Of Snakeoils and Wolftickets

It’s a tiresome week.


I didn’t have a day off; I worked on Thaipusam, and the best thing is that I went there in work clothes at the usual time only to find out that work starts at 10, where non-formal clothes are allowed and it’s actually a half-day. So I was at work dressed like Napoleon Dynamite at prom dance, sitting with people in jeans and t-shirts and Hawaiian shorts, working hard on a day I shouldn’t be working, and then working past what we constitute as a half-day.


That morning Pei Ling dropped me the news that Heath Ledger is dead, and I remembered being stunned on the way to McDonalds for lunch, repeating the news to anyone who asked and realising that I was talking like I was shell-shocked and traumatised (I wasn’t; I was just very surprised, but I think I looked completely despaired).


I just wished the church in Australia will bury him; I heard from someone he was refused burial there because he acted in Brokeback and it was a “blatant promotion of gays and the rights of homosexuality”. He’s not gay. Give him a break, and let him rest in peace…


Leeching off the free internet at work (until recently, when it refused a connection to my laptop as though in determined retaliation), I found a very neat song titled “Mad World”, sung by Gary Jules doing a cover for Tears for Fears (an 80’s band). If you’ve heard of it, you’ve probably heard it over Donny Darko or in the first Gears of War teaser. It’s a sad song, about the world and how normality is madness mostly, only that we don’t see it that way, but I don’t do it justice so listen to it if you can.


Downloading Gary Jules meant that I would subsequently get his entire album, which I did, and it was a pleasant collection of gentle songs titled under the album name of Trading Snakeoils for Wolftickets.


I don’t know what it meant, but I like how it sounds. And mostly the songs sound great too.


*******


I’ll be heading down to Segamat for my aunt’s wedding tomorrow and will be back on the 28th. Maybe I’ll blog about it, with pictures and videos and stuff.

Dinners,

Which now happens with me feeling so utterly exhausted that they seemed to have turned into a state of otherworldly affairs; I’ve been dining with aliens and dragons and King Tutankhamen himself (who, after a couple of mouthfuls of coke, told me he wished that everybody should stop making a fuss about his cursed tomb, which wasn’t cursed in the first place, only booby-trapped and clogged with unwashed sewage), and that wasn’t even the weirdest sensation; there was one dinner which I remembered ordering a plate of tom-yam chicken rice only to get a plate of rice with chicken and no tom yam but some really bad tasting sauce like Bolognese only burnt and too salty.

But the sad reality is that I’ve been dining pretty much alone most of the nights, which can be somewhat dull, and it came to a point where I quoted this to a girl at work; “Like the song, ‘I don’t like to sleep alone’, I don’t like to eat alone. Let’s go for lunch.”


She didn’t know the song and thought I meant that we should sleep together as much as eat together, which would’ve gotten me a sexual harassment suit, only that she must’ve thought I was making a very bad hit-on and decided to brush it off as a cold joke. Thankfully and sadly.


But there are some nights in which I didn’t eat alone; one dinner I managed to give the work an early slip and found myself at grandma’s eating a heavenly dinner with the parents. Heavenly, which is just about what orgasm could get you, on the right circumstances, and having eaten nothing but MSG coated meals over the past months, home cooked food probably beat whatever it is a bed and a lady would get me.


And then there was the dinner with friends; Pauline, Vic and Kelv-ster, at Nando’s Mid Valley, where the food came fast and the company great fun, and there was a lot of catching up done. And it was like the reunion of the nonsensical study-group. A very noisy, very funny one.


Friday, I was at grandma’s again, and what was supposedly a short trip to take a trough home ended with me washing down a miserable dinner with a supper of Lap Chap Choy, which meant A Mess of Vegetables; one of grandma’s specialty.


Work is all same-same. I didn’t even feel like I was doing any work at all; just type, call, type, call, talk with Ji Lin (which I will now refer to as Mademoiselle Escargot) and go to the rare meeting, in which I try to take in anything, fail, and end up nodding like a very attentive fool.


The garden is now done; the cement is on, the roof thingy up, and whatever modifications and placements my dad wanted was pretty much taken care of. There’re only grass to mow and aquariums to clean, to which tomorrow will be occupied with.


The Rastafarian pup is now placed outside, in which he now experienced his first feeling of neglect, the bitter cold of a thundering rain and the lack of company. Now he looks at me with all the sadness any puppy-dog eyes would generate, but dad never considered having a dog in the house, and he now has a very big kennel with a makeshift bed to sleep on.


*****************************

Stand at the edge, and know that you’re alone.

I read that somewhere, forgot about it, remembered it but not who wrote it; anyone know?

Work is Monochrome







There is no wait.





No knowing where it falls






No room for patience.





No end.

***********

I was bored at work.

Flash makes a very good substitute for paint.

I think there is a large percentage of people in the world who proclaim (with much integrity) that Life’s a Real Practical Joker; the way it leads you down to somewhere only to constantly steer you towards the marshlands, or pot-hole pedestrian, or sometimes the guillotine museum while at essence you’re pretty much going to end up in the same place as everyone. Why make it so taxing?


Then there’s another percentage of people who says that Life’s Full of Raillery and it’s pretty much all harmless stuff unless you think it is otherwise. Mind over matter is the key, and to quote the common term that they roll around with their tongues in cheerful-spouting sweetness; When life’s getting you down, just smile, smile, and you’re not in frown.


Then there’s the other percentage who says everyone is a hypocrite, even themselves, and they live a life in abject hate of everything.


I, for one, don’t know which percentage do I belong in. I would like to say I’m in the Life’s Raillery bandwagon, but sometimes I feel that choosing that makes me one of the Everybody’s a Hypocrite club. Either way, does it really matter? I think life’s pretty much where everyone lives and dies and try not to suffer so much in the process. And making sure they have offspring. And that’s why most people think gays aren’t really ‘living’, but that’s their problem to ponder, and to peace with them.

It’s an Oh Noes! Week. You can imagine me going Oh Noes! so many times now I’ve close to turning into Edvard Munch’s The Scream, and I thank that to the fact that I’m now probably going to be twice busier with triple the things to worry about.


It feels like exploitation. It feels like the cultural creations of the world is in conspiracy against me. It’s filial piety and workmanship abuse. It’s the obdurate over the friable, where I’m the cookie and someone’s very determinedly threatening to crumble me unless I do what they want. I’m the lesser individual here, and there’s nothing I could do without suffering the consequences, and while I don’t believe that there is ever too high a price to pay, there is a price so high it will make you penniless and in eternal torment under some sort of relentless loan system.


There’s nothing else to do but to play along, and at most, make the best out of it, I guess. Yup, I’m in the Life’s Raillery bandwagon, with a cartful of hippies, singing Raindrops keep falling on my Head.


