random thoughts on a train

You're FAT. Why should I give up my seat to fat people? You wouldn't fit in this seat, anyway. Maybe if you lost 200 pounds, I'd feel sorry for you for being under-nourished.

'nuff said

i'm fine

I was, anyway. Fined, that is. For the very first time in my life. For parking without a ticket. I was visiting my grandmother, for goodness sake! And they say the government supports cohesive families. I could have been fined for a million other things I've done -- littering, jaywalking, smuggling, stealing, beating a red light, etc. Any of those things. But they chose to fine me for parking at a barely occupied carpark in the middle of a weekday at my grandma's. Grrr. Broke my never-been-fined record. Now I'll always be fined.

PLAYLIST

Hurt -- Johnny Cash

Heaven Sent -- Keyshia Cole

Used To Love You -- John Legend

Empty Walls -- Serj Tankian

Viva la Vida -- Coldplay

don't mess with the livni

Ex-Mossad Agent, Zippi Livni, Poised To Become Next Israeli PM

Cool name. Although one question remains: is she a good hairdresser?

deconstruction of self

Okay, one hour after my last post and I'm already described as being overly-negative about everything. That people younger than me posting violent videos of their helpless victims being repeatedly kicked in the head, or that demented souls who are inclined to blow themselves up into smithereens at crowded places, or that we are consuming non-renewable energy at an exponential rate and giving back the Earth nothing but mountains of waste and tons of carbon dioxide pollution every single day, or that two billion people living in the 21st century are constantly a pocketful of change away from utter indigence, shouldn't affect me because they don't affect me in any direct way.

Well, I can't apologize for always seeing the bigger picture because it's not my fault. And I think these things should affect me in some way, or I'll be living in my own world of indulgence and obscene luxury -- and looking at that from the outside, it just seems unthinkable. Selfish. Depraved. It's just plain wrong.

And really, it's not my fault. Blame it on the chemicals in my head sloshing around and telling me what to think. What, you think I can control my right brain to work less and let my left brain be the dominant side? In fact, my male brain has a diminished corpus callosum compared to, say, most of the readers of this blog (whom I like to think are mostly female). Which means I can't switch between being moody and analytical as quickly.

And I can't help it if the left inferior gyrus of my frontal lobe cortex -- better known as Broca's area to the initiated -- is just itching to say something when confronted with such horrors of the world. Better than keeping quiet, I should think (I'm not sure which part of my brain is telling me that).

And them chemicals, them neurotransmitters, there's never enough of what I need, and there's always more of what I don't. For instance, where's the dopamine when I'm upset and depressed about my life? And where's the serotonin when I need to relax and curb my reflexes before I do something stupid?

And my pituitary gland, always so over-active at all the wrong times. Too much myelin around my neurons, and there's no way of knowing whether there's a shortcut between those two, making me susceptible to increasingly morbid bouts of depression. I'm like a 16-year-old again! Where everything is working the wrong way! Makes me feel young.

Okay, I will deconstruct myself more next time (read: blaming everything but myself), because right now someone else needs to use the laptop. Boo-yah!

fun and murder

Here's the fun part: Spider-Man 3 is coming out in two days; Manchester United is creeping closer towards the Premiership crown; I think I'm starting to get the hang of my new camp and it's not so bad after all; Manchester United is also in the semi-finals of the Champions League; and I'm actually moving on from my previous hang-ups. Yippee-kay-yay. Oh yeah, and that's a line from Die Hard, which has yet another sequel coming up, so that's another fun thing among other fun stuff.

Here's the murder part: Kids are brutally beating each other up and putting up their videos on YouTube; the war in Iraq doesn't seem to be letting up on its vicious cycle of death and destruction; global warming is still a big issue, but it seems only now that there is a concerted effort, which begs the question: is it never too late?; suicide bombers don't seem to want to stop, and it still doesn't make any sense where they're going with this; and yeah, basically there's a lot of murder in the world of suck.

I think the murder overwhelms the fun this week, so I'll be going back to my shell.

23

I saw the new Jim Carrey flick and it's not that bad, although it pretty much becomes just another psychological thriller towards the end. The parts are definitely better than the whole, with a very interesting turn for Jim Carrey trying to look intense, lost and crazy all at the same time. He does the "I'm totally lost here" shtick really well (as he always does) and we've always known him to be somewhat unhinged, so the crazy part was convincing enough. It's the intensity that is... well, not really quite there. I think he mistook 'intense' for 'lost and crazy'.

The storyline is rather humdrum, with the reveals not really shocking you so much as giving you a hardly-emphatic "oh, so that's what it is" reaction. The fun is in watching Carrey's mind (and, as a consequence, his life) unravelling as we delve further into his shattered psyche. And also in his determination to convince the audience that he can actually act (not really there yet).

Virginia Madsen, as the wife to Carrey's Walter Sparrow, is also fascinating to watch as she straddles (no pun intended) the dual role of wholesome housewife and vamped-up man-eater. Just watch the movie and you'll understand. She pulls it off really well, although personally I do think there was not enough scenes of her in black lingerie.

I thought the idea of a book taking over your life with numbers was pretty funny; just one of those silly, 'suspension of belief' moments that we all have to bear with when watching a movie or reading a book because without it, there wouldn't be a story. But then halfway through the film, while laughing at the idea, I started making my own calculations...

I was born on the 26th of March, right? That's like 26/3.

And 26 - 3 = 23.

OK, at this point I was still laughing at the silliness of it. But wait, I'm also 23 this year...

And I was born in 1984. That's... hmm... 1 + 9 + 8 + 4 = 22.

Just add one, and you get... 22 + 1 = 23.

And then, starting to freak out now, I looked at the time on my watch and it read 00:23.

Ha ha, funny, right? I wasn't sweating yet, but I felt like I needed a cigarette. I had two packs with me, one opened and one unopened. I was carelessly counting the leftover in the opened pack, and there were three left. Cursing at my chain-smoking ways, I suddenly realised how many cigarettes I had with me.

No. of cigarettes = 20 + 3 = 23.

At this point, I stopped having anything to do with numbers and just concentrated on watching the movie until it ended. I don't believe there's any significance in such minor coincidences, but hey, when you're all alone in a building and it's past midnight and there's a cemetery just across the road, you don't mess with these things. Whatever it is.

I was laughing at myself the next morning for being so easily freaked out, though. It was funny, wasn't it? Should I have tempted fate and just kept on going? I would've missed the film. This side story is just a 'just so you know'.

Anyway, back to The Number 23. Without a doubt the most violent Jim Carrey movie you'll ever see, unless he tries to outdo himself in his next flick. A collaboration with Quentin Tarantino will do the trick. Although I hope he doesn't, because honestly there's just something very unsettling when you see the nonchalant look on Jim Carrey's face as he slits a girl's throat.

PLAYLIST

Man In Black -- Johnny Cash

At The Hop -- Devendra Banhart

The Hardest Button To Button -- The White Stripes

Only This Moment -- Röyksopp

We March As Millions -- Nas

*

forest for the trees

I'm at a loss, because it feels like I'm talking to myself (and God knows I do enough of that in my free time). And even after little to zero creative output of any kind from yours truly for the past several weeks, I'm still at a lost. The human brain is an interesting thing; too bad it's not made use of most of the time.

My fortunate escape from the prison they call an army camp yields nothing except a desire to watch more soccer on TV and a propensity to smoke until my throat is parched. Behind bars, I alternate between hibernating and watching American Idol and Desperate Housewives. And taking smoke breaks, of course. Nothing doing here.

My only opiate left -- cigarettes. There I go again, lighting another cigarette. No love. No life. Anti-social tendencies begin to accumulate. I can no longer sleep with someone else in the same room. I try to limit conversations with others to a bare minimum. I'm starting to dislike everyone I meet. I have nothing much to say to anyone, and even if I do, I don't feel the need to start a conversation. I decline offers to meet new people. I'm not even trying to find something to look forward to. I sometimes forget that eating is a required daily activity.

There I go again, lighting another cigarette. I feel like a child again, sans innocence, energy, and a sense of wonder. We live in a beautiful world, but I can't see past whatever mess I've made of everything. I know I'm going to hell; I just wish they'd make the processing faster. Can someone please take me away?

Or at least do something. Make it all a vanishing act, or a stage. Make me remember things I've never experienced. There I go again, lighting another cigarette. Make it interesting, because life is boring me to death. Or I'm boring myself to death. But then I can't escape myself, can I? I'm really losing it, and at this point I don't really care. Let you entertain me for a change.

Okay, maybe I just need more sleep.

PLAYLIST

The Nobodies -- Marilyn Manson

Use It -- The New Pornographers

Little House Of Savages -- The Walkmen

The Rescue Blues -- Ryan Adams

Cross Bones Style -- Cat Power

*

twiddling thumbs

I won't be able to post anything for the next two weeks at least, because I'll be stuck in my new barracks. Whoopee-frickin'-doo. Twiddling thumbs, that's what I'll do. Just so you know. And today was supposed to be a special day, too. Maybe it's not of any significance to anyone anymore.

(I don't feel it, either.)

coincidence like a kick in the head

I've been meeting quite a number of people recently; some old, some new, some family. Some I don't even remember. And all in the unlikeliest of places. Who woulda thunk it? What a small world, indeed. Sometimes smaller than is privately comfortable, but then again if it was any other way such pleasant surprises would never happen.

In the search for love, a tarot card reading presents me with some very interesting scenarios. Basically, a hundred different mediums can read it in a hundred different ways, and honestly I'm not one to believe in this occultish stuff. I just thought it'd be interesting. The present situation sees me as being Le Mat, or The Fool. I kinda expected that. In the near future, however, justice (La Justice) will prevail. Story of my life, dude. At least, that's how it was supposed to pan out, anyway. Obstacles in my way include fortitude (La Force) for some reason. My own? That is, the lack of it? Hmm...

L'Amoureux is in some way involved with my future energies, so choice is a big factor. And sacrifice too, I'm told. This always happens, but you know, it's so vague anyway. Whatever the case, at least there's temptation and something sensual in it. Sounds like fun. But the best part? The outcome of all this is Le Monde (The World), so in the end I'll be happy and whole. This is a positive sign that I'm in a position to realize my heart's desire. Fulfilled and blessed. Happily ever after. I'm looking forward to that. I hope it doesn't involve turning into a woman and being surrounded by vegetation and some of God's weirder-looking creatures. Because that's what it shows on the card.

PLAYLIST

Easy -- Barenaked Ladies

Hand In My Pocket -- Alanis Morissette

Bang Bang You're Dead -- Dirty Pretty Things

Walking On The Sun -- Smash Mouth

Paper Bag -- Fiona Apple

*

rubber gloves and catheters

So next week will be my last in military medical school, after which they'll shove me somewhere fitting. As always, I'll only know my posting right before I'm posted. A policy that has been long adhered to since perhaps the inception of the Ministry Of Defense. Ergo, no one is actually prepared for where they're going, maybe so we won't have time to protest against going somewhere before we're already there. After which there is no point in protesting. The only thing you can do, really, is to be declared medically unfit -- something I don't see myself doing.

The past fifteen weeks (wow, already?) have been interesting, although mostly unengaging. On the first day, we were given nineteen textbooks to read. Obviously, there are some I haven't even touched. I thought burrowing my nose in books was a thing of the past after getting my diploma (even if university is looming beyond the horizon, it's still a long way off). Also, I think I'm putting on weight. On the bright side of things, I aced most of the tests without much effort. This is turning out to be my mantra (the lack of effort part, not the scoring part).

I would say the hospital attachment sucked big time. The ambulance attachment was one hell of a ride. Everything else was just meh. Incidentally, is it just me or is it the norm for the military to take in surly, obnoxious halfwits with attitude problems to be trained as medics? I'm not one of them, so why am I here? I think I've been put here to be the savior of the medical department, lest everybody loses faith in us.

Much has been learned and forgotten. Much more had been taught, but the schedule clashed with my beauty sleep more often than not. Many friends have been made, and fortunately more than enemies. At least, in my head; most of them probably don't know I hate their guts. I think it's better that way -- I don't have to waste my breath or my time proving I'm right.

I think that's about it, really.

*

PLAYLIST

Bandages -- Hot Hot Heat

Scared -- Albert Hammond Jr.

Another Saturday Night -- Cat Stevens

Hospital Beds -- Cold War Kids

Back in Town -- Everclear

*

work in progress

"Art is never finished... only abandoned."
--Leonardo Da Vinci

spam is the new shit

I have several newfound friends. They have delectably quixotic names, and they speak in indecipherable jargon the likes of which I have never encountered before except in sweet, inchoate dreams of overloaded balderdash. And guess what? They're humanitarians at heart; magnanimous to a fault. Why, they only have my well-being in mind.

For starters, there's Fay Bowman. I presume it's a she, as far as gender can be applied to such non-entities (they're real to me though, these dear friends of mine.) She begins her e-mail with the header: Have on profligate. Which I'm sure means something; I'm just not sure what. She goes on to say: "THE HOTTEST ALERT!!! Promoting sym: GDKI Price $0..."

And the rest, as they say, is history. Or three full stops in a row, anyway, because I don't dare open up the e-mail in case some malevolent virus with a life of its own somehow hooked itself up onto our correspondence. In today's wild, wild world wide web, who knows? Ms. Bowman, of course, has no affiliation with such random viciousness. If only I can make out what exactly she is trying to convey. Perhaps she is selling stuff for cheap. That proves they go the distance for me. Oh, shiny happy friends. You make me smile.

Eve Alvarez, another newfangled acquaintance, makes her stand on her to wainscoat. She goes on to exhort: "This gem is really moveable. Target sym: GDKI blah blah blah..."

