two seperate, cut down yogurt containers. Teenager boy decided to call Mouse "Bomber" since the first thing Mouse did when he was settled into his new home was poop.

Bomber, now, and Teenager boy grew in relationship, making Bomber run for cheese, and scratching him behind the ears. They play Playstation together, and talk on the phone together with Teenager Boy's girlfriend. In fact they have many good times together.

Bomber earlier today tried making some soup. He mixed his food, which is no longer cat food, with his water, and it made a horrible stench.

But alas, Teenager Boy is a good friend, and replaced both bowls, and scratched some ears.

To be Continued....perhaps...

I have become suddenly aware that since I have been handling cardboard boxes and grease and all kinds of dirty things, that my hands are no longer the hands they used to be: soft, pale white, uncut. No, these hands are caloused, permadirty, and torn in various places.

I've often identified people by their hands. They say a lot about a person. A rough hand is a worker's hand, a smooth hand is a well product-ed hand. In some ways, a hand is a person's identity. Even police take "unique" identities from our hands; they call them fingerprints.

Surely, my fingerprints are still the same. [I just had major flashback of Leonard Cohen's "Fingerprints"] Yes, this body is the same one as before. But my hands...they're not mine.

I look at the work they are trained so well to do: sort the frieght, drive the forklift, change the propane cylander. My hands never used to do that.

A small part of me has changed, grown perhaps, from a place that can not be reached without losing experience--and we all know that an experience can never be lost. Is it growth into a young man, trained with expertise and professionalism? Or is it growth into a hedious beast, one of green skin, ripped shorts and back muscles so oversized that they push the neck and head forward, making a hunchback.

I have no doubt that whatever the end product, I will be satisfied. But I can only hope that in a world dependant on moisterizer and liang-liang, that there would only be understanding; hard work will make a hand change.