My back hurts. I think I overworked it. Either that or I’ve been bending down wrongly while doing the garden reconstruction. We’re having one part of the garden cemented and dad saw to himself to use whatever we have to relocate to turn another, more desolate, part of the garden into an oasis. I’m already so wasted over Industrial Training and now my weekends are a part-time construction worker. I’ve done my fair share of hoeing, brick transferring and soil disposing. I want my rest back. Give me my rest.


And my job seems to have taken a turn towards the troublesome; now Ji Lin and I have to work on a bunch of nonsense that’ll take the whole 3 months and I’ll have to go around researching and doing meetings and stuff. To cap it off I’m (supposedly) group leader, which sucks, and I’m already at riff with the fact that I feel like I’ve been misplaced for this internship crap. Oh noes…


The only good thing this week was Kelv-ster dropping by on his off day for lunch, and while it was short it was good to catch up on stuff. Everyone seems to be doing fine working at the papers. Makes me wonder and wish.


*****************


I’m sorry if the post didn’t make any sense. The sleep gnomes have raided my brain terminals and are now launching a full-scale assault of the left cerebral bunker. Which means it’s only moments before I dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd…………………….

Running the cogs.

Maybe it’s only me but I find it exceptionately easy to fall into routine. It’s only day 6 at work and I’m already going on it like I’ve done it for the past 2 years (excluding the hard and new parts, like going on a meeting with a very lethargic looking person from the insurance brokers or calling a designer who sounded like I’m willing him to commit suicide).

It doesn’t mean I’m doing a good job, though. It also didn’t mean that I enjoy routine and monotony. I don’t. I like things fresh and constantly new, yet it is undeniable that we live on routine and that routine does, at most, bring comfort and peace and consistency.

Work day will begin by waking, packing, taking the 7.30/7.45 train to KL Sentral, grabbing the Klang train at 8.15/8.30, breakfast, work, lunch, work and then the train home, which I use to catch up on my anime on the phone. Then dinner, then chill, then sleep until the next day and rinse and repeat.

I’ve been getting along the days feeling like I’m part Gene Kelly under the rain and part Forrest Gump on a road trip, in the sense that I’m feeling cheerful over things I don’t really know or don’t really understand or just cheerful anyway because it’s the way to be. Not in the manner like I’m having a spring in my step or seeing fraying bougainvilleas as majestic roses; but I’m walking with the sun behind a gentle cloud and humming to whatever song that’s stuck in the head.

I take it as a way to cope with the strain, but well, if it is, then I’m coping pretty well.
I realised today that I didn’t like my job. I don’t hate it, but it’s just this; it’s not something I’ve signed up and bargained for. It’s something I would’ve done in a desperate state of unemployment, but at the whole - especially when reading up or listening on fellow course mates’ exciting and unpredictable ventures - I feel like I’ve registered for the Dead Poets Society and instead got the Campus’ Program for the Future Janitor.

To think that I spent months wondering how it would be to cope with journalism, when now I’m doing anything but journalism. And where I’m sitting now, things are starting to get stale and uninspiring if not for the rather positive outlook I seem to have on it (learn what’s shoved to you, because in the real world where dog eat dogs and corporate leaders are masked alien tyrants, whatever you can get, keep it).

And so I did.

A few people asked why I didn’t apply for a change when I discovered I won’t be doing journalism, the big punch-line is that; I didn’t know I won’t be doing journalism until the end of the exams and I’m starting to get calls from the office. And it’s not like I can completely help it. Ms Sharon said I’ll be going to an ‘online publication company’ (to which I immediately deduced is a HoMag, due to the secrecy of it). Ms Sharon also said ‘online magazine’, I believe, and even at the amended list of where we’ll be sent to, mine was marked ‘online JR co’.

Gee whiz, I sure was expecting some sort of obscure online magazine where the people will work in leather-tight pants and worshipping Hardo-Gay. At least that’s a journalism co, even if it will hurt my heterosexual believes and standpoint. What I got is an IT company that has, at this moment, nothing to do with whatever online publication aside from the fact that it publishes websites. Does that count?

No, I don’t enjoy typing letters. I don’t like calling designers to goddamn send the brochure drafts. I don’t like the sound of grant proposals and hamper fax advertisements and I sure dislike making minutes of meetings. The only thing I enjoy is the little bit of advertising copywriting I‘m tasked to do, but at the end of the day, I wonder why I’m there doing the things I’m not supposed to.

I don’t hate it. I’m learning from it. But damn, I want to write about something that has happened and then let others read it, because even if it’s the most basic, stoic and downright boring piece of writing, it’s still a story.

I want to write stories.

*******************************

Apparently, the kitten I let in from the gutter seem to be treating the place as some sort of hide-out. Or at least, that’s what its mother would prefer to think, and now when I go behind I hear mewing and if I pop the gutter-hole open, a kitten head appears and would seem to want to come inside and tear at the curtains.

Dad’s idea is to flush it away with boiling water.

My idea is to leave the gutter hole open and when the kitten’s in it’ll meet the Rastafarian pup and maybe they can be friends.

********************************

How does this sound for the opening text to a website Client Support page?

“In giving life, God gave the means to live.”

If you see it online somewhere, you’ll know that it was written by a guy half-awake and wallowing in the last bit of his daily-depleting sanity, and know to feel some sort of pity, perhaps, or even feel happy for him, because it’s sadly the only thing creative that he felt he had done over the past week.

And it just got better.


I’m surviving, I think. It’s the sort of week you get that resembles the first days on a deserted island where you don’t have your own calendar and didn’t know that coconuts are strong laxatives. And you get your rain and shine which you try to keep away with whatever strands of palm leaves you can get and you surely don’t know how to make a fire. Yet.


But as surviving goes you adept and surely, just surely, at one point I would know that if you rub a stick over a handful of dry leaves you might just get your fire.


Let’s see; first week of the year, first three days on the job (industrial training) and a weekend with no parents plus construction work (cement pavement) happening at the garden. Lots to talk about, innit? Well I’ll start by pulling a leaf out of my fellow blogging friends, notably The One on a Retarded Journey (Cartoon Chronicals) and the Twisted Trainsistor, and go along depicting the brief details of my past week by categories of events/incidents/accidents/


To which, to start with:

Industrial Training

I have to admit; I woke up on Wednesday morning, took the train, took the LRT and took the bus to the office telling myself that I’ll be at a somewhat small office doing anything but journalism and having things easy in a way but disappointing in another. And I was right, somehow, because the office is somewhat small, and I’ve been doing anything but journalism, but what I didn’t count on was that being one who (currently) has to market himself based solely on his (deplorable) skills to write, I wouldn’t be able to have it easy.


In fact, I have it easy in the certain things that I do, like, what? Typing letters and a daily update? Cake. Not cake when having to do a lot of it.


And somehow Ji Lin and I are put into a few major projects, where there’s considerably more work to do compared to the other fellow interns (from PD block), and it just keeps piling up somehow, and now it feels like there’s too much for me to keep track.