I think she is trying to send me the same message. Could it be something prophetic? Is it a warning of an impending doom set to befall this lovely place wherein we live and breathe, this neon-colored monstrosity we call home, i.e. cyberspace? Probable.

Chip Ingersoll is at limeston (that's really far from here, Chip!) selling Viagra and Valium at $1.25 a pop.

Jody "This one will explode" Delgado begins with: To propaganda it saturnine, showing more than a little misguided dependence to poisonous hearsay, and rightfully telling us to steer clear. I'm sure she's a swell person in real life.

Cathleen Parsons proclaims, I of chalcocite, being a die-hard fan of the periodic table and Isaac Asimov's wonderfully clever science fiction novels.

Olga Pitts dreams of He the perfect, while extolling the virtues of a bull market.

Mallory Fox, stuck in an existential conundrum, asks the rhetorical My canvas the inefficient?

Reba Warner ponders in ocean do carbide, while a close associate Cassie Rivera talks about In select to leftmost, whereas Gena Barber thinks his puffery is expressible, being of the more romantically-inclined.

Tameka Oliver, a closet poet, speaks Of fibration it portend.

Ivy Shannon loves political rumors, telling me to pay attention since, according to her, "Bush can't answer that question", due to "harsh criticism" or something (she may be onto something here).

Jerri Elliot, a good friend of mine, tells me to Be chamberlain to procrastinate while she regards the "characters of all the considerable people..." while Mai Schaffer thinks that there's A millions no importunate. As you can probably tell, she's an optimist.

In discussing "growth and the decline of ancient and modern empires", a favorite topic of mine, Marva Fowler starts off with a queer yet endearing, But in mahoney!

Ricky Hardeno writes about "air traffic controllers" and "small airplanes" in his thesis: We know it'll go off tomorrow. You have to admit, that would make an excellent title for a movie. I hope everything is smooth sailing in the wide open skies, Ricky!

Yes, these are people from all walks of life, from all over the world, sharing stories and interests and being sociable to one another, especially to me. I feel so loved in this large and varied community, building strong bonds between brothers and sisters who believe everyone is equal in buying stocks and viagra in gratuitous amounts, all in the name of friendship. They make me feel special like no one else can.

Indeed, my inbox is filled to the brim every single day of the week. Not a cigarette break goes by without some well-wisher or entrepreneurial compatriot surprising me with something sweet, or funny, or new and exciting and out of this world. Don't you wish you had friends like these?

Only, I wonder what happened to those Nigerian millionaires...

gobbledegeek

Bryce Dallas Howard, the girl I fell in love with in The Village, will portray Gwen Stacy, the girl I fell in love with at the age of five, in the upcoming Spider-Man 3 flick. When old school crush meets new wave love, you just know it's destiny in the making. Scarlett Johannson is gonna be sooo jealous. And the transformation is incredible. From demure, anaemic-looking, blind-girl-next-door to full-blown, drop-dead gorgeous party animal.

I can't wait! She has the acting chops to pull it off, as evidenced by the afore-mentioned M. Night Shyamalan film (flawed though it was). And yes, her character in Lady In The Water lacked emotional range, written to express vulnerability and fear throughout the entire film, but she aced looking vulnerable and scared in spades. OK, I'm getting my metaphors mixed up, but that's just because I'm really excited. In the meantime, here are some pictures to whet your appetite:

It's in her eyes. The eyes! The eyes have it! Can you tell? Can you tell? Huh? Huh? Huh? She has the eyes! How can you not fall in love with either of them? No? Yes? Ugh. It's hard to deal with you non-believers...

In other news, have you seen the new Transformers trailer? I have my doubts, no doubt, including but not limited to the choice of Michael Bay as director, who is not known for subtlety. But then I'm thinking: this is a movie about giant robots smashing everything in their paths to have a go at each other, so is there really a need for subtlety? And I especially enjoyed Armageddon in all its abject inanity.

And at least it's not that Van Helsing director, whatsisname, Stephen Sommers or some sort or another. Whatever. If that guy doesn't represent over-the-top, bombastic crock that is the bane of real film-making, then I don't know who does. Michael Bay may not be the best choice, but he's definitely not the worst, either.

And to top it all off, those teenage mutated turtles with ninja training are coming back on the big screen in an animated feature. Oh, and a bunch of superheroes called the Fantastic Four will return too, this time with the Silver Surfer (he's silver, and he travels to far-flung galaxies on a surf board; is that cool or what?!). This is truly the year of the geek. I'm so glad I was born in the 80s.

personal essay

In 300 words or less, write about an event or a person that has had an influence on you.

My father, more than any other, is the person I wish most to emulate. His is the typical rags-to-riches story -- from a small village house with ten other siblings, he has charted his own success on little more than sheer drive and ambition to become a head of state and a leader. And yet he has never forgotten his roots, taking care of the thousands under his charge, listening to their grievances every week at meet-the-people sessions and finding solutions for them whenever he can.

All this, while developing policies in various government departments; tackling nationwide issues such as drugs, censorship, and education; maintaining a presence, debating, and sharing ideas as a member of parliament; and being a good father to five children, to name just a few (and in my opinion, the five children were probably some of the hardest challenges he has had to face).

And after eighteen long years in politics and garnering recognition as a caring and compassionate community leader and a formidable head of state, and gaining immeasurable gratitude from the people, he has stepped down from office to pursue his life-long dream of starting his own business from scratch, and charting his own success yet again.

To say he has been a major influence in my life would be an understatement. Directly or indirectly, his success is the yardstick with which I measure mine. Honorable, tenacious, and always giving while asking nothing in return, he has lived life with few regrets. His legacy will be remembered and aspired to for many years to come. He is, in my opinion, a great man not only because he has overcome great obstacles to realize his dreams into reality, but also because he has been a loving father to me.

That's my personal essay for a university application. Didn't want to take too much time on it, because I find this type of essays trite and unimaginative. So that's what I came up with; just thought I'd share.

big brother is watching

"We do have a saying in America: if you're in a hole, stop digging... erm, I'm not sure I should have said that."
--Donald Rumsfeld

my, what big teeth you have

©Alex Ross

going postal

I have been writing songs in my head, whenever I have free time. Unfortunately, this mostly happens when I'm in camp because I don't waste time contemplating the meaning of life on weekends. Which means I didn't write any of it down somewhere. Which is sad, because it's better than most of the crap they play on the radio. Oh well.

Training will end in about three weeks, after which I'll be posted to some unit or medical center or something. Hopefully it'll be interesting. And hopefully somewhere I won't have people dying or losing their limbs everyday. I don't think I can live with someone dying on me again. Or perhaps after the nth time, I'll be completely desensitized. Neither sounds inviting to me, really. Oh, and no more jokes about CPR from me. Ever. Somehow, it's just not that funny anymore.

I have not been catching any of the new flicks out in cinemas, and I've been missing out on a bunch of good films lately. They'll probably come out on HBO in a few months, but by then nobody would be talking about them anymore. This is primarily because the people I go out to watch movies with have left me stranded (you know who you are!). Ho-hum.

PLAYLIST

Dig -- Incubus

Out Of Exile -- Audioslave

Lovelight -- Robbie Williams

Wise Men -- James Blunt

A Million Ways -- OK Go

*

vote 2008

He's just as qualified as the current one, wouldn't you say?

bringing out the dead

Ever tried bringing someone back to life? Well, it's not easy. And everything becomes a blur, and yet every single moment unfurls in slow motion. For instance, you find her lifeless body on the floor and the first thing you notice is that she's terribly pale and unmoving. Her eyes are dead white, and you realise later that it's because her pupils were upturned -- a pathophysiological sign of a person being dead, or dying. You don't remember her face, not exactly, but you can recall the unnaturally slack jaw on her small countenance, so you must have been looking at her. Looking for any evidence, or hint, or sign, or trace, or indication of life. There were none.

And you panic. You can't think. But you have to do your job; you have to look calm and composed, and you surprise yourself for managing that at least. The sight shocks you, and it jolts you into action. You rush to her aid: you check for the pulse (none!), for breathing (none!), and you trace the rib line to find the exact spot they teach you in medical books and lectures to pound the heart back to life. You hear her mother in the background, and whatever information filters through to your brain makes the situation even harder to comprehend.

She's only 21! A history of heart problems! And you start to think: "What madness is this? I don't belong here!" You feel like you're out of your depth, and you're sinking fast, but it's too late for that now. You have a job to do; you have to bring someone back to life. But her ribs are amazingly sturdy, and you have to push down harder, and notwithstanding whatever they teach you in regards to life over limb, you still fear the sound of ribs cracking under all that pressure. And every compression on her chest makes her head bang slightly against the floor but the senior paramedic is telling you to keep up the pressure so you do as you're told.

Then you notice the other trainee paramedic fumbling with his equipment, and you stop to help the incompetent whelp, and the fool is still rummaging through his bag and looking absolutely lost even though he's been working in an ambulance for, what, four months now, and this is only your second day and the first time you're actually trying to resuscitate somebody. Panic begins to set in again, but you force your way through that cloud and you manage to insert the airway device in her mouth to keep her tongue from blocking the trachea, and you feel like screaming at the idiot trainee to do his part but the senior paramedic is already screaming at you to restart CPR again.

It's all beginning to get messy, and the shot of adrenalin you prepared on the way here is unused because the senior paramedic can't get a vein open, and the defibrillator is completely useless at this point because she has no heartbeat. And so everyone is rushing back to the ambulance downstairs to get her to the hospital, and she's completely limp.

The ride to the hospital feels like forever, and you're still banging on her chest to get a rhythm at least, and you're banging against the inside of the ambulance and you hit your knee against something hard and metal and it starts to bleed. And the ride still feels like forever. Your arms start to get tired, and the senior paramedic is trying to get the IV infusion working, so you tell the other trainee paramedic to take over while you do the oxygen bagging.

As you touch her head to realign the neck, you feel that it's still warm. It's still warm! And there's a feeling of weight being lifted, a glimmer of hope that she can still make it. It's still warm! You pump oxygen into her lungs with renewed vigor, hoping against hope. "Please don't let her die on me," you start pleading to whoever is up there watching this whole thing unfold. Please.

And finally the ambulance stops, and everybody's rushing out and into the A&E. You're still compressing the heart again and again on the stretcher, on the way in. The staff nurse takes over and calls some doctors to the room and your job is done. You pull away, asking yourself if you did the whole thing right, running the events in your head in a loop, questioning your actions in every single detail. The senior paramedic goes to the registration counter to fill up some forms, and you feel like you really need a smoke, but you want to see if she makes it out alive. You're left alone to think, and only then do you remember the throbbing in your left knee.

You walk back to the ambulance to get a band-aid and a print-out from the lifepack machine. And as the ticker-tape paper rolls out, the ECG reading makes it look like there actually was a heart rhythm; the spikes between the flatlines. But that was when you were doing CPR. The rest is flat. So you wait. The senior paramedic tells you this will help in an inquiry; proof that, if she dies, we had tried to help revive her heart on the way to the hospital.

Then you hear someone sobbing, and its her mother. And someone who looks like her sister, she's crying too. Then her father puts his hands to his face, and his body starts to shake. And this young boy, probably her kid brother, and a few other relatives who've just arrived, they start crying too. There's a lump in your throat and your heart starts to feel heavy, like a guilty man about to face the gallows.

And that's when you know she's dead.

riding dirty

Hope is starting to become a bad word for me. As Terry Pratchett so eloquently puts it, Hope is the Greatest Gift. And that's that. So what's the point? New year's resolution: to live without hope, hence avoiding any form of disappointment whatsoever. Don't hope for anything, and all your wishes will be fulfilled, because you didn't wish for anything in the first place. World peace? Fat chance. A nice car? Don't bet on it. A stable job? Go fish. The woman of your dreams? In your dreams.

In other news, cars collide and people die. Oh, and the Internet is becoming a better place with this. Cool or what? Now you can learn everything (well, it seems like everything) under the sun without having a degree to show for it! Employers will love that! This is the new shit. Actually, I'm all for it, paper qualifications be damned (due mainly to my lack of said coveted items). This trend should be made to continue; kudos to MIT for being such phat kids and hopefully a trailblazer for others to follow suit. The signal to noise ratio will finally cease embarrassing the human race, heralding a brave new world of expanding horizons. A world wherein intellectual discourse on worthwhile topics such as the impact of convergent technology on human sociology and its repercussions takes precedence over captivating gossip on the malleable existence of Britney Spears' knickers. And the information superhighway will finally live up to its billing. Ha ha! Oh, how I wish!

Oops.

My short albeit still-ongoing life in the military is at the moment interesting or boring, depending on my mood. Currently undergoing training to be a medic. Saving lives is not my forte, but what the hell it is better than nothing. At the very least, perhaps screaming, "I know CPR!" at a fancy restaurant upon seeing an individual collapsing in fits will get the attention of a few blue-blooded girls of independent means. But, hey, I'm not hoping for anything.

My wireless internet connection is beginning to suck. Might not even be able to post this by the time I finish. Ah, well, at this point, does it matter? No one's reading. Therapy, therapy, therapy.

i've got soul...

Update:
Be The Best You Can Be. A Career In The Army. My next vocation: Infantry Leader. That's what I'll be. A sergeant. After six months of training. Six more months of crap and digging trenches and living in the jungle and other equally stimulating activities. And then to have new recruits going, "Yes, sergeant!" and "No, sergeant!" for the rest of my short life in the military.

Hmm... okay. This better be worth it.

we'll see

I hate that phrase. Literally means: "You can hope, but don't bet on it." I hate it. Right up there with 'who knows' as one of the many phrases in the English language that I hate. Whoever improvised the English language to include such throwaway lines in our speech patterns must never have thought about what the words would imply, or what it would bring. The hang ups, the anxieties, the hope against hope, the hubris, the disappointment.

