April 14, 2006
some dubai links
People's impressions of this place vary and the ones I've selected here below are ones that I think give a very objective and accurate view of Dubai
http://secretdubai.blogspot.com/
http://secretdubai.blogspot.com/2002/12/guide-to-uae-blogs.html
http://www.desertsun.co.uk/blog/
April 12, 2006
The Desert Yields
Around Dubai there is a desert, with camels, real dunes, shamals (dust storms), Nocturnal desert critters – desert foxes, black and white scorpions, and intense heat in the day, this is fact. But to find it takes effort and ever more a bit of a drive because Dubai, expands its limits at a meters per week rate.
Now, a new freehold property law (similar to but completely different from the Hong Kong of past decades, where permanent ownership of land in designated freehold areas is guaranteed, not only for a ninety-nine year lease) has been decreed and signed by Sheikh Kalifa, and investor confidence of course builds.
Some examples of Dubai's expansion:
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/index.asp
http://www.dubaisportscity.ae/
http://www.falconcity.com/projectdetails.html
http://www.dubailand.ae/
http://www.dubai-marina.com/
http://www.dre.ae/dubai-real-estate-projects-business-bay.html
http://realestate.theemiratesnetwork.com/developments/dubai/palm_islands.php
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/gazelle/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/alvorada/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/al_mahra/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/Hattan/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/mirador/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/palmera/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/saheel/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/savannah/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/terra_nova/Index.asp
http://www.difc.ae/
http://www.dubaiinternetcity.com/
http://www.dhcc.ae/en/Default.aspx
http://www.jbr.ae/
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/uae/dubai/internationalcity.a
http://www.globalvillage.ae/
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/dubaimarina.asp
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/discoverygardens.asp
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/dubaipearl.asp
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/discoverygardens.asp
http://www.kv.ae/en/
http://www.dubailocation.com/
April 10, 2006
Contact!
Do you have a dime for every one that you can remember as a contact? I don’t but the closer I come to… to “the end of the day”, (every day) the more I mull over the matter that I don’t, but should have that prolific a list of ‘em. Why? Quite simply, mine freund, ze answer ist blovink in ze vind. CEO’s, VP’s, HR managers, direct soops, rejoice. Your miracle employee, your super modest woe-slayer is on the scene bro.
A prolific contact list alone doth not a grounded mareer coove make, does it now. Flit, float, fly, flam, flim, FLEM! The wasta that you want, you can’t quite get. Not for wont but want.
Lie back, let the cold winter waves wash up on ya and think of all the lovely trophy girls you’ve had in mind while posing at being loved ‘afore:
Marylyn, Loni, Crystal, Misty, Debbie, Sharon, Trisha, Tanya, Tawny, Tammy and who can forget the twins; ahde Begu & Eva Walkawalka– we had some good times, but would I call them contacts now?
See what I mean? The idea that momentary interactions necessarily induce a long-term suitability in terms of future contact cannot be relied apon as the norm. It would seem that we are left to chance, the luck of the draw. Chaos rules. There is no centring force no more. We are the hammer that’s been thrown.
We are the ones that have been released from the centrifugal force’s predictable circuit. We are the ones with which the hammer’s landing place must contend. Far flung and seemingly free to fly but in a trajectory determined.
There’s one thing left for us as flung hammers left to do to change our trajectory is to break apart in the air. That would affect our flight. That would change outcomes desired. There’s also outside influences to be relied upon here.
For example, suppose a child in the wings innocently tosses a large pebble into the air in what happens to be the direct path of the flung hammer that is us. We cannot but be knocked off our hoped for trajectory yes? It is the choice of the boy to toss the pebble at that time. It is the force of something greater than the hammer thrower, the hammer, the boy, the air we freely fly through now, even the eventual hammer landing place, that causes that arching, sacrificial pebble to hit the us that is the flung(ged) hammer. What are we to call that force that we cannot but feel the effects of? If it be called chance than by all means, hit me with the forces of chance again and again please and watch the flung me change happily my direction, once, twice, the thousandth time, I don’t mind a change in direction. I am a flung hammer, flying. Adventurer, I, would THIS, ruther than the oft-repeated, dull, predictable, precise, and predetermined flinging out of orbit, by a centrifugal force that’s with shouting, let go of the line that held this hammer, as yet unflung, and orbiting still, suddenly, attempting records.
Okay, FLINGER. You de' one left standing on the ground, ninkompoop. And I fly. What's new?
What’s next?
A prolific contact list alone doth not a grounded mareer coove make, does it now. Flit, float, fly, flam, flim, FLEM! The wasta that you want, you can’t quite get. Not for wont but want.
Lie back, let the cold winter waves wash up on ya and think of all the lovely trophy girls you’ve had in mind while posing at being loved ‘afore:
Marylyn, Loni, Crystal, Misty, Debbie, Sharon, Trisha, Tanya, Tawny, Tammy and who can forget the twins; ahde Begu & Eva Walkawalka– we had some good times, but would I call them contacts now?