Still, it’s an interesting first 3 days. Friendly senior colleagues, and free wireless to secretly DL songs when no one’s looking. My boss, Joe (which I will now refer to as the Bossman) is a nice person, which I would likened to a soft-speaking, more polite and ambitious Joey Tribbiani (in looks), the sort of people with high hopes and a set way to get things done. But he works us off like we’re slaves (technically, on an RM300 allowance, we ARE slaves). Nice dude, but evil. Sigh


There’s Kiwi, my supervisor (I like to think, though more or less Ji Lin and I are under both Kiwi and Joe), which is… how do I put her? Cute and playful and funny but gets the work done like she’s the roman empress. Not tyrannical, not harsh or brutal, but she gets it done with finesse.


Over the three days I’ve been doing copywriting, letters, webpage texts, minutes of meetings, R & D and a whole lot of typing. There’s a lot to tell, but I’m too lazy at the moment, and also because there’s;


Car Problems:


Tyres busting.

Battery weakling. Two days stranded when I arrived back to town to find my car wouldn’t start so I have to call an exasperated dad.

Side-mirror-a-falling. Someone must’ve clipped it. Drove two nights without a side mirror and it is annoying.

Parked Cars a-scraping. Was giving way to an oncoming car and SCREACHEeee

Shitty guys repairing. Two hours at the repair shop waiting for people to come and fix my car and being treated like I was sitting there making trouble. Way to go.

Five golden rings…


Parents. Not. Home:


No. One. Feeding. Dog. Come. Home. Mess. Shit. People. Cement. Garden. Help. Move. Stuff. Tired. Bye. Rest. Day. Ps2. Controllers. Broke. Damn. Nothing. Else. Dead. Bored. Work. Tomorrow. Rush. Home. Feed. Pets. Sigh.

Grant Proposal.

Something that I have to read over on the weekend but I haven’t, because vista won’t open it properly and it’s all jumbled up. Nuts.



Add all of that to a lot of rain and a couple of bad luck, like going to work on your first day with Milo stains on your shirt, and getting major train delays while feeling tired out because the bossman kept us up late at work.


Ah, but I hate to sound like I’m whining; it’s been an interesting week; I’m tired but I’m feeling lively, and sometimes I can’t help but feel useful. Not bad.


To round this post, a kitten crawled up the drain today and got stuck at the gutter (or, rather, the drain where the water from my washing machine goes), and throughout the morning I heard mewing like it was coming from the walls but didn’t pay too much attention; you get cats at the back-alley behind the house too often to care.


Then it rained and I was cleaning up the trash behind when it mewed again, so cousin Ivan and I opened the gutter hole and the kitten was there, wet but strangely calm. It crawled out of the hole and I wrapped him up in an old shirt. After the rain I was thinking of asking some neighbours if they wanted a kitten, but when I got to the back-alley the mother was there peeking into the gutter, so I placed the kitten near where the gutter was and the mother came back soon after to pick it up.


I haven’t heard any mewing since, so I guess it’s good.

It’s that time of year again.

Day 1. The Big Second. The Pivotal Start to a Brand New Beginning.


Which meant that what’s gone is gone and that I should probably start putting up my New Year’s resolutions, only to forget about it come the start of February. But what’s there to put up anyhow? Same old, same old, I’d say. Be a Person should head my list, the way it led the others into a wild plunge towards the army of Unbecoming. Year after year.


Well, it’s the New Year anyhow. It’s 2008, and it’s just about as big as any passing and coming of years, and I should make the most of it. Even if I’ve somehow caught the cough and a rather exasperating runny nose (the type where you don’t quite have boogers but actual water dripping down like failed waterworks), not to mention having the worst night of yester year. And Industrial Training starts tomorrow. Ah, the well and proper start to a brand new year.


It’s the New Year and I should probably put up a review of 2007, which I would do now.


There wasn’t much about the past year; I didn’t remember much of it anyhow, and the first half went like every semester of college, with much assignments and the fair few emotional problems, most of them typically pathetic now that I think of it.


But at May it was finito; college ends and Uni starts, and I said goodbye to many I’ve now lost contact with, though not quite lost as in completely forsaken; only the window of communication and talk shrunk to just as much as a 20 cents stamp. But that’s the way that I know it; wherever there’s change there’s loss, but there’s always gain, and there’s always those maintained even if it trickled away.


And then I transferred from a prim and proper institution into a factory site they call a university, but it’s all fine. Good teachers, great friends and a sleuth of some very interesting characters, like they’re smack out of bizarre-town.


I’ve learned new pointers in writing, and I think I actually improved in my drawing: not that it’ll help in anything. My old laptop died and I got a new one, and the old laptop got revived and is now dad’s. My steadfast Mp3 player got lost and I bought a new one, which is pretty much the same only with more memory space (and a speaker at the back). I got my first article published in the paper, and while it’s nothing worth commemorating or be proud about, I guess it’s a good start.


And the death of Max. And the arrival of Marley the Rastafarian Pup.


The best part of 2007? I don’t seem to have any. I think, on the whole, as every year had been; it was a good year, and I’m glad that I’m at the life I’m in.


2008. It started with a cough, a sneeze, and couple of hours turning in bed in a futile attempt to sleep. And while it’s shitty, from the popping sounds of fireworks and the passing cheers of people in their celebrations, I guess sometimes we can’t help but smile at the coming of things.


Happy New Year.

It didn’t take him long to evaluate the situation; he was shackled to the wall, naked, the dankness of the place pressing upon him like cold iron of a knife, and in front of him stood two men, both identical in being thin and tall and in suits. He needn‘t any explanation to know that he was in deep trouble.


“Awake now, Mr. Dale?” said one of the man, be he couldn’t tell who; both faces were masked by shadows. “It’s time to start on our little practice.”


“Wha-” was all he could manage, and it was the last he would ever remember saying. The last he would remember hearing was the one of the tall man saying, “My partner Mr. Duwall, will be tending to you. I would say that his methods are quite… multifarious. Enjoy.”


The last he remembered seeing was the tray of instruments deliberated dropped in front of him, where it clattered with a crash he couldn’t hear.



What he remembered, though, was the pain.


Like fire.

****

multifarious \muhl-tuh-FAIR-ee-uhs\, adjective:


Having great diversity or variety; of various kinds; diversified.



(How to have fun learning new words)

Let’s see… it’s quite about 11.58 p.m., on the 27th of December 2007 (Happy Birthday, bro!), and just about the right time to ponder about relatively important questions.


Questions, such as How to Kill the Rancor, or If the Persiflage Banter of Mrs. Copperton Caused the Death of her Husband, What Would that Form of Homicide be?


I’ll be frank; I don’t know how to kill the Rancor. I tried every weapon in the book, even dual-handed Lightsabers, but he still pounces and devour me whole (of course, there’s no need to kill the Rancor; you just need to steer the prisoners away from it…). The other question is for you to ponder about.


I was in the car afternoon yesterday when I phone call came asking if I am Mr Tan and if I’m the one who will be doing my Industrial Training at Global Infonet, and after my prompted answer it went on to ask if I can attend to the firm a few days earlier to help out with a few stuff, and that it would be a big help, and that since I’ve asked if I can visit the firm earlier already I might as well get to work. No?