It means I can't be with who I want to be with. It means I can't do what I want to do. It means I have to give up a lot of things. It means nothing really happens, and when something does happen, it's not what you were hoping to have happened.

I need more 'Yes' and 'No' in my life. This or that, one or the other. As it is, I'm usually stuck in limbo, in the gray areas of somewhere in between. When you can't tell if it's night-time yet, but it surely isn't day-time anymore, that's where I am mostly.

In other news, where I'm going next will be posted to me soon. We'll see (hah, there it is again!) how far I can get in my army career. If you can call it that. I get paid for doing what they tell me to do; that's something like a job, right? I hope everyone I care about everywhere around the world is doing okay.

A thought just occurred to me. I really shouldn't feel down about anything relating to myself. Not only is it a waste of space in both the heart and mind, but I'm not even sure if I have the right to, all things considered. Next time I'm wallowing in self-pity, all I have to think about is some kid in China, or India, or South America, or Africa plying his or her trade in a grimy, old, dilapidated sweatshop in 12-hour shifts for thirty cents an hour, dreaming big about life if only their parents could afford to pay for their education.

Maybe that'll wake me up. We'll see.

PLAYLIST

Never There -- Cake

Lucky You -- Deftones

Too Much Too Soon -- Green Day

New Girl -- Third Eye Blind

Ex-Girlfriend -- No Doubt

*

gone too soon

I came close to meeting him once (okay, not really that close, but it would have been possible), at which point I would have offered my services at zoo keeping if only to work with someone who had so much love for God's creatures, big and small. And I know someone who will be deeply affected by the news (I'm sure he's in a better place, Jezs, taking care of animals like he always does). Sad to see you go, Steve. And here I thought you always had more than just nine lives.

feeling cagey

So much for remaining anonymous. Now just about everyone I know knows who I am. Which is just as well; point your telescope far and wide enough and you're sure to find a telescope pointing back at you. I thought maybe I could spy on all of you without being spotted. *snigger snigger, snort snort* Seems I underestimated the power of the Internet, or the intellect of its users. Well, it was fun while it lasted. I'll try my best to keep this blog as raw and real as possible, but I can't promise anything. Nyeh nyeh nyeh.

Finishing about three months of basic military training -- wonder where I'll be posted to after that. Wait-and-see situation, mostly. I guess I tried my best, but it feels like I'm beginning to slack off now. Bad, bad! Just when I'm becoming a hot bod again... Bad, bad! Must... put... Oreos back... where... they came... from...

For someone who just had his girlfriend move halfway across the world, I may seem to be in good enough cheer. Not that I relish being single or anything, don't get me wrong. It's just that I don't seem to be feeling as down as I expected. Who knows why. Maybe I have a lot of faith in us going the distance. Maybe I am more in control of my emotions. Maybe I stopped being so depressed all the time somewhere along the way. Maybe we're missing each other so much there's no time for stupid luxuries like fighting every twenty minutes. And I miss you, babe. Tremendously.

All in all, a pretty good start to whatever lies ahead. It could be a temporary state of mind, I'm not sure. The calm before a storm? I hope not. I have built a great many things in life which have disintegrated into nothing right before my eyes and sometimes when I wasn't looking; let's pray that God spares me a thought and, maybe, if He doesn't mind (and even though I know I don't deserve it), some mercy as well.

PLAYLIST

Chasing Cars -- Snow Patrol

Shadow Stabbing -- Cake

Lonely Day -- System Of A Down

New Slang -- The Shins

Across The Universe -- Fiona Apple

*

m.i.a. again

Having almost absolutely no time for myself these days, I have left this place to rot on its own. Still looks okay (if a little outdated), and there's nothing that smells as funky as my socks. It's been... hmm... seven weeks now. Seven weeks as a recruit in the army, and last week was when I spent six days with insects and wild boars in the jungle. I've got a tan to show for it, blisters all over my hands and feet, cuts and bruises, and an aching back (from digging a one-man trench, for when, ya know, in case a war comes we'd have time to dig a trench while the enemy's shooting at us). Every shirt feels tighter, every pair of jeans feels looser.

I feel dumber, too. Like I'm having difficulty just thinking, after all day every day just receiving commands from the higher ups. No time for individuality; just follow orders and you'll be fine. I wonder what will happen to me in the next few months. Stubborn and hot-tempered, I'm not well-known for being told what to do. I miss doing the things I usually do, whenever I want, wherever I want. Maybe it might be good for me, to live the regimented life for a while. We'll see. Till next time, this recruit is signing off.

PLAYLIST

Paranoid Android -- Radiohead

Left, Right -- Chemical Brothers (feat. Anwar Superstar)

Dark Of The Matinee -- Franz Ferdinand

Harajuku Girls -- Gwen Stefani

In The Ghetto -- Elvis Presley

*

proving yourself a dweeb

Your Dating Purity Score: 80%

You are an innocent dater. You're either lacking in dating experience or have had a long serious relationship. Either way, there's still plenty of fish in the sea out there for you to sample!

Dating Purity Test

a cat's eye

How is it that cats can look so cool while they're licking their own ass? How does it feel to have no shame and still look like a million bucks at the same time? To be totally poised and majestic; to have so much attitude; to look like you own the world. To not have a care in this world. My cat is like that. I have tried to be like my cat but I don't think I've succeeded. As the Disney film 'The Aristocats' expounded, Everybody wants to be a cat/ Because a cat's the only cat who knows where it's at.

And how true. So calm and self-assured; who wouldn't want to be a cat? My cat looks at me with contempt and such haughtiness when she is satisfied. She slowly blinks and looks away as though I am the least interesting thing on Earth. My cat is telling me that she is above such things as the human condition; that whatever we do or say is not worth her time. She'd rather be indulging in something far more important -- like cleaning her fur, or scratching the sofa, or just lounging on the living room carpet.

And when she's not satisfied -- when my cat is hungry or has a tummy ache -- she mews so pleadingly that you have to give in to what she needs, or you'll feel like a heartless bastard and that guilty conscience will haunt you to the point where you won't be able to forgive yourself for ignoring her cries for help. And when her needs are fulfilled, she looks at you -- at which point you will think she is about to give an acknowledgement of thanks -- and blinks really slowly, and looks away. She doesn't even acknowledge your existence! Then you will feel totally used, until the next time she pulls at your heart strings and you give in to whatever she wishes.

Just like in the Garfield comic strip, a cat is always the center of personal attention. My cat will climb onto the desk and make herself comfortable on the keyboard. She only does this when I'm typing. When I'm engorging myself with food, my cat will inevitably make her presence known. She gives me the you-are-totally-below-me look, and stares at the food. I can see her face every time I look up from my plate.

She is telling me: "Look, who are we trying to kid? You know you want to give me a piece of that steak; I'm your cat, for God's sake! I deserve a piece of that steak, so why don't you just give it to me right now? You want me to beg? How can you treat me so cruelly--" and on and on, until I give her what she wants.

And once my cat has had her fill, she looks at me and says, "You're still here? Who are you, again? Nevermind, that's not important. Make some room so I can stretch myself on your lap, and maybe if you don't annoy me I'll grant you the privilege of scratching my neck."

And if I brush her off the keyboard or doesn't do what she says, she'll casually walk away like I'm not even there. I can almost hear her indignation. "I'll find someone else to pamper me, you pompous brat. And to think I've tolerated your presence in my house... Hmph!"

Who doesn't want to be a cat? I love my cat. Very reminiscent of having a baby sister or a girlfriend.

PLAYLIST

Beautiful Ones -- Suede

Yeah, Whatever -- Splender

Comin' Up From Behind -- Marcy Playground

You Belong To Me -- Tori Amos

God Knows -- Mando Diao

*

identity crisis

I sometimes feel like I really don't know what I'm doing anymore. Hell of a rollercoaster ride, though, which is probably what makes life more exciting (I'm not even sure about that anymore, either). I should really get a job, start paying for my expenses instead of sponging off my parents. Hur-hmm. A mind is a terrible thing to waste; must catch up on my reading A.S.A.P. or I'm going to sound dumber by the next post. Maybe I already do. Toodle-y-hee-hoo.

Still having trouble sleeping, for whatever reason. No more reason. Totally mindless absurdity. It's giving me killer migraines that I feel like cleaving the right side of my brain with a surgical something (can't remember that word even) and sell it on e-bay. "Right brain hemisphere of underachiever/slacker/genius on sale, going for cheap! Delivery upon payment. Price negotiable." Nope, no reason. The pain hurts my right eyebrow, and makes my left index finger twitch. I wonder what it's trying tell me.

Somehow, not having a life is (a) expensive, (b) taking up a lot of my time, and (c) criminal. The latter part refers to downloading music like there's no tomorrow [theft] and lying to parents about expenses [fraud]. Ha ha, I am such a terrible person it's not even funny. Must remember to pay back with interest when I can. Really need to get some sleep. Life is bittersweet; better get that first million before turning thirty.

PLAYLIST

Sorry Sorry -- Rooney

Evil Ways -- Carlos Santana

In The Crossfire -- Starsailor

Street Spirit -- Radiohead

Extreme Ways -- Moby

*

super birthday

Good stuff, wot! I had a blast, and I have to thank everyone who had a part in making me king for a day. Or for a few days. Mom, Dad, thanks for being there and for the ice-cream cake. To all my sisters, I love you guys so much. The hand-written notes mean a lot to me, especially the part where I became Willy Wonka for some reason. And yes, Willy Wonka would like to go to the zoo again! Jun, thanks for the self-help book (I think I really need it!). Darius, Pie-Man, Wan-meister, thanks for remembering. Jezs, thanks for making it truly special. Happy happy joy joy! I love you all, thanks a bunch! Okay, enough of this lovey-dovey crap; I'm making myself sick.

PLAYLIST

Lucky You -- Deftones

Right Here, Right Now -- Fatboy Slim

Extraordinary Girl -- Green Day

Come Out And Play -- The Offspring

It's Only Us -- Robbie Williams

*

v for vendetta

©David Lloyd

Remember, remember the fifth of November
The gunpowder treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent
To blow up king and parliament.
Three score barrels were laid below
To prove old England's overthrow.

By God's mercy he was catched
With a dark lantern and lighted match.
Holler boys, holler boys, let the bells ring
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the King.

what shoes to fill

It just blew me away. I am overwhelmed, amazed, and definitely proud of you. I knew you would one day leave the job you've had for the past eighteen years, but I never thought it would be by choice. Wow. Since I was four. Wow. I have always thought how perfect this job was for you, being the selfless and ambitious person that you are. Wow. Look back and be astonished by the legacy you have left, the people you have helped, the things you have done. Wow. From rags to riches, literally. Wow. What big shoes to fill.

I'm glad I had that talk with you. You have allayed my worries and fears. You have lifted the weight in my heart. You made me smile again. I hope you succeed in whatever endeavors you wish to pursue next, not just because it would be financially beneficial for me, but because you deserve to be happy after all the light you have shone into the hearts of so many. If you would like me to be part of it, I'd be more than happy to help. I can almost hear your usual refrain: "There's no such thing as a free lunch." But this time, it will make me smile even more.

And here I was thinking they didn't want you anymore. How could I ever have doubted you? And your reasons, as always, make perfect sense. It's been eighteen long years, and you're looking for something new to do. And with your heart condition, there would be times when you wouldn't be able to strive for the people with such vigor and dedication. And the long hours and late nights would be increasingly harder to keep up with, and you'd rather spend that time with your family.

I love that reason the best. I hope we'll be best friends again, like the good ol' days. I can't wait. Sure, sometimes you can be emotionally distant, but that must be partly due to the job taking its toll on you. I cannot ask for a better mentor, teacher, father, provider. In such matters, I am blessed. To have someone like you in my life, even the sky is not the limit. That, you have shown to be true. All the things you've been through, your experience must be invaluable. I aspire to be like you, with a few minor tweaks here and there (I hope you don't mind). What big shoes to fill.

PLAYLIST

The Masterplan -- Oasis

Supersonic -- Jamiroquai

King For A Day -- Green Day

Frank Sinatra -- Cake

Provider -- N.E.R.D.

*

big me

I'm finished with my exams, and now I'm free to do anything. But do what, exactly? Be a librarian? A teacher? A mercy relief officer? The money isn't spectacular, but they're all for a greater cause. And I'd be proud to say I contributed something to this greater cause, no matter how little the contribution may be. But knowing me, the chronic procrastinator with performance anxiety, I may end up doing nothing at all. Is it the thought that counts? In such matters, surely not. I am stagnating, nonetheless. Where is my resolve and determination? I do not know.

A sense of foreboding, an ominous latency -- I hate it! I hate the uncertainty, but nothing can provide me the stability I need. Perhaps it is for the best; perhaps this is what I need, or at least deserve. The ghosts of past sins haunting my very soul. A sinner wishing to be a saint; such hypocrisy. I speak of dignity and morality as though I am an expert, but there is no honor among thieves. But I know what it is, and I wish my wife and children -- when I have them later in life -- will live through their lives with virtue. Surely I can hope.

Easy money. Easy come, easy go. But is there anything to proud of? I have no right to judge. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, and I would be last in line. It is just too difficult to accept, the chemically-imbalanced person that I am. And I am ashamed of myself too, for the easy money I make. Or take. Whichever. Lifestyles of the rich and famous which I cannot support, but which I like. And who wouldn't? Sell my soul to the devil and live a care-free life, why not?