See what I mean? The idea that momentary interactions necessarily induce a long-term suitability in terms of future contact cannot be relied apon as the norm. It would seem that we are left to chance, the luck of the draw. Chaos rules. There is no centring force no more. We are the hammer that’s been thrown.
We are the ones that have been released from the centrifugal force’s predictable circuit. We are the ones with which the hammer’s landing place must contend. Far flung and seemingly free to fly but in a trajectory determined.
There’s one thing left for us as flung hammers left to do to change our trajectory is to break apart in the air. That would affect our flight. That would change outcomes desired. There’s also outside influences to be relied upon here.
For example, suppose a child in the wings innocently tosses a large pebble into the air in what happens to be the direct path of the flung hammer that is us. We cannot but be knocked off our hoped for trajectory yes? It is the choice of the boy to toss the pebble at that time. It is the force of something greater than the hammer thrower, the hammer, the boy, the air we freely fly through now, even the eventual hammer landing place, that causes that arching, sacrificial pebble to hit the us that is the flung(ged) hammer. What are we to call that force that we cannot but feel the effects of? If it be called chance than by all means, hit me with the forces of chance again and again please and watch the flung me change happily my direction, once, twice, the thousandth time, I don’t mind a change in direction. I am a flung hammer, flying. Adventurer, I, would THIS, ruther than the oft-repeated, dull, predictable, precise, and predetermined flinging out of orbit, by a centrifugal force that’s with shouting, let go of the line that held this hammer, as yet unflung, and orbiting still, suddenly, attempting records.
Okay, FLINGER. You de' one left standing on the ground, ninkompoop. And I fly. What's new?
What’s next?
April 08, 2006
Subcontinent gunning to put the first Indian on MARS!
Project Dubai
Dubai is one of those places in the world where you can escape from at any time but at any time is no time ever that you can find it again.
Ach yah: Dubai. Sprinkling of white-distached and Ghuttra’d Arabs, a custom built lambo Murcielano, a Ferrari Enzo or two – one red, the other one – RED of course. New cars, Indian faces by the trillians, British faces by the millions, modern viceroys galore. Petrodollars may have driven this econ dev 100 % to its present state but it ain’t necessarily a petrodollar that fuels the growth of growth and progress of profgress from ‘ere on in. Diversification is the order of the day and the 10 percent richest of the rich fling and grab, African-country-sized-GDP portions into and out of the fledging UAE exchange with just the sort of regularity you would attribute to emerging growth fledgling exchanges wherein the majority of stocks are held by a minority rich elite. Havoc thrivers.
Faces of Americans, Canadians, South Americans, Europeans of every kin & Klan dot the miasma. Faces of lesser Arab nations lend their olive hue to the grand canvas. Chinese, Nepalese, Vietnamese, Malaysian and all the more East Asian Faces meld with “-istan faces, too many to name or list, but certainly, mostly, bearded.
Mother Russia’s default spills its steppe-dweller citizens, the ones with the means, the ones embracing the sound philosophy of business-driven, profit-driven economies run by merit-driven “-tocracies” into this area with a steady and increasing optimism.
Even deepest darkest South Africa pushes out of its nest its only fair-haired ones left. “Fly!!!” they’re commanded. And they do, being distantly Dutch and white and not afraid of hard work and not averse to success built in tough environments they fly and find their flock ever more firmly intrenched in this metropolitan metropolis of Dubai. The sensual Persians have their cake and eat it too here in Dubai. The flowing river of Farsi and its accompanying wealth finds a wide delta here.
This is Dubai. It’s being built, very very fast. And still, like its main beach road project – the Jumaira beach road project, it seems Project Dubai will never be finished.
Ach yah: Dubai. Sprinkling of white-distached and Ghuttra’d Arabs, a custom built lambo Murcielano, a Ferrari Enzo or two – one red, the other one – RED of course. New cars, Indian faces by the trillians, British faces by the millions, modern viceroys galore. Petrodollars may have driven this econ dev 100 % to its present state but it ain’t necessarily a petrodollar that fuels the growth of growth and progress of profgress from ‘ere on in. Diversification is the order of the day and the 10 percent richest of the rich fling and grab, African-country-sized-GDP portions into and out of the fledging UAE exchange with just the sort of regularity you would attribute to emerging growth fledgling exchanges wherein the majority of stocks are held by a minority rich elite. Havoc thrivers.
Faces of Americans, Canadians, South Americans, Europeans of every kin & Klan dot the miasma. Faces of lesser Arab nations lend their olive hue to the grand canvas. Chinese, Nepalese, Vietnamese, Malaysian and all the more East Asian Faces meld with “-istan faces, too many to name or list, but certainly, mostly, bearded.