Well I said no, because I have work with my father and my uncle (white lies, people, canvas white, pearly white, candle white), not that I’m obliged to go and help anyway when my semester break is already so short. What I got instead was a product write-up, apparently for some evaluation of sorts, which I submitted this afternoon with the nagging feeling that it will be slotted to some poor website’s advertising over some Laptop Insurance policy.


For the next 3 months, I’ll be doing my internship at Global Infonet (after being tossed around from The Star to Bernama and finally to this, most likely do to chagrin-able performances at the exams), where I’ll be working from 9-to-6 daily doing heaven knows what, and I’ll be paid RM300 for my troubles. It doesn’t sound like Journalism to me, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers, only amicable leeches, and the best consolation is knowing that I will not be sent to a HoMag.


I was looking forward to Industrial Training, but now that I know that I won’t likely be doing some actual journalism, I think I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been somehow tricked into some sort of minimal-wage labour when I first signed the form pertaining to where I might want to intern at. It’s a ploy, by poorly paid university lecturers sending less fortunate students to unwanted firms and earning some hefty side money from it. How the heck can they afford a BMW?


Ahhhh, give me back my youth!

******

Hmm my youth is well here, albeit a very wasted youth.


Here’s a little recommendation; if you’re a Simpsons fan and particularly enjoy their musical escapades, try getting your hands on one of their albums.


But if you didn’t know that they actually released albums compiling their original soundtrack, no worries, because you’ll be hard pressed to find them here. I saw the one and only copy of The Simpsons: Testify!, at The Gardens on Monday.


I managed to mooch it off somewhere, but now I’m looking for their older album, particularly the ones with the songs The Spring in Springfield and See My Vest (this one the spoof of Be My Guest from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast).


And now, as I finish this and prepare for sleep, the lyrics to Jellyfish


Jellyfish, along you came,
And right away I’m stung
Sweet words I longed to whisper,
But you paralysed my tongue…

Uninspired Days


Goes by with something like this;


1) Wake up
2) Brush teeth
3) Greets puppy and greets puppy’s mess
4) Breakfast and a show
5) Chores
6) A choice of three; Movie, Ps2, Laptop for the rest of the day.
7) Chores
8) Dinner
9) Stare blankly at a blank page
10) Give up
11) Sleep.



Altogether rather peaceful days if not entirely unproductive, which much proves to myself on what I am and the sort of life I’m living.




But there isn’t really much else to deviate to; I mean, I can’t finance myself to go out frequently, I don’t have good books to spend my idling to and I certainly fail at writing when I’m much more inspired to stop thinking at times where I’m not required to think. I’m. Too. Lazy. Yeah, that much sums it up.




The break in monotony is a movie yesterday, which was I Am Legend, which was watched together with Pauline and my cousin Ivan (who having no time and no company to watch this movie with, ended up spending a lesser work day with us) at Mid Valley. There was the Christmas Eve throng and much mindless wondering (on my part, at least), but it was an enjoyable day and I didn’t even see the arcades.




I Am Legend is a good movie, but when I thought about it on the way home I realised that it was somewhat lacking. What it has is; good, chair-gripping action, a good performance by Will Smith, a very despairing sense of loneliness and a rare glimpse at human nature in times of hopeless aloneness. What it doesn’t have is; more chair-gripping action, a better ending and a sleuth of untapped potential I feel the premise has. But it is a good movie, definitely one of the better ones this year, and definitely worth the money.




And today I found time to watch 1408, last year’s adaptation of Stephen King’s short story of the same name, which I read barely days ago on Everything’s Eventual (which I’m weeks overdue at the university library).




It’s about horror writer Mike Enslin’s stay at a room with an in-room death history of 52, some of them from (gruesome) suicide, most of them from unreported natural deaths, and definitely due to some anomaly in the room. Well, a Samuel L. Jackson’s Mr Olin couldn’t do anything to deter our determined writer from staying at the room, and eventually our writer faces the worst sort of room service you’d never tip for.




Critics gave it rather favourable reviews. I found it disappointing because I thought the short story was much more horrifying. My brother said it scared him shitless and there really is a very good sequence in the hotel’s ventilation system in which our writer crawled in to escape from the room. It has its emotional moments, bizarre moments and also its stupid moments. It’s nice, I guess, but like I said; the short story scared me somewhat, the movie didn’t do anything else except made me jump during the ventilation scene.




Next horror movie romp; 28 Weeks Later. Which didn’t quite work on the DVD player but maybe will work on the laptop.




*************




Merry Christmas!

(A dire anomaly has caused the picture to shrink! Zoom with CTRL and + to read, if u actually want to.)

Sem Break!


Well, yeah.


I was up yesterday morning with a taste of liberty in my mouth (the tang you get from sleeping with your mouth agape for 12 hours) and a sensation of zenith spirits, which made me do certain things I would never do in half of my lifetime. Like telling myself, Yeah, I’ll clean up the room today.


And then I ate breakfast and sat around the living room, pillowed by the whim of warmly curry noodles freshly devoured, and as much as it counts to me, this is what homeliness is all about. Normally I would do as much as I could to laze the day away, but the spirit was there, and I announced to my parents that I will be cleaning up my room and they looked at me as if I told them I was having a homosexual relationship.


So I cleaned the room and did a pretty good job of it, and now it looked neater and nicer to navigate through and I won’t probably lose my pen whenever I put it down and find it half a year later under some strewn paper.


Speaking of lost pens, I found 5 I thought I misplaced in college and three of them still works (the other two, under the clogging ability of dust, failed to perform like any pen would). I also found my copy of Tales of Unease by Sir A. Conan Doyle; a collection of short stories I bought for cheap but left forgotten among my stack of notes (collected for 2 years consecutively). Other findings include a bunch of old exercise books, one of them with my old primary school comic drawings, which was so horribly bad I smiled like a moron looking at his old porno collection.


And speaking of porno collections… *ahem*, I found my Y Tu Mama Tambien VCD tucked among some old books. It’s not porn per se. It’s Alfonso Cuaron’s highly praised movie I happen to purchase from a VCD peddler who filed it under soft-core porn. I bought it for one buck and forgot to watch it. Now I wonder if it works.


* * * *


Grindhouse is best defined as two A-class movie slapped with B-grade title because they wanted to make two B-grade titles that rock. And they rock. It can’t be any more blatantly put unless I use the words kick-ass, super!, walao-weh and holy motherf***


But here’s the thing; very rarely you see movie directors making movies for fun. Grindhouse struck me as that. Somewhat Tarantino and Rodriguez got bored and they came up with this fresh idea from something that was already stale 20 years ago. They came up with two movies that is completely over the top the way b-grade movies are and they made it hella fun.


You won’t even care even if they’re utterly gory, campy and downright disgusting sometimes. When you see the girl stick an assault rifle as her peg leg you know this is some serious mindless fun.