But we will all grow older, and I have matured in some ways since my wild partying days. And I am glad to be over and done with, with such insubstantial things. I have to settle down one day, and put aside all the obstacles in my way -- both within and without -- to create a better future for my children, and my children's children. The flesh is weak, and so I cannot do this without guidance. God, grant me serenity. Grant me Your light that I may see the evil of my ways.

A soldier-to-be, in a few months. I hope I will be fighting for a worthy cause. I hope it will bring back my resolve and determination. I hope I will do what is right. Only time will tell. For the moment, I am lost. For the moment, I will keep looking for my moral compass for a sense of direction. May the sword of justice smite evil right between the eyeballs once more.

PLAYLIST

Curbside Prophet -- Jason Mraz

Change The World -- The Offspring

Handbags And Gladrags -- Stereophonics

On Mercury -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

Money -- Michael Jackson

*

the never-ending story

Dear Jun,

I am heartened by the fact that you wrote so much to counter my arguments for the simple reason that you were worried about me, and all you intended was to give me a hug. You are truly a great friend; most people I know wouldn't bother. The number of people I know who would can be counted with one hand. For that, I thank you. I am eternally grateful to these people, of which you are one of them.

The reason I wrote what I wrote was not because I was on the fence regarding the matter; my mind was already made up before I started writing it. There was no dilemma to begin with, hence I did not create a false dilemma. I was merely asking the reader to which camp they thought they belonged to, after much deliberation on the topic at hand. Much of which was biological.

How else can you explain a concept as abstract as love? Can anyone explain where love comes from, apart from what I have described? Does love even exist, or is it just a cute little name for something that is inherent in our genetic make-up, including that of animals? Sure, science doesn't always explain everything that occurs in this universe. Science is not perfect. Yet. And that is only due to the shortcomings of the human mind; I am sure in time, as science and the human mind progress in tandem, we will unravel the theory of everything.

For now, though, science is still the best we have. And in trying to understand this concept called love, many hypotheses have been formulated. Some true, some speculative, the rest merely apocryphal. But there is no denying what happens on the biological level. The chemical reactions are there, whether we choose to accept it or not. No matter how high the human brain has climbed the evolutionary ladder, the 'reptilian brain' is still dead set in the centre of it, whether we like or not.

Besides controlling our breathing, heart rate, and fight or flight instincts, the reptilian brain establishes the fundamental needs of all evolved life -- that of survival, physical maintenance, hoarding, dominance, preening and mating. The principal ruling emotions of love, hate, fear, anger, lust, and contentment emerge from this first stage of the brain.

Indeed, thick layers of the rational brain that surround the reptilian brain theoretically puts us humans above all other animals, but think about it: the rational brain is built on the foundation of the reptilian brain. No matter how complex and sophisticated we get, in the larger picture we are all ruled by the instincts and primary functions of life that stem from the reptilian brain.

Love is a fundamental need, is it not? How then can you posit the idea that the rational brain takes precedence? No matter how much the rational brain sometimes tries to pretend it isn't true -- that we don't all need love, that we don't need to be loved -- we all want to be loved. Whether at home, or at the workplace, or in the eyes of our lovers.

If hate can be dismissed as an irrational, instinctual, reptilian emotion, then why not love? Hate can occur in an instant, just like love. Hate can be cultivated, just like love. Hate can take over our minds, just like love. Hate can build slowly through time, just like love. Hate can lead to disaster, just like love. Can we truly depend on an emotion that is just as irrational, instinctual and reptilian as hate?

Just because we can rationalize our thoughts and feelings does not mean love is a uniquely human phenomenon; here, the only uniquely human phenomenon is that we can concoct reasons and excuses to do the things we do. As well, we can describe love in paintings and poetry, we can regard love as a wholly-exclusive human emotion, we can place love on a pedestal and contemplate it with reverence -- this is what separates us from animals, the fact that we can lie to ourselves with such grand eloquence that we perceive it to be the truth. (Oh, the humanity!) Yet, the basic principle remains the same.

Whether an animal depends on smell or sight is not the issue here; I assume you are well aware of that. Robert Stenberg's attempt at explaining love as a combination of intimacy, passion and commitment does not disagree with my explanations as to where intimacy, passion and commitment originate from -- the chemical reactions in the brain.

Indeed, just like hate, love can start slowly. Did you know, there is a type of bird whose courtship ritual involves building a home from scratch (usually, the silly males do it to attract the females), after which it is presented to a potential mate for approval. If all goes swimmingly well, the couple goes on to reproduce young of their own. Upon rejection, on the other hand, the potential mate completely destroys the carefully-made home and flies off to search for a worthier soul to mate with.

I call it a 'home' because it looks exactly like a house; with a neat lawn, an entrance to the den, and a roof. The entire thing is made of twigs, shoots, branches and the like. Tiny, glittering things that could be mistaken for jewels are placed neatly on the lawn at the foot of the doorway. Ornithologists who have observed this natural phenomenon were astounded by the perfect symmetry of this bird's creation, from the doorway to the semi-circle lawn; from the precise weaving of every single element to produce an intricate whole that is a thing of beauty.

Imagine the passion and commitment needed for such a task. The bird faces the prospect of being rejected for the duration of its entire life, but doesn't give up. Compelled by its reptilian brain? Almost certainly. Can that be called love, the desire to do anything for its mate? Hard to tell, especially from the point of view of a human being. The courtship ritual could take time it doesn't have in its relatively short lifespan; proportionally, some human beings go through courtship, then mating, and into marriage in less time. Are we really any different when it comes to such things?

I am not saying that love only leads to disaster. There is no discounting the sacrifices that people like Mother Theresa have made out of love. Love can lead to a great many things. The Taj Mahal was borne out of love. Love is the basic tenet of religion, whether through the teachings of Buddha, or Muhammad, or Jesus, or whoever.

I was merely criticizing the idea that love is the be-all and end-all; that we shouldn't be blinded by love the way we are almost every single time we fall in love even after past experiences have taught us to tread with caution, to think otherwise; that we shouldn't get caught up in the web of paralyzing emotion; that we shouldn't put too much stock and faith in something that cannot withstand the scrutinizing light of science; that we should see and understand it from a different perspective; that we should probably not regard it as anything more than it really is.

And after professing the claim that I committed a fallacy by calling the opposing camp as "hopelessly, carelessly trusting in blind love, in love-at-first-sight," I see no attempt on your part to correct my wording and substitute them with the right ones, or to explain how love works and where it comes from, or to clarify why exactly you disagree with me.

Or maybe you have. Love is magic, you say. Magic, you call it. Magic? I can see the appeal; Einstein himself couldn't support the notion that there is no such thing as magic. It's hard to imagine life without some mysteries in it, without magic. But I am seeking for the truth, not for some vague, unfounded, unquantifiable flight of fantasy. I am not looking for an unreliable abstraction, which was what made me question the concept of love in the first place. You have basically offered me the same thing -- believing in something that cannot be proven. Who is using the rational mind now?

Believing in magic is comforting. Believing in God is comforting. Believing in heaven is comforting. Believing I am always right would be comforting. Believing in eugenics was comforting to the people who believed in them. Believing in racial superiority was comforting to the people who believed in them. Does that make it true? Does that make it real? Perhaps I wasn't mistaken at all when I described the opposing camp as "hopelessly, carelessly trusting in blind love, at love-at-first-sight." But hey, that's just me.

PLAYLIST

I Predict A Riot -- Kaiser Chiefs

Well That Was Easy -- Franz Ferdinand

Accidents Will Happen -- Elvis Costello

The Seer's Tower -- Sufjan Stevens

What I'm Trying To Say -- Stars

*

a passing

A quiet, gentle old man passed away today. I am glad to have known you, old man. You possessed a sublime benevolence to which I can only aspire. You were a great father and husband, and an outstanding influence to your grandchildren.

It's funny and quite amazing that this old man admired the Japanese for their military efficiency and discipline even after what they did to him during the war. His stories were always inspired and inspiring, and I loved listening to them when I was growing up.

Thinking about it, technically, you were family to me only through the marriage of your son to my aunt. Nevertheless, you were always family to me -- blood relation or no. I am nothing like you, but I wish to emulate all the good you have done in your life. I am glad to have known you, old man. I should have spent more time listening to you.

You were a simple man enjoying the simple pleasures in life, but you were never one to indulge. I will pray for you at your funeral today, and I will take comfort in knowing that you don't need my prayers; they will welcome you back with wide open arms in heaven, where you truly belong.

sabbatical

Posting suspended due to such urgent matters as exams, women, and life in general. A door opens and closes, but nothing pushes through. Only the scent of a bygone happiness and a mistaken forecast of sunshine in the near future.

Do not look through the door to see what is on the other side. It will blind you, deceive you, make you think everything is all right. You are looking at the wrong door; this one is merely a portal to the past -- leave it, do not cultivate anything.

The front door, the one that leads you to the future, this is the door through which you must traverse. No matter how barren, how cold, how lonely. It is good for you. God doesn't love you. Stop pretending. There is no cellar door for you to make your escape. Stay tuned; the usual broadcast will resume shortly. We regret any inconvenience caused.

father figure

"I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody."
--Bill Cosby

february fourteenth

Fuck Valentine's Day.

There is no such thing as pure love. Love is a blanket concept, to cover up the inadequacy of the human race in distancing itself from animals. Saying "I am falling in love with you, deeper and deeper" can be accurately translated as "I really want to get into your pants, now more than ever."

Love depends, literally, on chemistry. No, no, not the metaphorically poetic kind, but really, literally, on the biochemical pathways of your brain. Love is a chemical reaction in the caudate nucleus and the ventral tegmental area, which store and dispense a type of neurotransmitter called dopamine. That motivation, that exhilaration, that euphoria you feel when newly in love are all caused by dopamine spreading towards its receptors.

Dopamine is energizing, intoxicating, and addictive (why else do you think they call it 'dope-amine'?). Over time, your body builds a tolerance to dopamine, and you begin to need more and more of this chemical to feel the same high you did when you were first madly in love. The same way the body develops a tolerance towards alcohol or nicotine or every other drug you can think of. This is the reason why, over time, passion fades.

People with obsessive-compulsive disorder have the same chemical imbalance as people in love, this time due to the very spectacular neurotransmitter called serotonin. The level of serotonin in the blood of obsessive-compulsives are 40% lower than those in normal people. The exact same 40% deficiency exists in the blood of people who declare themselves as 'presently being in love'.

Hence, it is virtually impossible to tell them apart. People with a mental affliction in the brain exhibit an identical chemical imbalance as people with love in their hearts, putting a new spin to the phrase 'crazy in love'. Couples on the verge of divorce have been known to get enraptured in the throes of passionate love the very instant they stop taking anti-depressants, which suppress serotonin levels in the blood. As one woman succinctly puts it, "I started having orgasms once more, and now we're in love all over again."

The average time for relationships to break up is four years, coincidentally the average time it takes for a child to be physically independent from its parents. Perhaps that is not coincidence after all. Biologically, it allows the male to copulate with other females while ensuring that his hereditary legacy remains safe from harm for as long as he is needed to protect it, but any longer and it would prevent him from spreading his seed.

Question: At what point does a relationship turn from romantic, passionate, physical lust into sedated, level-headed, happily-married companionship? Answer: When oxytocin takes over the role of dopamine in the body. Oxytocin is a powerful hormone that bolsters feelings of attachment and bonding; the clingy and the nostalgically-inclined are overflowing with such hormones.

Prairie voles are animals with high levels of oxytocin in their bodies, which is why they mate monogamously for life. Block their oxytocin receptors, as was done in a study, and these rodents stop forging life-long relationships; choosing instead to mate like every other animal on the planet. Like every other animal, including the pretentiously-sophisticated Man.

Translation? If you meet a person who openly declares a lack of commitment in relationships, then beware: the warning signals are right there in front of you. Stay away. Abandon hope all ye who enter. No good will come out of it -- trust me, I should know. Clingy people may be a nuisance to your everyday life, but think of it this way: they are that much more dependable. A slight headache is preferable to a major heartache. Better the devil who irritates you than the devil who leaves you hanging, to paraphrase an age-old saying. Stability or uncertainty; your choice.

In the end, where does this leave you? Which camp do you belong to? The hopelessly, carelessly trusting in blind love, in love-at-first-sight? Or the carefully, mindfully skeptical in exact science, in medically-proven facts and statistics? You decide. Preferably, cold and detached as it is, I am beginning to fall into the latter category. I choose not to put my life in the grasp of emotion. I choose not to expose myself defenceless in this impulsive, unpredictable, capricious whim called love.

The chances of a relationship continuing is increased when, on the first date, you go on an exhilarating roller coaster ride. Remove a chemical receptor in the brain and, as the song goes, "wherever you lay your hat is your home." How hollow is this thing called love, anyway? How much more emptier can it get? Put all your hopes and dreams on something baseless, something with a non-existent foundation? Something unfounded? Unproven?

Call me bitter, or sad, or depressed, or luckless in love. Doesn't matter; quantifiable, empirical science will back me up all the way. Until proven otherwise, I will stick with it. But hey, that's just me.

PLAYLIST

One Head Light -- The Wallflowers

Meet Me In The Bathroom -- The Strokes

Violent Pornography -- System Of A Down

A Crow Left Of The Murder -- Incubus

Who's Got My Back? -- Creed

*

of such fleeting things

A walk
Down the aisle
Feels a million miles away

A rot
In my brain
Leaves me where I am today

A smile
On the train
Makes my day

A thought
In my head
Takes away

the killing joke

"Hell is other people." -- Jean-Paul Sartre

media whore

I am appearing on TV again tonight. Which is, like, the 8th time or something -- I stopped counting because I take it for granted I'm going to appear on TV again anyway. I can't wait to laugh at myself. People have described me (with envy, at times) as photogenic, but I'm never quite sure when it comes to video. I bet I'd sound great on radio, that's for sure. And it seems like I look gorgeous in photos, as they say. I bet I look ten pounds heavier on television. Ahh, well, just another step on the road to fame and glory.