Mother Russia’s default spills its steppe-dweller citizens, the ones with the means, the ones embracing the sound philosophy of business-driven, profit-driven economies run by merit-driven “-tocracies” into this area with a steady and increasing optimism.
Even deepest darkest South Africa pushes out of its nest its only fair-haired ones left. “Fly!!!” they’re commanded. And they do, being distantly Dutch and white and not afraid of hard work and not averse to success built in tough environments they fly and find their flock ever more firmly intrenched in this metropolitan metropolis of Dubai. The sensual Persians have their cake and eat it too here in Dubai. The flowing river of Farsi and its accompanying wealth finds a wide delta here.
This is Dubai. It’s being built, very very fast. And still, like its main beach road project – the Jumaira beach road project, it seems Project Dubai will never be finished.
April 05, 2006
NOTE TO SELF – GROW UP!
(more & more, yet here, oh hero Byro? Chained clown, idiot/savante & illiterary genius of the age that is ours and never was, for this brief moment and always, that thou art made out to actually be...?)
Teacher – I love you!
Wha’? Back OFF! Mojo's mud.
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that it is not dad that is obligated to warn him that the way he takes in life, if it is to be a meaningful journey, is treacherous. Comes a time too in a man’s life to realize the boss may very well NOT have the epiphany holder’s best interest at heart.
Dad is not obligated to tell you all the fine lines you must cross and the ones you had better not cross until your damned well ready to fight. When being a hero to most and completely undesirable to the few that have the power to flick you off their high-powered noses in an augen blik whim, means that you cannot continue to bend like a young tree acquiescing whither the four winds do blow, no. Niether dad nor mom is obligated to tell you, you may not be well liked AT ALL when you open your mouth and out come tumbling, intensity of purpose, focussed precision, and building blocks of new creation in the pragmatic prose of life and in the hell-bent romantic poetry of existance, flowing, shape-shifting, symmetry & dissymmetry, pure and pure filth, annoying hypocrisy, annoying righteousness. That you may not be well liked when you lift your right arm high to lead the bloody charge and effortlessly wield the sword of your clan circuitously above your head then point its point straight ahead, with wide-mouthed shouts of sure victory. You wield it comfortably as if it were the extension of your right arm, your right side, your right heart, in fact. People may not like you at all when they find they’re suddenly face to face with he that holds the sword, you, and that by your hand they will vanish, flayed mercilessly through and through tissue and spine alike until decimated. Yes, DES – CI – MAT – ED is what I said.
Dad is not even obligated to tell you, dear Bryo about the enemies that exist and the ones that appear to exist during all the inappropriate times you’d care to manage in any particular moment.
Dad’s obligation is actually his choice only really, to yea or nay as he sees fit. And, if yea then it is to pray, the Lord your soul to keep, while you alone face and fight the enemies that may be related but are surely different, if by time’s partition only, from the enemies that his dad was not obligated to tell him about since effectiveness against enemies is best borne out, as all quest custodians understand, in a journey of self-discovery, in the process of finding them out for oneself in one’s life - alone, in studying them - alone, in knowing them when facing them - alone, in anticipating them – alone, and in the noonday showdown sun. Descimating done, what else better to do with an enemy but write for them a love poem as the good Mr Katrovas has so succinctly writ for his below:
LOVE POEM FOR AN ENEMY
I, as sinned against as sinning,
take small pleasure from the winning
of our decades-long guerrilla war.
For from my job Ive wanted more
than victory over one whod tried
to punish me before he died,
and now, neither of us dead,
we haunt these halls in constant dread
of drifting past the others life
while long-term memory is rife
with slights that sting like paper cuts.
Weve occupied our separate ruts
yet simmered in a single rage.
Weve grown absurd in middle age
together, and should seek wisdom now
together, by ending this row.
I therefore decommission you
as constant flagship of my rue.
Below the threshold of my hate
you now my good regard may rate.
For I have let my anger pass.
But, while youre down there, kiss my ass.
Richard Katrovas
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that to nurture and keep alive for yet one more hour of this beautiful day that is ours for now, the good things in his life, the peace-bringing things, the beautiful things too - end up being the things that he has to fight hardest against things for, larges forces, others’ and his own many, many, many, many vices. And what a fight he must put up too, so subtle, so smooth, so exacting, that the outcome is decimation of the spoiler forces, the spoiler life-leeches that attach and suck the living chance right out of you, man, “thereunto” in legalese, let’s say – just for fun, spoiling you.
As time flies by, blights become harder to scrub out. Blunders become harder to recover from. On the other hand what’s a blunder but a recovery in the making? For if in the blunder one can not recover, your call to arms is defeat before you risk a blow even. So I say blunder on byro!!! Blunder on, ‘til you learn the art and science of it. The art and science of it and learn enough of it. That is, enough of what it takes as you observe and absorb every day, my dear Byro, to ever soooo subtly initiate then egg on til "completion" the ever soooo subtly anticipated blunder of a clolleague forward slash enemy - you know what I'm talkin' of yes?.