Today I found an old friend.

I didn’t, actually. It was the start of the trailer for Edward Burn’s Purple Violets, where the words are printed by typewriter, on Courier.

The trailer then talked about how ‘sometimes you get second chances’ and how you make of it, even if it may suck. A love story about discovering what that was and whether or not it should be rekindled. Or, at least, I think that’s what it’s all about.

(Well, the movie looks good, only that I won’t probably be able to watch it on local screens. And it’s not the type of show I would download, because it was made for the arts and not for profit and the guilt will be evermore eminent.)

It got me thinking though. About two things:

About meeting and old friend, and about second chances.

But it’s not difficult to find the old friend, though there is always the question of time and place and convenience. No, I think the biggest question is about second chances, and what we can make of it.

Unfortunately second chances won’t probably find its way linearly into my hands like moth to purple fluorescent light. I guess it should be grabbed, and then it also depends on the size of your net and the speed of your timing. That is, if second chances do fly by me when I wish for it.

I watched my first Fred Astaire movie today, which coincidentally is also my first Audrey Hepburn movie, and it was a 1957 musical by the name of Funny Face.

They weren’t kidding about ‘dancing like Fred Astaire’, because darn it, Fred Astaire could dance. Like the very essence of music itself. The timing, the self-choreographed freshness and the total life of it; man, poetry in motion. And he could sing. And act. Heck, he could even make like a complete fool of a man and still look cool and perpetually charming.

Audrey Hepburn was cute. Like the schoolgirl Lolita nerd (at least, until she was fashioned into a model by Astaire in the movie). Really darn cute. And really darn talented in acting and dancing.

Man, back then actors are ACTORS. Now, actors just need to look pretty and ride a horse with a dwarf saddled to the back. The eyes of Hollywood these days…

It was an enjoyable movie, only not so funny as it might have suggested. But there was one segment of the movie where Astaire and Hepburn went around Paris doing photo shoots, and the still photos were somewhat excellent.

At the end of the day and through revision, I had the some parts of the lyrics stuck in my head. I think I might just have to go to sleep with it.

Though you're no Mona Lisa

For worlds I'd not replace,

Your sunny, funny face.

Dog Day Afternoon.

I found out that there are two distinctive ways to spend the afternoon before your exams (neither prolific nor conducive); one if them is getting to know your subject notes better and greet it with a genial drawing or two, and the second way is to bask in the window-filtered afternoon sunshine and watching Al Pacino robbing a bank in Dog Day Afternoon, while also taking some pictures of your Rastafarian pup.

(This is the Rastafarian pup at this favourite spot in the house, which has moved from under the coffee table to the rug at the front door, where it is much sunnier and where he wouldn’t wake up and bang his head.)

Of course, you can also mix both methods and have guilt cling to your chest like a cling-happy cat, where it stings and weighs considerably.

I’m glad to inform that study week is over and not so glad to inform that exams start tomorrow, for which I am not (and never) prepared of, and if you ask why I’m still here blogging instead of having a hectic final bout of revision, lets just say that I stand firm in my believe that procrastination will allow me to stand at the end of time a victor and a survivor, for the reward of time is to not spend it even if it flows eternally.

Yes, that is nonsense, so bite me in the hiney and see how it tastes.

Argh, the horror… I’m so bad at studying now I can’t even concentrate for 5 minutes. 5 minutes, and I was doodling on the spare piece of paper, or walking around the house senseless, or plopping down at the laptop to have a go at CS. 10 minutes later I was on the couch watching TV until conscience leant slightly more to the angel’s department and I was back in front of my notes. 5 minutes later the paper was full with anime heads.

Feature Writing tomorrow, and death is at the front gate, with his iPOD on and Amy Tan open at chapter 24, reading by moonlight.

I’ll be needing some luck tomorrow. And ample sleep.

Goodnight people.

(And to all the tormented souls out there under the same torturous contraptions such as I, good luck and if you don’t believe in luck, all the best. Or, if you don’t believe in wishes, then Merry Christmas and a happy Maryln Manson).

Clock; 1.44 a.m.

I can’t sleep.

This is a rare occurrence of insomnia. I used to be prone to it, but for the past few years (perchance due to a dwindling state of mind) I’ve been able to sleep soundly and surely, and I take it as a sign of a good turnaround.

Insomnia (for me, at least) is not where one finds the inability to sleep due to excessive remnants in energy and freshness. Rather, the lethargy and overall yearn to sleep is there, eminent and strong, yet the body fails to rest, and the mind fails to close, and what’s left is to will away the stagnating clinging of troubles or thoughts that refuses you your sleep.

I said troubles or thoughts, but not every occurrence is due to certain problems that plague the mind. Sometimes it’s just the simple act of thinking that keeps me awake, whatever that was in mind. It’s stupid, and obviously something I feel is easily cast away at a whim, but I guess things don’t work well enough for me. So the cogs continue to turn, rambling and loud and screechy, working on thoughts one doesn’t even need to think about.

I’ve had things worse sometimes, like not being able to sleep a wink until forced to give up, and finding myself cooking a very early breakfast and finding things to do to pass the time. Normally time passes very slowly then, and I may even try to sleep, but it wouldn’t come and there wouldn’t be anything to do; no TV for fear of waking the parents. No books to the mind as numb and heavy with exhaustion. No video games, no internet (none back then, except for dial-up, which was too costly for me to afford in order to will away times of less importance) and definitely no one to talk to.

Only silence, darkness, and the lulling calls of sleep; malice and cruel in its alluring tease. But I just couldn’t bloody sleep.

With time to spare and little to do, I did something a kid with consciousness and boredom could conjure; I imagined. I remembered telling myself stories to sleep. Sounds crazy, I guess, but it started when I closed my eyes and make a sentence and see how it goes. Most times, if the story is nice, I repeat on that same scene and feel the ease of mind, the loosening in the rough grip of thoughts. Then it was just pictures, images, moving and coloured or discoloured, and sometimes I fell asleep.

This tactic still works, especially if I’m too miffed up or troubled to go to sleep. Start a sentence and see where it’ll take me. Sometimes the stories I wrote come from there, but it was back then. Today my stories come from the realm of day where the monotony of waiting in places full of life took place, where words float around ready for me to grab. Still, there were always the ones that began in the midst of the night, above a snoring brother, where everything was muffled by the door and the pillow, and where the shadows come to life behind the curtain so long as passing light would give it motion.

With the laptop and the internet now, I wouldn’t have to do much to get me distracted enough to sleep. Now that I write this down I feel at ease, and I’ll probably fall asleep when I retreat to the bed.

I might not be telling me a story tonight… but as far as I know the way things work, I just might. Yeah, I might…

And the Rain! It Falls!