I can just picture in my mind everyone watching and laughing; I expect them to! There is no greater feeling than being appreciated, and I'm sure the viewers will appreciate me. Do not worship me on the altar of the benign television; I may be the god of romance, but I am not the god of media... yet.

Updated: I don't believe it; they cut out half of what was filmed. Especially the parts where I had something to say! To the point where I almost looked like some mute guy put there just to beautify the scenery. They even cut out the part where I was giving good advice to teenagers, which I was especially proud of! I mean, duh!, good advice was exactly what the producers were looking for in the first place. Maybe I'm just too verbose and intellectual for them; god forbid they should include something mentally-stimulating that might not appeal to the lowest common denominator.

At least I looked good; I did not put on ten pounds in front of the camera! I seemed confident, smart, perhaps a bit too suave, and definitely pleasing to look at, if a little disinterested. I'd rate this one a 7.5 out of 10; more if they had not left out the good parts. At least I make a nice backdrop. And the audience appreciated. Maybe next time.

incomplete

It feels like my life is just that -- incomplete. Just like when a piece of information is missing from a mathematical equation, it won't work. The periodic table, missing an element, crumbles. Your favorite dish, missing an ingredient, tastes like shit. People, missing an essential function of the brain, become crazy (not me) or depressed (not me!) or stupid (definitely not me!).

But enough of drawing comparisons through the use of analogy. Something fundamental is missing in my life, so I have been thinking long and hard. I'm trying to figure out what it is exactly that has been unaccounted for throughout my existence. To that end, I have made a short list of all the indispensable things I need to make my life complete. And so without further adieu,

My List of Things

1. I need Scarlett Johansson. After watching her grow up in the movies, and seeing her in real life now, I'm sure anyone would agree she's absolutely perfect for me. Check her out in the latest edition of Vanity Fair (where she appears butt naked with a very horny-looking Tom Ford and an equally butt naked Keira Knightley. But who needs Ms. Knightley when you have Scarlett Johansson, butt naked?), for further confirmation that she is the one for me. Smart, beautiful, talented -- obviously these are qualities that I share with her -- Ms. Johansson, will you be mine?




2. I need a discoball. I'd like to hang one up in my room, now that it's all mine. Then everyday would be a party with the flick of a switch. Then I would invite everyone I know (incuding Ms. Johansson) to party with me. Then we could have some fun. Maybe add some stroboscopic disco lights to go along, beating to the music. Yeah, that'd be nice.



3. I need an international driver's license. To go around and paint the world red. Or whichever color I choose. Probably green or something. Then I can invite people (including Ms. Johansson) to go on an around-the-world road trip, crossing borders with ease. Clothes? Check! Money? Check! Passport? Check! International driver's license? Check!



4. I need an electric chainsaw. Today I was cutting up a tree again because the wind got so strong it toppled, hitting a lamp on its way down. It dawned on me that the work would not be so laborious if I had an electric chainsaw. Sure, I'm starting to feel like a regular lumber jack (not quite having the chest and biceps, but getting there), but which lumber jack is complete without a chainsaw to call his own? Hell, I could unleash a mini-deforestation by myself! Hell, yeah! Then I would take pictures and show all my friends (including Ms. Johansson).


That's about all I need to make my life complete. Everything else is overrated. This is not a Christmas list, so don't try to buy me anything for my birthday (which is coming soon, by the way) because you forgot to buy me anything for Christmas. I will work at attaining all these glorious things and then proclaim myself 100% complete. To start off, I will strive to achieve the objective which seems the most accessible to me: Scarlett Johansson.

PLAYLIST

Use It -- The New Pornographers

My Doorbell -- The White Stripes

Goodnight Goodnight -- Hot Hot Heat

Electric Mistress -- Jamiroquai

One Of These Days -- Doves

*

the great divide

As the rich get richer, we all know what happens to the poor.

The richest 1% of households -- those with incomes above $237,000 for 2003, the latest year analyzed -- owned 57.5% of all income from capital gains, dividends, interest and rents in 2003, the Congressional Budget Office analysis found. That was up from 53.4% the year before and 38.7% in 1991.

Long-term capital gains were taxed at 28% until 1997, and at 20% until 2003, when rates were cut to 15%. The top rate on stock dividends was cut to 15% from 35% that year.

The poorest fifth of Americans owned 0.6% of corporate wealth in 2003, down from 1.4 percent in 1991.

The CBO analysis excludes the stock held in retirement accounts such as 401(k)s and IRAs, which isn’t subject to taxation and was thus unaffected by the tax cuts.

Although these tax cuts are slated to expire in 2008, Congress is already debating whether to extend them through 2010. The Bush administration has been calling for the cuts to be extended or made permanent.

An analysis by the Urban-Brookings Tax Policy Center found that an extension of the tax cuts would save households with incomes under $50,000 about $11 in 2009. Those with incomes above $1 million would save about $32,000.

Read the whole article

first impressions of earth

Am I a prisoner to instincts
Or do my thoughts just live
As free and detached
As boats to the dock?

Just like when music was born
And detached from your heart
Is your free time to free minds
Or for falling apart?

--Ize Of The World, The Strokes

subtracting the abstract

A cute little thing happened today. My baby sister started crying because she got upset. She got upset on account of a ball she got for her birthday. The ball, just one out of the four billion presents she received, is a multi-colored soft toy the size of your palm with an electronic device inside. The electronic device detects pressure, and so every time the ball is squeezed or bounces on the floor it lets out a plaintive mewing -- the kind a dejected, melancholic cat would make.

Upon hearing this, my sister ran in the direction of her father and started bawling real loud. The funny thing is, I saw her playing around with it just a minute ago. But the second I left the room and she was alone with the toy, it must have grown fangs and tried to to bite her head off. My sister just turned seven. Happy birthday, baby girl! Now grow up, will you?

Meanwhile, as I was trying to sound all scholarly and smart by reading up on George P. Lakoff, I realized just how shallow my mind is. Here is a guy who starts linguistic wars because he probably thinks it's fun, and there are not many things in life that a genius with a multi-layered mind would consider fun. And so, between trying to understand the reappraisal of a metaphor and visualize what an embodied mind would look like in my head, I gave up.

I didn't even know what a transformational grammar was, or generative semantics and syntax, or conceptual metaphor, or cognitive psychology and linguistics, or foundation ontologies and empirical validation -- what do these words mean?! What the hell is an empirically responsible philosophy?!! I think it is good to admit when I'm out of my depth, and here I am practically sinking.

I tried to read up on those things too but, really, they're just beyond me. The more effort I made, the less insight I gained. It was giving me a headache, and I'm already having diarrhoea from the worm. I think I'll just play with my guitar, get a good workout done, and maybe watch some television if I have the time. Yeah, that's the way. Shallow minds rejoice!

PLAYLIST

Knife Party -- Deftones

Talk Show On Mute -- Incubus

I Like Dirt -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

Don't Stop Dancing -- Creed

TV Pro -- The Vines

*

fiat lux!

Imagine eating a worm that, unknown to you, was festering in your dinner. Imagine the worm waiting for a warmer place to call home. Imagine that warmer place to call home your stomach. Now imagine, after consuming said worm, the neurons in your brain start linking up faster than you can think.

It gets complicated for awhile. The perikaryons become permeable, starting a chain reaction that allows dendrites and axons to travel at speeds unimaginable through the labyrinthine network of telodendrons in the trilobed structure of the cerebral hemispheres.

But those are just mere details. It is easier to think of it as a one-dimensional printed circuit board, with switches opening and closing, and gates selecting the appropriate functions, the resistors and conductors overloading, and the main body of the programming language being overworked with little or no delay, with data conveyed at 1.3 terahertz per second. Somewhere in there is the smell of plastic burning.

Or to think of it another way, a very complex subway system that goes over and under and sideways while working along its usual routes, carrying more commuters than is permissible under the public transport system regulations code, with said commuters cruising at the speed of thought both backwards and forwards at the same time (perhaps due to some fluke in an area of quantum physics still lodged in the section of "dubious and abstruse").

Imagine -- while all this is happening in your brain -- that the enlarged, saclike portion of the alimentary canal you call the stomach is ingesting aforementioned worm with ever-increasingly rapid contractions of the intestinal fats, drawing all kinds of nutrients previously unbeknownst to man.

Chief amongst this macrobiotic concoction of sustentative nourishment is a mnemonic virus not unlike the straight rod-shaped gram-negative bacillus escherichia coli, found in the human gastrointestinal tract, and more affectionately known as the bacterium that causes 'mad cow disease' by boring holes into brain tissue.

However, unlike the e. coli, this mnemonic virus makes its way to your brain and sets off a dramatic series of events -- producing hematopoietic stem cells that eradicate wear and tear through time and misuse, strengthening channels and connections you thought never existed, creating explosive bursts of energy that swells the amount of blood in your brain twofold, and plugging up whatever holes and leakages that were heretofore latent.

With all this occurring concurrently with a two-punch combination of sleep deprivation and nicotine overload, your mind is bombarded with seismic waves of superlative intelligence and cosmic omniscience. Every aimless dart that your mind throws in the dark hits a bullseye. Every question that you manage to ask gets an answer. Every moment in your life attains an infinite significance on a universal scale.

Imagine, if you will, experiencing epiphany after epiphany of the mind faster than you have the time to reflect upon each one or write them down for future reference. Imagine, in this heightened state of perspicacity, you are able to discern the world through the eyes of every human being on the planet. You feel an aura of celestial space emanating from within and your ears ring with a supreme, transcendental voice of truth from above.

Imagine everything you have done, everything you have felt, everything you have experienced, all melt into a milky white radiance in the very center of your soul. Imagine overcoming every obstacle you will ever face with nonchalant ease, confronting your fears with a cavalier attitude, meeting every hardship that comes your way with eminent grace. In these fleeting moments you have found a panacea for the heart and mind. Now imagine every engram of this specific experience etched in the corners of your mind forever.

The reason why I have described all of the above in detail is because I think I ate that worm. It is now difficult to comprehend what exactly happened, or to explain it in words. The feeling of utter contentment was so complete and so perfect even my thoughts could not invade it. Nothing worried me, and the impression that I got was bliss. I would never have imagined the uncomfortable sensation in the pit of my stomach would lead to that. I would never have thought eating bad food would turn out to be so good.

The physiological repercussions were apparent enough; I am still experiencing the side-effects right now. I am having a bout of constipation, there is a pinched nerve running down my right leg, my ass cheeks (especially the right one) feel like someone slapped them really hard, and if I didn't know better the soreness around my *ahem* sphincter would have led me to believe I had spent a night in jail as the... umm, resident prison bitch. I guess there is always a price to pay for achieving enlightenment. Pop quiz! Should I take two worms, get some rest, and call God in the morning?

PLAYLIST

Needles -- System Of A Down

Bring Me Down -- Kanye West

Where Are You -- Our Lady Peace

The Meaning Of Soul -- Oasis

The Worm -- Audioslave

*

state of the union

Ladies and gentlemen, the state of the union is a mess. Let's make it messier.

[Applause! Applause!]

Thank you. Let's see... first on the agenda: America is addicted to oil. Yee-haw! Hot-diggity-dang, look at the smirk on my face! My vice-president is rich because we are addicted to oil! We're in a war because we are addicted to oil! Your children are dying, our lungs are blackening, the world is choking on pollution; all because we are addicted to oil!

And we're damned proud of our SUVs! We're damned proud of our wasteful attitude! We're damned proud of our soldiers dying for oil! Hell, that is the American Way of Life! Freedom (for ourselves), liberty (for all whom we force it upon), and the pursuit of happiness for oil!

[Applause! Applause!]

But let me pay lip-service to clean, renewable energy. We cannot depend on unstable regions around the world to provide us the energy that our insa-- insta-- insatitia-- insatiable appetite requires. We need to increase spending in our search for sustainable energy sources. Although we are really cutting down on such needlessly excessive spending, my speech writers will make it look like we are actually increasing it! And so I believe we are at the threshold of realizing technologies that will bring about unlimited, renewable, sustainable energy for the future of America. And that is a job for the next President in line. Cheney, baby -- *wink wink* -- I'm looking at you.

[Applause! Applause!]

We will never surrender to evil! Pre-emptive strikes on third world countries is key! We will invade their countries and terrorize their neighborhoods! We will bring the war to their doorstep and open the floodgates of hell so there will be more terrorists for us to shoot at! We will prolong this offensive in Iraq for as long as it is politically-beneficial! Not to mention the oil! We will act boldly in freedom's cause! And we will call it 'Operation: Iraqi Freedom'!

[Applause! Applause!]

We will remain vigilant on the offensive against terrorism at home! We will invade your privacy, we will listen in on your conversations, we will track the websites you visit, and we will do this to whoever the hell we want, whenever the hell we want! If you speak to people of middle-eastern origin, the terrorists have won! If you like pornography, the terrorists have won! It is inevitable. Inevitable! Inevitable!

[Applause! Applause!]

We will confront the rising cost of health care head on! I am fully aware that the revolutionary health care policies introduced throughout the first term of my presidency are in shambles. But who cares?! I will put forth newer, more revolutionary health care policies that will make it affordable to all Americans. Or not. Maybe. I'm not sure anymore. But who cares?! Power to the people!

[Applause! Applause!]