And, I struggle continually to find and actually read instead of skim an ever more appropriate stack o' books layin' around to ground the soundness of my latest philos on.
When the cockroach roller derby begins, it’s a pretty good idea to have your Sunday-best, big squashing shoes already, mate. Go for the overtly jealous-looking ones first and y'all should be alright.
Teacher – I love you!
Wha’? Back OFF! Mojo's mud.
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that it is not dad that is obligated to warn him that the way he takes in life, if it is to be a meaningful journey, is treacherous. Comes a time too in a man’s life to realize the boss may very well NOT have the epiphany holder’s best interest at heart.
Dad is not obligated to tell you all the fine lines you must cross and the ones you had better not cross until your damned well ready to fight. When being a hero to most and completely undesirable to the few that have the power to flick you off their high-powered noses in an augen blik whim, means that you cannot continue to bend like a young tree acquiescing whither the four winds do blow, no. Niether dad nor mom is obligated to tell you, you may not be well liked AT ALL when you open your mouth and out come tumbling, intensity of purpose, focussed precision, and building blocks of new creation in the pragmatic prose of life and in the hell-bent romantic poetry of existance, flowing, shape-shifting, symmetry & dissymmetry, pure and pure filth, annoying hypocrisy, annoying righteousness. That you may not be well liked when you lift your right arm high to lead the bloody charge and effortlessly wield the sword of your clan circuitously above your head then point its point straight ahead, with wide-mouthed shouts of sure victory. You wield it comfortably as if it were the extension of your right arm, your right side, your right heart, in fact. People may not like you at all when they find they’re suddenly face to face with he that holds the sword, you, and that by your hand they will vanish, flayed mercilessly through and through tissue and spine alike until decimated. Yes, DES – CI – MAT – ED is what I said.
Dad is not even obligated to tell you, dear Bryo about the enemies that exist and the ones that appear to exist during all the inappropriate times you’d care to manage in any particular moment.
Dad’s obligation is actually his choice only really, to yea or nay as he sees fit. And, if yea then it is to pray, the Lord your soul to keep, while you alone face and fight the enemies that may be related but are surely different, if by time’s partition only, from the enemies that his dad was not obligated to tell him about since effectiveness against enemies is best borne out, as all quest custodians understand, in a journey of self-discovery, in the process of finding them out for oneself in one’s life - alone, in studying them - alone, in knowing them when facing them - alone, in anticipating them – alone, and in the noonday showdown sun. Descimating done, what else better to do with an enemy but write for them a love poem as the good Mr Katrovas has so succinctly writ for his below:
LOVE POEM FOR AN ENEMY
I, as sinned against as sinning,
take small pleasure from the winning
of our decades-long guerrilla war.
For from my job Ive wanted more
than victory over one whod tried
to punish me before he died,
and now, neither of us dead,
we haunt these halls in constant dread
of drifting past the others life
while long-term memory is rife
with slights that sting like paper cuts.
Weve occupied our separate ruts
yet simmered in a single rage.
Weve grown absurd in middle age
together, and should seek wisdom now
together, by ending this row.
I therefore decommission you
as constant flagship of my rue.
Below the threshold of my hate
you now my good regard may rate.
For I have let my anger pass.
But, while youre down there, kiss my ass.
Richard Katrovas
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that to nurture and keep alive for yet one more hour of this beautiful day that is ours for now, the good things in his life, the peace-bringing things, the beautiful things too - end up being the things that he has to fight hardest against things for, larges forces, others’ and his own many, many, many, many vices. And what a fight he must put up too, so subtle, so smooth, so exacting, that the outcome is decimation of the spoiler forces, the spoiler life-leeches that attach and suck the living chance right out of you, man, “thereunto” in legalese, let’s say – just for fun, spoiling you.
As time flies by, blights become harder to scrub out. Blunders become harder to recover from. On the other hand what’s a blunder but a recovery in the making? For if in the blunder one can not recover, your call to arms is defeat before you risk a blow even. So I say blunder on byro!!! Blunder on, ‘til you learn the art and science of it. The art and science of it and learn enough of it. That is, enough of what it takes as you observe and absorb every day, my dear Byro, to ever soooo subtly initiate then egg on til "completion" the ever soooo subtly anticipated blunder of a clolleague forward slash enemy - you know what I'm talkin' of yes?.
And, I struggle continually to find and actually read instead of skim an ever more appropriate stack o' books layin' around to ground the soundness of my latest philos on.
When the cockroach roller derby begins, it’s a pretty good idea to have your Sunday-best, big squashing shoes already, mate. Go for the overtly jealous-looking ones first and y'all should be alright.