There’s probably everything worse than having a flat tire in the middle of a rain, and those everything else should include some saw-utilising act of Hara-Kiri, or having a giant dildo rammed down your di-


I simply gave up trying to change (the rain trickles down the spine like a cold finger in a failing courting game) and urged the car into a nearby tyre shop. Turns out the tyre has a minute crack and until I’m financially capable of buying a new set (which, to say, won’t happen for the next 16 years), I’m stuck with the spare tyre acting as a permanent.


The rain lasted Thursday morning until evening today, and it was dastardly cold and chilly, and all the while I had Breaking Benjamin’s Rain playing as I sprawled beside my Rastafarian puppy, both of us bored to bitter bits. All the world is waiting for the sun…


I’ve spent the week doing the preposterous; whereas my classmates plough through the entangling fields of destitute in preparations for the exams, I sat down and morphed into a couch tuber and watched a lot of movies. And to make it more of a despicable act, I sat down and made a list of the movies. And now to complete the trilogy of disgracefulness, I sat down and posted it today.


And now, without further ado, the List.


1) Blades of Glory.

Yeah, it took me awhile to finally sit and watch this. A lot of people said it was hilarious. I found it funny. My other 17 skitzo personalities think it’s utter nonsense. And they know I agree to a certain degree.


2) Knocked Up.


Well, there was half a year where I skipped on the info and tagged this movie along the lines of Date Movie and Epic Movie (I.e; movies to avoid watching because it burns a couple of brain cells). Then I sat and watched with bro and think that it is awesome. No, really. Then I logged onto the net and saw the A- overall ratings at Yahoo!. I think it deserves it. You won’t find anything fresher this year around, and it’s probably the only movie that can make the scenario of having sex with a pregnant woman downright hilarious.


3) Tekkon Kinkreet

Which is an Anime, which I was introduced to while going through the trailers of my Paprika DVD. I don’t quite know what to make of it; the animation and art is superb, but the plot is like a strewn mess that makes sense but leaves the feeling of discomfort, like being in an untidy room.


4) Disturbia.

Ah, now this is a nice movie. Thrillers just need to be simple while hitting the right notes in making things intense and scary. They don’t even bother with a twist to the killer’s identity; rather, they make him stand there so you get creeped out, and it makes sending in an Asian dude into his garage so much more scarier.


5) Evan Almighty.

Uhhh… I thought it’s alright, only as stale as movies like this can come.


6) The Kingdom.

I’m surprised this movie made the Malaysian screens; I dunno if they cut the scene where the suicide bomber prays to God before bombing himself and taking a couple of people along with him to meet his 72 virgins. It’s gritty, it’s somewhat exaggerated if you think of it (it’s like how easy action heroes in action movies get around with things) and it’s good.


7) Balls of Fury.

A comedy! With tiny balls! Oh shit my brain hurts...


8) Fido.

Hmm. Imagine instead of having WW2, dust from outer space settled on earth and raised the dead into zombies, thus beginning the Zombie Wars. And then, with the very intelligent scientists discovering that when you shoot a zombie in the head and you kill them, the war is won by humans. Every city and town is then walled behind thick fences. But what do you do when your grandpa dies and becomes a zombie (due to residue of the settled dust)? Why, with the smartness of the scientists, you give him a collar which subdues his need to feed and voila; workers and labours that u don’t have to pay or feed.

Then it’s the story of a boy who found a friend in his zombie and names him Fido. And it’s like those movies about boys and their pets, only this one is the story of a boy and his zombie, which ate his neighbour, in a world so crazy that crazy is normal (what, zombies doing your trash and garden. Kids taught to headshot and people getting eaten while everyone else acts as though normality is this). You don’t come along a premise like this in a long, long time. While it’s not a great movie per se, it’s something worth watching.


9) The Golden Compass.

Never has a movie made me angry. Never. This one did. ‘Nuff said.


10) The many other movies I watched on HBO and Star Movies which I’ve completely forgotten, apart from the one about Steve Martin and John Candy trying to get home for Christmas, where they have to take trains and cars and planes.


Well, The Golden Compass doesn’t suck. It just made a fan of the book pissed. Producers of LoTR my arse. If they can’t end the movie right, even if it doesn’t quite end, at least do what the book says. It ended good, at least.

***********
I seem to have forgotten what books I lent to whom; I went through my cabinet wondering where Stardust is only to remember that I lent it to a friend, and it took me a trip to the kitchen to remember that it was Pei Ling. Then I forgot that my copy of the Golden Compass is still with Pauline and I started to call a cousin, only to remember just in time. Now I don’t quite remember what I lent my cousin. Or was it games, not books?


Argh.

Today is a Testing Day.

I know it for a fact that it is. I even predicted in before I went to bed, and for the past week I’ve seen it looming in the distant future like a pothole I’m bound to step in and sprain my ankle. I’ve had it like the presentiment of inevitable things that are to come, and ones that ravage the peace and bliss of days.

Oh, how badly ravaged it is, and like bloodied soldier I kneel in a puddle of blood, crying, bidding the return of my virgin Sunday. (but it is tainted now and even Clorox won’t save it, so much for the miracles of soap).

But away with the histrionics; today is indeed a testing day. Dad is hell bent on mounting the newly bought prayers altar, which meant that there are holes to drill, screws to screw and many a mental strain as the profound immensity of my father’s Austinian means of oppression (and slavery) bear upon me like trepanning.

I will get screwed (as in scold), bolted (as in hit) and drilled (as in furiously demanded to repeat a course of work). It is the complete package should you wish to subscribe to Living with the Tans, the new and life-changing experience for your loss to miss!

So, then and there, it happened, and I got along with it. After all, it is a religious thing, and something I ought to get into without much qualms.

I’m not quite a religious person, though. I only go as far as praying, wearing amulets my dad insists I do and believing and respecting in the existence of a more higher form of life. In fact, I have this constant believe that all gods in every religion exists and are probably interacting among one another in more than mutual ways, up in the clouds. Like, for instance, a weekly bridge-and-poker night at Nirvana or a day off basking at the banks of Styx. I don’t mean to disrespect, but there’s this vision of Kuan Yin, Amaterasu, Mother Mary and Hera sitting down over Go Fish and comparing sons that I can’t really shake off.

(“I wouldn’t want to call Heracles my son,” said Hera. “But he did bring me back this ring from his business in Athens. Such a sweet young man, even if he’s not mine per se. I just wish Zeus would’ve kept it in his pants even if the titans were at it.”
“MY son led all humankind to eternal paradise,” said Mary, and all the girls nodded in approval.)

I take religion in a more lighthearted manner; I believe that if I do something I get something, and it is due to my own actions. I don’t believe in getting something by wishing and perpetually wishing that it will be given because I wish with devotion. I see death as something natural, and while I’m still scared shitless about it, I’ll eventually die and what happens after we leave it for then to see. Rather, I find it more important to keep a part of myself in this world, mostly in writing, so as to stay a memory on earth.