We will build the prosperity of our country by making the tax cuts permanent and increase the spending on war. Budget deficit? What budget deficit? National debt? What national debt? These are conspiracies created by liberal lefties and dog-eat-dog Democrats to undermine the confidence of the American people during this time of crisis... uhh, Crisis? What crisis? There is uncertainty in people's minds right now. People are uncertain even though the union in this country is strong in support of the war. Union? What union? Haha. No, that's not it. War? What war? Haha. Yeah, that's it.

[Laughter! Applause!]

That is a joke, by the way. I haven't seen Brokeback Mountain but I intend to see it next week with my very burly and very manly vice-president, Mr. Dick Cheney. I hear the movie is about ranchers and cowboys, and I ain't ashamed to say that I am a true-blue American Cowboy by any standards. You know that Dick and this Bush are gonna have a hell of a time at the cinemas next week! Heh heh.

[Laughter! Applause!]

I believe human being and fish can co-exist peacefully, and America needs a military where our breast and brightest are proud to serve. And proud to stay. If you are a single mother with two children, which is the toughest job in America as far as I'm concerned, and you're working hard to put food on your family, really the question to ask: are is our children learning?

[Applause! Applause!]

Too many OB-GYNs are unable to practise their... their love with women all across this country. See, I don't think this should be. There is an old saying in Tennessee I know it's in Texas probably in Tennessee that says, "Fool me once... shame on... shame on you... If you fool me you can't get fooled again."

[Applause! Applause!]

Three words are going to determine the outcome of our economic future. Ladies and gentlemen, the three words are: nuk-u-ler. They will shape the civil liberties of our beloved nation, expedite our wholesome political agenda, defeat the enemy, strengthen the foundations of our imperialism, and basically make this country a great place to live in. Hell, I'm tempted to call it the silver bullet. Repeat after me: nuk-u-ler. Nuk-u-ler! Nuk-u-ler!

[Applause! Applause!]

And so, in my state of the...my state of the union our state my speech... to the nation... my speech to the nation. Whatever you wanna call it. My speech to the nation. Err... God bless America!

[Applause! Applause! Standing Ovation! Applause!]

PLAYLIST

The End -- The Doors

Fire Water Burn -- Bloodhound Gang

Born In The USA -- Bruce Springsteen

Attack -- System Of A Down

Bodies -- Drowning Pool

*

suburban hunter-gatherer

Cut down trees into threes. The sharp whistle of the sabre falling under your might just as it hits the thick, hard branch with a loud thwack! gives you a nice feeling of satisfaction, of a job well done. So you do it again and again. The wood will give, soon enough. Your hand hurts and your palm turns blue-black with bruises from repeatedly hitting it against the black handle of the short, heavy, straight-edged knife -- gripped tightly as it is in your fist, the shockwaves come hard and fast as they reverberate through your torso. Every impact is an explosion of pain. Doesn't matter, shrug it off.

You feel sweat from every pore, bullets dripping down your forehead. Never mind, wipe it off. You feel an acute contusion in your spine that will sort itself out by tomorrow. Your lungs are on fire, and so are the triceps in your right arm. But there is a greater fire burning in your eyes. It is a good feeling. Don't stop. Don't think. What must be done, must be done. Focus on your task at hand. Cut down trees into threes. The trunk, you notice, is too wide. Too thick. You need a saw for this.

"Get the saw!"

Slice through the bark and it gets harder from there. The tree is old with layers of tough, impenetrable fibers running through its length. The saw, with its dull orange handle, is rusty and its teeth too small. The fingers of your right hand fit perfectly on the grooves and, brushing off the ache in your arm, you start to work on it. The serrated edge will not eat through the wood quickly; this will take some time. But that is not a problem, this is not a herculean task.

The last stroke does its job and you cannot resist shouting "Tim-berrrr!" when the tree finally crashes to the ground. Perfect. The heck with it, use your bare hands to snap the branches. Faster that way -- break them by grabbing one end and stamping on the middle for leverage. Push forward and they snap like twigs. Perfect.

Under the oppressive, sweltering sun you find a forgotten and primitive world of your own. You find your freedom. No quantum mechanics involved, no engineering mathematics in this, no experience in a technical field required. No complications in the human relations kind of thing. This is you doing pure, physical work. It is a good feeling. Just demolish a tree until there is no tree, leaving only tiny little fragments of wood. This you do until you can feel needle-like splinters under your skin. No worries, you can deal with that later.

You pick up the pieces and gather them in a bunch. Jump over the balustrade and carry them back to the house for later. For the fire. Right now, another task lies ahead of you. This one is covered with thorns but what must be done, must be done. You bring along your tools of trade to cut down the next tree.

In your eagerness, without looking, you swing yourself over the concrete fence and land in a nest of broken branches. Instantly a sharp, distinctive pain shoots up your leg. You don't have time to wonder what just happened when you realize... this one is covered with thorns. You see something resembling a long, broken matchstick with the head detached stuck in the ball of your right foot and you start tugging at it. You grit your teeth because you're hurting your foot even more and still it won't budge; it must be embedded deep inside.

You can almost hear a pop! sound when, with one swift pull, it comes off. A large thorn, two-inches long, caked in blood. Revenge Of The Trees. Fair enough. You'll be walking with an awkward gait for the next two days, but that doesn't concern you now. What must be done, must be done. When you're finished with it, you collect the detritus and carefully drop them into the now-large pile of deadwood.

Two full-grown trees in twenty minutes, all practically pulp now. Not bad, you tell yourself. Twenty minutes. A job well done, considering you had just finished two packs of cigarettes in two days. It shows you still have the stamina. You still have enough energy to balance yourself on the balustrade and, leaning against the jackfruit tree, cut off two ripe ones. Your heart is pumping battery acid to your veins quicker than usual, but that is a minor detail.

You let them light up the bonfire as you stand to one side and watch. Firewood to burn and simultaneously drive off the infestation of black beetles with their large, compacted heads from the coconut tree in the garden. The fire in front of you reflects the fire in your eyes, and when it is big enough you lift a branch with smoldering leaves and let the smoke drift to the upper reaches of the coconut tree. As the flames lick hungrily, the beetles fall like sizzling black rain.

Somehow this reminds you of the time when you were holding steadfast to the front legs of a lamb, waiting for it to be slaughtered. Impervious to the pitiful bleating of the quadruped mammal -- which was held prostate and immobile by six human arms -- the man with the blade sliced its neck in a few effective strokes, killing it almost immediately. You had watched with a grim expression on your face as the blood gushed out from the gaping hole and splattered all over his clothes; you were feeling sorry for the animal. The man only winced, and only once, and only from the stench, when the carcass was hung upside down to be skinned and the contents of its intestines fell out.

It is getting dark now that the sun is setting. You can see the flickering, dancing shadows of the people around you cast large and wide on the wall from the flames of the dying bonfire. But the fire in your eyes remains and, hopefully, will remain until your dying days. As you stoke the glowing embers, in the gathering dark, you now wish somehow the man with the blade had been you. No regrets. No fear. No remorse. It is a good feeling.

PLAYLIST

Man Machine -- Robbie Williams

Where Is My Mind? -- The Pixies

Stealing Society -- System Of A Down

O Green World -- Gorillaz

Twisted Logic -- Coldplay

*

19 New Words For 2006

Consider these essential vocabulary additions for the workplace (and elsewhere).

1. BLAMESTORMING: Sitting around in a group, discussing why a deadline was missed or a project failed, and who was responsible.

2. SEAGULL MANAGER: A manager, who flies in, makes a lot of noise, craps on everything, and then leaves.

3. ASSMOSIS: The process by which some people seem to absorb success and advancement by kissing up to the boss rather than working hard.

4. SALMON DAY: The experience of spending an entire day swimming upstream only to get screwed and die in the end.

5. CUBE FARM: An office filled with cubicles.

6. PRAIRIE DOGGING: When someone yells or drops something loudly in a cube farm, and people's heads pop up over the walls to see what's going on.

7. MOUSE POTATO: The on-line, wired generation's answer to the couch potato.

8. SITCOMs: Single Income, Two Children, Oppressive Mortgage. It's what yuppies turn into when they have children and one of them stops working to stay home with the kids.

9. STRESS PUPPY: A person who seems to thrive on being stressed out and whiny.

10. SWIPEOUT: An ATM or credit card that has been rendered useless because the magnetic strip is worn away from extensive use.

11. XEROX SUBSIDY: Euphemism for swiping free photocopies from one's workplace.

12. IRRITAINMENT: Entertainment and media spectacles that are annoying but you find yourself unable to stop watching them. The J-Lo and Ben wedding (or not) was a prime example - Michael Jackson, another.

13. PERCUSSIVE MAINTENANCE: The fine art of whacking the crap out of an electronic device to get it to work again.

14. ADMINISPHERE: The rarefied organizational layers beginning just above the rank and file. Decisions that fall from the adminisphere are often profoundly inappropriate or irrelevant to the problems they were designed to solve.

15. 404: Someone who's clueless. From the World Wide Web error message "404 Not Found," meaning that the requested site could not be located.

16. GENERICA: Features of the American landscape that are exactly the same no matter where one is, such as fast food joints, strip malls, and subdivisions.

17. OHNOSECOND: That minuscule fraction of time in which you realize that you've just made a BIG mistake. (Like after hitting SEND on an email by mistake)

18. WOOFS: Well-Off Older Folks.

19. CROP DUSTING: Surreptitiously passing gas while passing through a Cube Farm.

* * * * *

Found on the Internet,
January 19, 2006, 4:28 A.M.

subjugating ennui

I feel so sick I can hardly stand up (haven't been taking care of myself, as usual), but my mind's a mess so I'm writing this hoping to make sense of the insensible. Coming back from vacation and realizing tomorrow's another holiday leaves a deep sentiment of futility for some quixotic, unknown reason. Further realizing that tomorrow is just another day with nothing to look forward to, and I'm back to square one. And I thought a vacation would help.

It was a refreshing change of scenery, that's for sure. Too bad the scenery was crowded with other vacationers. It was nice to do nothing of importance; sleeping during the day when it was crowded, going night swimming when there was nobody around but the people I like to be around with, fiddling with the guitars and creating sweet melodies out of nothing, racing on the go-kart tracks and losing miserably to the others by crashing into barriers, playing futsal under the cool, glaring stare of the stadium lights. Just to name a few nothings.

But that's what holidays are for -- to lose oneself in the reassuring pretense that this is life, this wild and care-free world full of mindless diversions and endless gratification. A grandiose indulgence in luxury, living off the fat of the land. On that primrose path of contentment, I was the king of my world. How princely that feeling, how magnificent, how splendid, how unreal.

Alas, as with everything good, it had to end. When reality kicks in gear, you find yourself back where you came from. Like love, like life, like happiness, it ends. Is this it? Does life revolve around the miserable plodding of daily grind, intermittenly punctuated by moments of exultant delight?

I grow weary of this world and its vicious cycles of futility. Pain, pleasure, and back again. Love, hate, repeat. Live, die, and so on and so forth. All the tears we shed will be replaced by our children's, all the things we create will crumble to dust. We buy all the things we don't need so that future generations can emulate us. We run the show for the 15 minutes of our lives until the curtain is drawn for the next show on stage to come on.

I can (as I am doing now) bury myself in books as a form of escapism, to look the other way, to hide from the inevitable for as long as the illusion lasts. Or I can face the fucking music and stare harsh, cruel reality in the eye. I'm just not sure if there's a difference. The ambitions we have, the legacies we'll leave. For posterity? It all seems so fucking pointless to me.

PLAYLIST

Somebody Else -- Bleu

Shadow Stabbing -- Comfort Eagle

Ize Of The World -- The Strokes

Uninvited -- Alanis Morissette

Bullets -- Creed

*

...in my eyes

"I am Jack's smirking revenge.
I am Jack's cold sweat.
I am Jack's raging bile duct.
I am Jack's broken heart.
I am Jack's complete lack of surprise."
--The Narrator, Fight Club

no more soap...

"You are not your job.
You are not how much you have in the bank.
You are not the contents of your wallet.
You are not your fucking Khakis.
You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake.
You are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world."
--Tyler Durden, Fight Club

i, robant

After more than a month trying to decipher your words, I finally understand. I finally realize what I am to you. I know my place in this world. It has fully dawned upon me my function, my raison d'etre; why I was created in the first place.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am -- as Philip K. Dick would describe it -- a robant. A robot servant, subject to every one of your capricious whims and desires. I will allay your fears. I will satiate your hunger for life. I will appease your emotional needs. I will satisfy your sexual cravings. I will fill the void that exists in your soul. I will be your lover, your best friend, your mentor, your slave, your father, your son. I will be anything you want. I will bend, but I will not break. I have done this countless of times, and I will do so again.

And after I have fulfilled my function, when I am of no use to you anymore, you can discard me. After all, that is what I am for. The son that you are missing, the boyfriend who has left you -- the moments when you need me, I am priceless. The moment you don't, I am useless. I will love you as though you are the greatest thing on earth. I will care for you like no human being can. I will accept your shortcomings and celebrate the wonder that is you. Only for as long as you need it.

My words mean nothing to you. My actions are simply automatic reflexes, subservient to your orders. I am at your beck and call, twenty-four/seven. I am your savior. I will protect you from the harsh realities of life. Say you will leave me, pretend you love me. Betray me; I will love you more for it. Bring me down to my knees; I am impervious to pain. Break my heart in two halves; I do not have one. Give me your empty promises; I live on such things. Present me with cruelty and I will provide you sustenance.

Punish me. Hurt me. Abandon me. Kill me. I am He Who Walks On Water. I will die for your sins and be your martyr. I am merely a transitional period, a replacement, until you have what you've wanted all along, until you find greener pastures to walk on. Walk on, walk all over me. Do not despair; this is what I have been created for. And best of all, you are under no obligation whatsoever.