Funny enough, someone once told me that this believe in the cycle of life and the immortalisation of memories on earth is Taoism, and insisted that I believe in the bridge to God, and said it in the way like I’m certainly going to hell. No offence. I remember feeling insulted, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Well, if you think of it, the way that most of us act according to each own beliefs, in every way we’re going to hell in one religion but going to heaven in another. Imagine a man dying and instead of seeing the shiny gates of heaven as he expects to, he sees the boatman at the river of darkness, who says, “You’re not buried with coins on your eyes. You stay here and rot.”

Imagine the distraught. But of course, I have this feeling that every belief sort of keep a track on their believers, and when they die they get assigned to them own means of spending the afterlife. Sort of like subscribing to insurance or a retirement plan from different companies.

Ah, time I head to bed now. But before I go let it be known that I mean no ill will towards other religions in writing this. I know we’re all chill people, but you won’t know if I suddenly find this in a newspaper somewhere and soon an entire nation wishes my death at the stake.

My dad will disown me and probably burn me at the stake himself, and well, spare it from me will ya?

Bee Story

So, so, I was there right, at the back of my house, helping dad weed out the creepies that tangled in the fence when this HUUUUGE-Douche of a bee just flew in and smack me right on the forehead. WHAP! I thought I was hit by a prune there, or a rotten mango or something, and I was like, blurred and confused like a guy who discovered he had mammary glands, and then dad turned around and looked at me all weirded out and said;

“What happened? Got high on weed?”

And I said, “No, this HUUUGE-Douche of a bee just hit me in the forehead.”

And he said, “Don’t let me catch you with weed or I’ll have your head.”

And I said, “No sir, I don’t smoke weed but lalang doesn’t count as that sort of weed now, right? Cos I’m weeding and stuff.”

And he said, “……..” and went back to hacking at the bougainvilleas while I stood there to figure things out and to think and to wonder if that bee hit me on purpose due to some personal vendetta or something, cos I hate bees and I‘m scared of bees and if I see bees I kill them.

After awhile dad asked me to climb down between the storehouse and the fence to hack at the bougainvillea when the bee appeared again. So I was like, “this place ain’t big enough for the both of us.” Which is true, see, because it was like, barely 3 feet wide in that place, and I ‘m already almost as wide.

And the bee, the bloody bee, he garn-it cheated and flew right at me so I swatted at it and the knife caught the fence which rung like a bell. DUUUUUUNNGGGG! Like them Notre Dame ones, only not so nice, and much more like a gong propped wrongly. I missed the bee and it hit me smack at the forehead again and I shouted, and with the ringing fence and the screaming my dad thought I fell and got impaled at the sharp parts and he came shouting, “What happened? What happened?”, so I told him the same HUUUUGE-Douche bee came again and smack me at the forehead and I swatted at it but missed and hit the fence.

So my dad, he looks at me all weirded out again and said, “You know what happens to boys who lies?”

And I said (what he told me long long ago), “they get their tongues cut off by the King of Hell who fries it and dips it in wasabi and feeds it back to them.”

And he said, “You know what happens to a 20-year old boy like you who lies?”

And I said, “I dunno sir, you never told me.”

And he said, “they see me in hell.”

And I was like, scared senseless, cos my dad, he worst than any king or duke or uncle of hell.

So I got back to hack at the bougainvilleas and it took me a few hours and then it was night-time, and that’s when the trees come to life so I hurried off in case the bougainvilleas thought of revenge. I showered and I changed and while I was buttoning my shirt I see the bee again, and he was all perched up on my laptop looking as smug as Jerry Seinfeld.

I said, “Go away, bee, I don’t wanna hurt you and if you’d wish to hurt me you’ve done that this evening so it’s even so beat it!”

But the bee, it buzzed and whirred like a my cellphone on vibration and it dashed right at me again, only this time I was ready and I smack it with my pillow. It didn’t kill the bee (it takes more than pillow to kill this bee, and I start to think that he was the devil or maybe his uncle which is the King of Hell), but it damaged it wings and it fell to the floor buzzing in its GEZZZZZZZZZZ way.

And then I thought, this bunghole bee caused me loads of trouble this evening, and it seized me like the Dark side, you know, the anger and hate and suffocation or whatnot and I grabbed the chair and I smashed it down at the bee and it got squished.

Dad, he heard the commotion and thought maybe I had an epilepsy or something, and he burst in shouting, “What happened?” and I told him that the bee came back and I beat it with my pillow but it won’t die so I used the chair on the bee and now it’s squished.

Well, if you guessed that it weirded dad out again, you are right, and dad, he looked at me like I’m some sort of crazy-ass idiot from Whose Line?, and he said to me;

“Were you watching porn?”

And I said, “No I ain’t dad, I don’t have porn in the laptop and the internet’s not on.”

And he said, “Good, cos if I catch you with porn I’m getting you a vasectomy.”

And I was like, “WHaaaa???” cos I wanna have kids and I sure don’t wanna have my privates stuffed with cotton (which is what bro said vasectomy is).

And dad nodded, and said that I should fix the chair, and he walked out.

That was the end of the worst time of the worst day I ever had.

*************

I was clearing off the old study table this afternoon when I found my old tuition file. In it was a half-written story a friend of mine back then asked me to write. It was a story about a guy who had trouble with bee while helping his dad do the garden. He wanted it to be completely nonsensical. I sort of took it as a writing challenge back then (I remembered boasting I can write a story out of anything). I didn’t finish it back then, partly because I didn’t know what to write about, and it was forgotten the next week I went to class.

This evening dad hauled me out of the room to help him clear off the weeds and the wild plants that managed to tangle with the bougainvilleas and the fence over the years, and halfway through it a bee flew straight at me and it sort of shocked me up a little (I’m not good with bees). My dad looked at me with this combination of curiosity and sternness, and the basis of the story grew then.

I tried to make it as idiotic as I possibly can (which isn’t, really, because nonsensicality has no borders), and I post it up here beyond any rational thought and concern of my personal image, as a commemoration to that friend.

So here’s to you, Ling, wherever you are, and I hope that poem I gave you to court that girl in class is not lost (it was pretty darn good, really).

And even toads will cross my path.

This evening alone I’ve had heavy rain, a flash flood of sorts and dinner at KFC, which is preferably left to your discretion, dear reader, lest you find particular pleasure in getting me grounded for spending unnecessarily.


I arrived home at nine to a puppy that eagerly awaited my return so that he could pounce on my feet, to nibble and to bite and to slobber over, and it is high time I remind myself that in the future, my Rastafarian dog will eventually fall into a huge build-up of libido, and it’s best that I start training him to leave my legs alone.


I sat down at my laptop and I found these words written on a document I almost deleted;


When we talk about the world, what do we really talk about?


It took me awhile to remember what I wrote it for, so I looked up at some old hand-written essays and found a forgotten beginning to a short story. I typed it down on the laptop and remembered that I did it before, once upon a time, and ran a search. Voila, the document was there, strangely at the tucked at the corner of my documents folder in the way I wouldn’t notice. Now I read what I wrote and I forgot how to actually end it.


But have we really ever talked about the World?


Afraid not. And I think he deserves some sort of respect and commemoration.


* * * * *


It hadn’t really stopped raining, but it had dwindled into a drizzle nonetheless, and it was safe enough for me to make for the LRT station without being completely drenched. In a night where it is dark and shunned by the grace of moonlight and lampposts, a drizzle somewhat doesn’t seem to exist, not in sight, not even in touch, because as the wind took over it was a completely deluge of chill and dampness.


But not every part of the street is deprived of light, and eventually there was a streetlight bright enough for me to make out most of the way, and it was then when the toad hopped out of the shadows and through the gap between my feet, either completely unawares or completely unafraid, which is not quite the way toads are supposed to behave.


And I was there bemused and perplexed somewhat, wondering there if there is a superstition that states that if a toad hops between your feet, you might get something out of it. And if there IS something like this, then I got myself a story, only that I wished I got some money instead. Aren’t toads supposed to be lucky?

Pointlessness is all about making things without having to.

It was bleary, I was groggy and both of them combined to be some sort of hangover that seem to occur the mornings after Monday, so it was quite a heavy awakening, and it took me some self-assurance (and nagging) to get me up and brush my teeth.


It sort of drizzled in the morning, and the skies today has a sort of cataclysmic imminence spelled all over it. It was the sort of weather the TV newscaster would say, “Ladies and gentlemen… I think we’re about to get motherf***ed”. Therefore it was cold and bleak, and so much to start the day.


But there isn’t much to talk about today. Dad was on the train and LRT with me; his car was in the workshop for the umpteen time this few months, and as per usual occasions in which we both found ourselves in a train wedged between people, we were more or less quiet.


I am always under the impression that my dad would look completely put of place in public transportation; there is always the image of a grizzly bear cantering in a shopping mall unawares of the screams and shouts. And there he was, sitting in the middle seat of three, arms folded with his sunglasses on so that I wouldn’t know if he had his eyes closed or he was scowling at the destitute impression of the commuting world. Just like a grizzly bear, only that people are used to it, just as much as they’re used to the elephant seal standing at the sliding doors, the ostrich reading Amy Tan and the iguana leisurely propping himself at the glass divider looking like a jade mannequin.


Somewhere near my stop he drew 10 bucks from his wallet and ordered that I take the cab to class, his reason that it was raining and that I’m a profound git for thinking of walking to class. So I did like a good boy and grabbed a cab with a driver that seems to detest the world in the way it was chock full of distrust and trickery. His motto (which I have gotten to know in the short minutes of sitting beside him) was ‘screw thinking big because you’re going to fail’ and ‘becoming a boss? You’ll lose it all!’ (he said in Cantonese and made it rhyme, so my translations won’t do justice).


Before dropping me off he commented that journalism would probably render me perpetually poor and miserable. I told him that it’s all about fighting to the top, and success is how you make for it, and he laughed in a content sort of way, said “good for you”, and stopped at where I pointed. He happily bid me farewell, “may we meet again if fate has it,” and I bade him good luck and good day.


One of the rare, good taxi rides you get.


And then it was boredom in class, and once more I drew and slept and listened to things not related to my studies. For tutorials Mr. Money let us out an hour earlier, so I made home in the damp afternoon, bought me a packet of rice and spent my lunch fending Marley off my feet (Marley is the surprise from the previous post. He is feisty, he is always hungry and he pounces at my feet. Other than that, he’s cute the way puppies are).


The rest of the day was just as unremarkable… I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Perhaps it is a subliminal means of escaping my impending start of my final assignment. Procrastinate!


Yeah… well, time I try to start. Good night people.


Music: The Firebird Suite - Igor Stravinsky


Classical at its utmost best.

It seems like I’ve been through emptiness. Idleness, perhaps, but that’s subjective to what I do, not quite what I feel, no? Though, considering that I haven’t been updating for a whole entire week of free nights, I guess Idleness is the sum of it.

Being brain dead is one thing. Being brain empty; now, that’s a different picture to paint.

Now, I sit here wishing that the next words will come but it wouldn’t. It’s not quite like forgetting or being drained out. It’s like I’m constipated to the point even coconuts won’t save my sorry posterior. Aggrieving.

At any rate, I agree that writing a ‘use it or lose it’ sort of thing; I remember going a month without writing and coming out more blank pages than I ever had. It’s better to write even you have to force yourself to it. Eventually the words will come, hopefully, but if we don’t start baiting ourselves I think we might not be drawn into it when a long time have passed.

I sometimes bait myself by starting a sort of noir movie monologue. It can start with something like; Whiskey. The sort of cheap man’s morphine to the wounds the sights and sounds sometimes cut. Knives in the smog; thorns in the smoke and under the lights.

(Granted, it’s cheesy crap, but it gets me started.)

It’s been a peaceful week.

I say it with the conviction of a man who know how crappy it was the past weeks can sometimes get and now found himself in something so relatively placid it was almost saintly.

A serene, quiet sort of saintly. Like having a cabin in an island somewhere and playing solitaire at the porch with the winds and sea waves to lull the madness of the world.

Watched Beowulf on Monday with Pauline, Uncle Sean and Mekz, which was a crazy crowd. Psycho crazy, I mean. subtle and subliminal. Scary =P

And Beowulf turned out to be an enjoyable watch, regardless of what a lot of people said. Gaiman and the band of writers did a job of making a simple story into something more complex, which worked in some ways, though the one thing that nagged at me was; if they had just let it be and make the story just as it is (kill all the monsters, no sudden drop in pacing and lapse of time), maybe more people would’ve liked it.

But I stand by my verdict of it being an achievement in movie making. Now, if the God of War movie could be made like this…


So, if you have two parents who left on a very rare vacation for two nights, what would you do?

I made a list I what I would’ve done had I been more of a person than a slob eating idiot;

1) Call for a party. With lots of Nachos
2) Call for a LAN party. Or gaming party. With lots of Nachos.
3) Call for a movie marathon. 10 movies at least. With lots of Nachos and Gatorade.
4) Order a very own Hawaiian Delight, cheese crusted.
5) Watch things I don’t normally watch at the LCD TV.
6) Game for 14 hours straight, breaking my previous record of 12.

None of these happened, mostly because the two nights my parents spend canoodling (I think) at some communist settlement I came home at 9 p.m. bent and tired and having to take care of the plethora of chores since my bro wouldn’t be home until 11 and he doesn’t do nuts.

So what could’ve been the time that would never come for (probably) the rest of all eternity came and I wasted it on chores and a crazy dog who bites slippers but don’t gnaw them and hides them in places you may think quite impossible at first.

Yeah… now that I think of it, I should’ve ordered my very own Hawaiian Delight.

Well, the parents are back now and they brought home a surprise.

My brother opened the car door and muttered “Oh my God.”
I looked and said “Oh Shit.”

And we looked at each other an understanding that weighed like atlas’s baggage on our shoulders.

The surprise now sleeps in the kitchen, and he bites. Other than that he sleeps.

Like a puppy.

Nutmeg.