I am not capable of feeling sad nor disappointed. I do not mind being used or abused by you; in fact, I relish it. After all, that is my function. I am your personal superman. I am your weapon of mass distraction. I am your temporary reprieve. When you get back the son you lost, when you find the boyfriend you've always wanted, if a better offer came through for you, I will softly walk away. You can forget about me, I will leave when I have outstayed my welcome.

PLAYLIST

Under Control -- The Strokes

Everyday I Love You Less And Less -- Kaiser Chiefs

Why Does This Always Happen To Me -- Al Yankovic

Extraordinary Machine -- Fiona Apple

Love Fool -- The Cardigans

*

hairless monkey

Oh my God! I'm lucky I still have my eyebrows intact! Remember, kids: do NOT light up your cigarette with the stove if you lose your lighter. Especially when you have hair cream on to give that slick, shiny look. Your hair definitely won't look slick and shiny anymore. Trust me on this. The moment I heard the sudden whoosh of chemical combustion, I knew I was in trouble. The moment I breathed in the distinct scent of burnt hair, I knew something was amiss.

I can feel my eyebrows, they're still there. And my eyelashes, and my nose hair. And there is still hair on my head, thank God, my cute black curls are still there for millions of women to adore. Sadly, a few strands of hair at the tip of my forehead have turned white and shrivelled and I don't know what to do with them! Maybe I'll spray some cheap dye on them, yeah that'll work.

*Sigh*

PLAYLIST

Do You Want To -- Franz Ferdinand

Abra Cadaver -- The Hives

Helicopter -- Bloc Party

Farewell Ride -- Beck

Pedalpusher -- Stereophonics

*

6,587,288,673 and counting

There is a sign
On a door in Baghdad
"The Doctor’s Not In"
And never will be again

A whale, in its death throes,
Beckons people to see
And having been seen,
Dies

A mother missing her son
And, lifting his shirt to her face,
Cries

A love lost its way,
A lover shocked blind
Today

The stars our destination,
To new horizons, anywhere
But here

third time's the charm (ii)

I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait!

third time's the charm (i)

I can wait, I can wait, I can wait...

brave new world

"O wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is!
O brave new world,
That has such people in't!"
--William Shakespeare's The Tempest

long lost ruminations of a nostalgic mind

I sit under a tree and reflect on my life. What is wrong with me today? What is wrong with me all throughout my life? Rhetorical questions that I cannot answer. I think of all the suffering children of the world, and I feel an infinite sadness for them. I have the sudden urge to do something about it. But what?

I look around, seeking desperately for an answer, as if they sprout from the ground. Instead, I am greeted by plastic facets of exasperation. Somehow, I am all too familiar with it. Yet, at the same time, it is frighteningly foreign to me. I try to look away, but the dismal looks linger in my mind. My conscience yearns to reach out to them, to leave myself vulnerable to their penetrating stares and deadly words of scorn, to soothe their hearts, to lull them into tranquil slumber and wake them up to blissful breakfasts and an unperturbed peace of mind.

But as I open my eyes to invite them into my arms, they are already gone. My attempt to embrace them with unbridled love is stopped short by their impatience and insecurities interred deep within their hearts. I have much to learn, I tell myself. I have tried my best for today, I tell myself. My dissatisfaction betrays these self-reassuring words, but I suddenly feel light-headed and not long after, I too, succumb to the inexorable pull of sleep. The skeletal limbs of the dauntingly large tree cast far and wide shadows across the ground on which I lie unconscious.

In my dream, I see streaks of lightning and feel a foreboding sense of danger. My heart begins to palpitate and my forehead drips of cold sweat and a throbbing headache. I see a humanoid figure in the distance, looming into view. First a pale dot, then slowly but surely, a blurry silhouette masked by shuffling smoke. He releases a cackling laughter and points a gaunt finger at me. I feel the urgency to get out of his way as quickly as possible, but my whole body refuses to budge. I lay there, panic-stricken and breathing uncontrollably. He stands so close to me, then bends down to have a closer look at my face. I smell his fetid, reeking breath and his bestial, puke-inducing stench. He smiles confidently, showing the full glory of his needle-like teeth. Then, once again, he lifts a finger; just as the tip of his finger touches the tip of my nose, my eyes pop open.

I awake in a pool of sweat, swivelling my head from left to right to look out for the intruder only to find no one nowhere near me. I gather my thoughts and just as I rise from the ground, the sky reveals flashes of light and darkening clouds. Almost immediately, rain sprinkles down from the heavens above. I walk back to my apartment and relish the solitude of my own room. I wait a while before deciding to do anything, reconfiguring the notions and nuances in my head while snuck comfortably under my thick linen blanket. I stare into the empty wall and form my thoughts there.

* * * * *

Originally written on a Monday,
April 24, 2000, 6:36 A.M.

nostalgic ruminations of a long lost mind

I am tired. But more than that I am bored. It is difficult being a student; every once in awhile you find yourself with nothing to do. This is especially true during spells of vacation time without a vacation spot to go to. They should make vacations optional, on a demand basis, and subject to quotas. Imagine your classmate's face when he is told that he would have to forego the annual visit to his grandmother in some remote part of the world where people go to visit their grandmothers once a year, because the "Students Visiting Their Grandmothers Annually in a Remote Part of the World Somewhere" quota has been filled.

Hah! I would pay to see that. It wouldn't be funny if it happened to you, though. It'd be funny to me. Anyway, I have no plans to speak of whatsoever. Oh, I had plans; I had planned all kinds of things once I saved up enough (read: never gonna happen). Not anymore. My plans got screwed up because of the war in Iraq.

Well, because I broke up with my girlfriend of eight months anyway. But, in many ways, our relationship was a lot like the current war in Iraq. What started out as a pre-emptive strike of mistrust and misunderstanding, soon became a full-blown battle for moral supremacy when unexpected insurgencies of emotional baggage came into the scene. A Molotov cocktail of harsh words and lack of commitment was bad enough, but the arsenal of insecurities and personality clashes unleashed was just too much to bear.

Walking on eggshells in the minefield of sensitivity and throwing grenades of jealousy became par for the course. A well-aimed grudge missile here, a dose of unreasonable napalm there, and -- as far as the eye can see in every direction -- stockpiles of radioactive stubbornness littering the landscape.

I'm surprised that the war lasted as long as it did. One side was usually giving up while the other did not relent with its assault. The war dragged on even after there was nothing left to fight for. The casualties of feelings and emotions were immense; the only survivor: heartbreak.

And just like the ongoing Iraqi War, the positive results are minimal and the bad immensely difficult to deal with. The fallout will be felt for years to come. You can hardly tell the good guys from the bad guys; neither is willing to give in, and both are as brutal as humanly possible.

I believe I am still recovering from post traumatic shock. Doc, I can't feel anything from the heart down. My head's all messed up, I find myself staring at nothing all day, and the only way I'm coping is through chain-smoking and pacing around the house restlessly, waiting for something to happen. Doc, help me! Give me drugs, give me alcohol, I don't care; give me something to relieve the pain! I’m dying here, Doc! I am sorry, Doc, please don't blame me for being difficult. I am merely a soldier, fighting for a lost cause.

PLAYLIST

I'm Not Ok (I Promise) -- My Chemical Romance

Sex Is Not The Enemy -- Garbage

Shut You Out -- Millencolin

15 Minutes -- The Strokes

Goodbye My Lover -- James Blunt

*

new horizons

"We have always held the hope, the belief, the conviction that there is a better life, a better world, beyond the horizon."
--Franklin D. Roosevelt


© Dan Durda

trenchant is the blade

When it rains, it pours. I thought losing someone was bad enough, but it seems my fears come in threes. Third time's the charm, as they say. As far as I can tell, I haven't hit the bottom yet. Sooner or later, maybe. We'll see.

Just the other day -- Sunday morning, if my memory serves me right -- I sat with my Dad reading the papers for one and a half hours with no words exchanged between the two of us. It's the usual routine, obviously, sitting across from each other face to face with no eye contact whatsoever. No indication that these two living beings are father and son. Perfect strangers, to an outsider looking in.

Searching for something, my mind finally settled on a question I had to ask regarding a friend's immigration problem (he has been applying for citizenship and twice was rejected without any explanation, and he personally asked me to consult my Dad for help). After a brief discussion, we returned to our daily routine of ignoring (neglecting?) each other's existence.

After twenty busy minutes in the Business section, he noticed I was visibly upset that nothing could be done to help my friend out. So he tried to explain again how these things work, and after a little back and forth, I was resigned to the fact that my friend was literally on his own.

Sure I was disappointed I couldn't help my friend out, and I called him right after to give him the bad news, but I was doubly disappointed that this father-son duo only spoke when necessary. On a typical day, the only communication between us is when he asks me if I have school on that day. That's it.

I know I'm not what you expected me to be. I know it must be frustrating to wake up everyday and face up to the possibility (certainty?) that your son is a failure, a major disappointment beyond your power to control and make right. I realize it's difficult to trust me anymore now that I've let you down so many times before.

Even your friends have noticed. Your childhood friend who, unlike you, has the ability to show affection to his loved ones (but that is okay; I'm used to it and I know deep down, though you don't show it, it's there). Your childhood friend, whom I hadn't met for over a year and who lives in a country in many ways entirely different from our own, came up to me at our holiday retreat several weeks ago when he saw my disappointed face after being rejected by you again, and noted his observation.

"Your father doesn't trust you," he said, smiling as he said it. As though a cheerful and reassuring smile could lighten the weight off my shoulders. The look on my face was that obvious, Dad, but you never notice these things. You walked away, without ever once stopping to consider what your silent rebuffs do to me.

"There's nothing I can do," I said then, and shrugged. I felt like crying but I didn't show it (you've taught me well in that department, Dad, that much you can be proud of).

The smile on his face remained. "Study hard. Study hard and make him proud. Show to him that you can achieve what your sister has done, or even higher. And then, he will trust you."

Study hard, and then you will trust me. Tell me, Dad. Is that how you treat a son whose only mission in life is to have his father accept him for what he is? Whose sole purpose of being is to make you proud of him? I have made many mistakes, I admit. You must be very ashamed of me. If you do not wish to see me again, I will leave. But you have to tell me. You do such a good job of hiding your feelings I don't know what to think anymore. Just please don't treat me this way. Why have you forsaken me in your eyes, and in your heart, and in your mind?

I love you, Dad. I don't show it, but isn't that what you taught me to do? To never show my feelings, because it is a sign of weakness. You are the exact opposite of Mom in many ways, and yet these two opposing influences have shaped my life greater than anything else. I only want your acceptance and perhaps, if it's not too much to ask, to be best friends again like we were in the good old days. It wasn't that long ago -- I'm only 21 -- but it feels like an entire lifetime. And maybe it really is for me.

When it rains, it pours. I've always been under the impression that friends will help bail you out when you're down, not kick you in the guts for a chance. I don't think I'll be guilelessly deluded anymore. I believe it's a gargantuan task to write a nice letter of recommendation, or maybe I'm not worth the time. Whatever.

Oh, Arnold, Arnold, Arnold. And here I thought you were my friend. Little did I suspect your Machiavellian mind perceived me as an irredeemably useless, no-good piece of shit. What do you really think of me? Not that really I care, not anymore, but I thought you were my friend. That's all. It's rare to have a lecturer as a friend, and I was gullible enough to identify you as one.

It is, as you say, against your greater conscience to write me a nice letter of recommendation. That if you were an employer, you wouldn't want to work with me. Why is that, O Brutus of mine? Are you somehow threatened by my intellect? Are you intimidated by me, that I am smarter, stronger, and by far 'cooler' than you'll ever be? That if I were to realize my full potential, you would be nothing but a speck of dirt compared to me?

Yes, I am too full of myself. You personally informed me of that fact after I scored a distinction for the course you taught us. You cannot deny that I am brilliant, that much you know. Do you now deny that without me we would never have won the business competition? Do you now refuse to acknowledge that without me, our proposal would never have made it past the first stage?

I see it now. You were in it for yourself. I was in it because we had a great working relationship, and that it was exciting to enter the field of money-making with friends. Too bad it didn't work out that way, huh? You probably blame me for that too, since you can do no wrong. Point the finger, I don't care, but know this: it would have amounted to nothing if it wasn't for me.

Don't write me that document; I don't need it. I don't need you. This is your only way of getting back at me out of spite because of my superiority, your last chance to exercise what power you have over me, so I will allow you the opportunity. It would have been a nice gesture; it would have been a favor for a friend, that is all. It would have been nice to feel appreciated for my efforts, nothing more. For a moment there, being in the emotional turmoil that I was in, I was offended and a little hurt. Only because I believed friends help each other out, and I actually believed you were a friend. Not anymore.

When it rains, it pours. I thought we could make it together, you and me. I thought we could last forever, happy and free. Then everything got in the way. I will not say anything hurtful if I can help it, but I am hurt and angry too. I do not understand why it has to be this way. Maybe I will one day but I right now I am furious, and rightly so.

You were my pillar of strength, Jezs. If not completely dependable I knew at least that you were in love with me as I was with you. And that was enough for me. I ceased to live for myself; I began living for you. No matter how bad it got between us, you knew I would always take you back in my arms where you felt most secure. As it stands, the story of us is over. Nothing we say will matter anymore, nothing we do will change anything.

I am writing this because I have the time. I have the time because you are no longer with me. It is, by far, a poor substitute but this is all I have now. I no longer have someone to correct me when I am wrong, in the most tender way that only a lover could. I no longer have those small, fragile hands to hold onto when I am lost. I no longer have someone to help me stand tall when I fall through the cracks. I no longer have that precious smile to capture in my mind and keep me happy throughout the day. I no longer have that charming face to kiss and to behold. I can no longer breathe in my favorite smell, that redolent scent of your skin. I can no longer hear that dulcet intonation of your voice. I can no longer see the delightful, cloying, luscious thing that is you.

Time -- that is all I have, and even that will come in short supply soon enough. I don't think turning back time will change anything; maybe if I were to cut and splice the film such that it will loop over and over again, maybe we could stay in the world we made for each other, forever. How can something that consumed my entire existence amount to nothing? I keep asking myself that same question. Over and over again.

Think what you like. I am a sentimental fool, wrapped in a perpetual state of separation anxiety. I lost faith in love, and you planted a seed in my mind that when in full bloom was the sweetest experience I could ever have. Now it has withered and dried up. Now it is dead.

PLAYLIST

No Regrets -- Robbie Williams

You Don't Know Me -- Michael Bublé

Don't Get Lost In Heaven -- Gorillaz

Wish You Were Here -- Jamie Foxx

On A Plain -- Nirvana

*

stuff of legends

"I don't have to be what you want me to be; I'm free to be what I want."
--Muhammad Ali

two suns

Two people fighting, bickering about the past. Two passionate individuals endlessly tormenting each other over something ultimately meaningless, over nothing. Two miserable hotheads unwilling to give in, to realize the futility of this exercise. Fighting for scraps of meat that aren't even there, an ideal that doesn't even exist.

Why?

Two suns burning each other out, exhausting endless amounts of energy -- for what purpose? Two bodies tearing each other apart -- to what end? Two parties having a go at each other, baying for blood -- who wins? For something that started out so beautifully, why does it have to end so bitterly?

Why?

Why does it have to end at all? Stupid, the mistakes we make. Over and over again. There is no paradise on earth, only an illusion of it. God's sad, ironic smile. I should have known. I probably did know, but who can blame me for being spellbound by God's shimmering teeth that ultimately bit me in the ass? God's glittering promise of splendor and bounty for all -- all an illusion to stop us from dreaming. If only we see it for what it is.

God sank His teeth in me, crushing my spirit. My heart is bleeding, draining me of whatever vitality I had. That's okay, I'll pick up the pieces. I'll carry on. Yes, I know, I'm going mad. But that's the only way to go once you see past the illusion. I'll just be another deranged ol' sack of shit, like all the others who've seen beyond God's perfect smile. I don't care.

Perfect teeth and no heart. God doesn't need a heart, or else He'll break it. Watching over countless children starve and then die, watching over pointless people living their pointless lives doing pointless things and dying pointless deaths. Watching over this blessed union of infinite potential crumble to dust in the wind, evaporate into nothing. There is no paradise, there is no heaven. There is no need for such things.

A place for everything and everything in its place. Misplaced passion. Misplaced energy. Misplaced minds. Misplaced hearts?

They'll never see each again. Or maybe they will, but it will never be the same.

Why?

You did this, I did this. We did this.

Why?

Battling for nothing. And yet the hostility mounts.

Why?

Who wins in the end?

PLAYLIST

You're The Reason I'm Leaving -- Franz Ferdinand

Forever For Her (Is Over For Me) -- The White Stripes

Swallowed In The Sea -- Coldplay

Out Of My Hands -- Dave Matthews Band

All I'm Thinking About -- Bruce Springsteen

*

without you

Please take this pain away
I can't see you today
I'm lost

You know love is fleeting
Yet my heart's still beating
For yours

All the ways to fall
One way to stand tall
I'm wrong

This solitude is mine
I can't say I feel fine
So long

Pack your bags
You're leaving
Can't you see
I'm grieving. . .

Oh I don't want what I have
No one else now that you left
Go on

Now don't you think I lied
When I said I'm alright
Don't mourn

Save your tears for yourself
I'm not here I just left
Let go

All we were now such a waste
Close my eyes and see your face
Don't go

Pack your bags
You're leaving
Can't you see
I'm grieving. . .

Please take this pain away
I can't see you today
I'm lost

You know love is fleeting
Yet my heart's still beating
For yours

what dreams may come

"I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment I still have a dream."
--Martin Luther King, Jr.

the hollowness of being

Come one, come all. Into this state of depression. Quick! My time is almost up. I believe I'm burning into obscurity. Not that I mind; I've got nothing to say anyway. Today is the first day of the rest of my life, and along the lines of that empty cliché, to comprehend how something so big and beautiful and so full of life at first glance can be so hollow and empty and fucked up now that I've stopped to think about it. Not that I wanted to stop, but I don't have a choice in the matter.

Please come back to me. Please leave me be. I don't want to be alone, so I'll stay in my mad, sad little world. Can you see? Alone we stand, together we fall. And when it rains, it pours to the point where I can't see anything in front of me. Everything's a blur, because all my plans have gone to heck. My world is a desk; I only wish I had the time to organize it. Now there's nothing to look forward to. I don't want to move, but there's no stopping me.

Between love and hate, there's a whole spectrum of emotions. For example: I hate Bush, and I love my Mom. Between the two, there's no comparison. But is Dubya capable of being compassionate? (I'm tempted to say no, but he does have a family.) And is my Mom capable of being an insufferable, over-zealous totalitarian? At times, the transition from one end of the spectrum to the other occurs at the speed of light that it leaves me blind.

I've concocted an hypothesis to explain this freakishly natural phenomenon: a wormhole connects the two ends. Coincidentally, if you view this one-dimensional plane schematically you will notice that it looks like a smile. As such, I have reasons to conclude that between love and hate is a very large smile. I call this The Smile Of Life (S.M.O.L.), or The Smile Of God (S.M.O.G.), depending on whether you're an agnostic or a believer.

Subrisum Ex Deus.

Your passion and your ennui, your smiles and your heartache, your benevolence and your belligerence, your laughter and your tears, your chuckles and your sneers, your happiness and your sadness, your pride and your shame, your comforts and your anxieties, your love and your hate; all part of a larger equation that is God's sad, ironic smile.

I am giving a seminar on this, entitled "Living S.M.O.L. And Breathing S.M.O.G. or How I Grew To Love The Hate" at the Akadamie Mathematique Of Philosophical Sound Research, Los Angeles, C.A. every Wednesday and Friday of next month. Entrance is free, but register your application now to avoid disappointment. Oh, and bring your own tissue.

It's funny, though. I couldn't manage to start loving Bush no matter how hard I tried. I would if I could, but I can't so I shan't. It's a new year, and he's still fucking up the world. To be fair, I would probably fuck the world up too if I was President of The United States of The Many 'Cuffs. Yeah, I know I'm a major disappointment. Sit me down; shut me up. I'll calm down, and I'll get along with you.

PLAYLIST

Lonely Day -- System Of A Down

Heart In A Cage -- The Strokes

The Ghost Of You -- My Chemical Romance

Blueside -- Rooney

Are We Waiting -- Green Day

*

race against the machine

So I was working at this printed circuit board (or PCBs, for the initiated) fabrication plant three months ago. Working night shifts, twelve hours a day, four days a week. 7pm to 7am. It was great. I was in my element, being the nocturnal insomniac that I am. Too bad the fucking job sucked.

No thought processes needed. No neurons need click excitedly with electricity with one another. No iota of creativity allowed. Hell, they should have put a "Check Your Brain At The Door" sign at the entrance. Just as a reminder that working at that place too long will surely lower your I.Q. and maybe make you look ten years older too.

A typical work day involves strapping your cotton gloves on in preparation for the inevitable mind-numbing inactivity that lies ahead. Key in the desired settings to the Orbotech machine -- this massive beast humming with power, looking like it could eat you whole and deconstruct your atoms into usable energy and a pile of steaming, digested meat -- and you're set. Now grab a PCB, one of thousands you're gonna plough through for the day so might as well take your time if you could afford to, and place it carefully now into the slot in the machine. Push the right buttons, one on either side of the machine to make sure your hands won't get caught inside, and that baby will slide right in. Now repeat.

That's it. That's your job as a factory machine operator. Not sure why you were sent here, being a Diploma in Aerospace Electronics student and all you gotta have some brains in you, but now that you're here might as well do what you're told to do. You don't have much of a choice, anyway. I'm just doing my job as the pain-in-the-ass supervisor, doing nothing but look important all day, walking around telling everyone else to do their jobs, 'cos that's my job. Now you do your job and stop complaining. And, heh, it's kinda fun watching you squirm under these oppressive fluorescent lights doing your lamebrain work. Who knows, maybe we could kill your youthful enthusiasm after a few weeks. I'll be upstairs sipping a martini and you better be done with this when I get back so I can give you more work to do.

So that's it. Insert the circuit board for the machine to scan for defects while you load up another one. Remove the circuit board and insert another. And another. And another. And another. Insert, Scan, Remove. Insert, Scan, Remove. Insert, Scan, Remove. Oh, what fun! Cigarette breaks were the only things to look forward to most nights. Some of the ladies flirted with you occasionally, but hey, you don't belong in this place so keep to yourself. Keep your hands to yourself. I wanted to keep my hands to myself; it wasn't like they were chicks to die for, to put it bluntly.

No way, nuh-unh. Only relationship I'm having is with my machine. She was like my mistress in some ways. Beholden to me to work things just right. Insert a stiff one into her, push all the right buttons and she'll gladly accept. I push in too hard sometimes, sorry about that, but you know how I get over-zealous sometimes, and you like it like that sometimes, too; only way you would respond when it gets too hot in there. Push in, pull out. It was easy, really. She'll reject you if you had too many flaws, as though the proliferation of the species depended on it, but that rarely happened to me. I could have enjoyed our pointless affair, really, if not for that dumbass supervisor looking over my shoulder all the time. What's his problem, anyway? Maybe he was jealous. I knew how to work you, and perhaps he envied my deft ability to treat you just right. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

The only way I could entertain myself was to imagine something as bull-shitty as that. That, and singing to myself amidst the humming of the machines and the fucked-up supervisor ordering me to do my work, "Faster, faster, faster!" (I'm not going to spell out anymore sexual allusions to that, but it's beginning to dawn on me that maybe he really was a voyeuristic pervert getting a natural high from ordering people around with his pseudo-supervisor status to compensate for being a short, dinky shrimp. Our foreman frequently called him "small boy", for obvious reasons).

Mostly I'd croon to a slow George Michael or Robbie Williams tune, and sometimes a Jewel melody would sneak into my head and I'd sing to that too. Just to pass the time and keep my brain functioning at least. After twelve hours of doing the same shit, I'd be on a two-hour journey home. And the next day, another two hours of traveling to work, and everyday in the company bus I would pass the Lamborghini showroom, staring at the cars in a multitude of shimmering colors, chuckling at myself as I calculated the number of years I would have to work at the factory making printed circuited boards just to own one of those cool, impressive vehicles to indulge myself in.

Then I realize there were people who have been working at the factory for years now, earning peanuts in a dead-end job with nothing to look forward to except coming home and going to work the next day, perhaps for the rest of their lives just to pay their bills and raise their children. It stops being funny. I'm just glad I got out of there.

PLAYLIST

B.Y.O.B. -- System Of A Down

Holla Back Girl -- Gwen Stefani

Speed Of Sound -- Coldplay

Feel Good Inc. -- Gorillaz

Best Of You -- Foo Fighters

*

servant of oz

If I had a brain
I would take a chance
Fall in love again

If I had a heart
I would hold your hand
So we'd never part

If I had a face
I would rise so high
And come down with grace

If I had the time
I would never die
Till these words have rhyme

Now hold my hand and be strong
Don't we all know we belong
In heaven
For awhile. . .

If I had a plan
I would take my things
And do all I can

If I had a place
I would rest my wings
They won't go to waste

If I had a friend
I would try to find
Ways that we can mend

If I had my way
I would take my kind
Every other day

Just hold my hand and be strong
Now we all know we belong
In heaven
For awhile. . .

moments

"A man's life is nothing but an extended trek through various detours to recapture those one or two moments when his heart first opened."
--Albert Camus

twenty-seven

A good age at which to die. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to be über famous, to achieve immortality, to leave an enduring legacy, to remain untouchable forever, and make millions at the same time. Only thing is: you have to die.

Or so it seems, for some of the most famous names in contemporary music. People who changed the course of music history or influenced it just enough to leave an indelible mark; pioneers whose absence left a void filled with imitators and wannabes and in-betweeners that hardly satisfy.

Kurt Cobain (founder of Nirvana and grunge music), Jimi Hendrix (who taught us how to play the guitar the way it's supposed to be played), Brian Jones (founder of The Rolling Stones), Janis Joplin (trailblazer for solo female artistes), Jim Morrison (nonconformist who bent the rules to create alternative music) -- all rebels with a cause, all creatively brilliant musicians who shaped the stuff we listen to today, and all of whom died at the age of 27.

Maybe it's just coincidence, or maybe to die at the height of their careers was the best thing to happen to them. And 27 seems to be that magic number. Any later and, perhaps, they would have lost relevance (the way grunge has today), or mellowed, or compromised their music to remain popular to the capricious masses.

And maybe it's just coincidence, but all of them with the exception of Jones (who, nevertheless, was a notorious drug abuser) died of a drug overdose. Cobain did one better by committing suicide after he overdosed himself. What a recipe for success! They're not alive to enjoy it, though (which is the only flaw in this almost fool-proof design, I guess).

So, let's see: I am not famous and by no means a musician, but maybe if I worked at it a little harder... take a few singing lessons, practise more on my guitar, etc., I could die at 27 and bestow the fruits of my labor to whoever I want, leaving them a comfortable life and me a peaceful rest. I'm already high on drugs half the time -- caffeine and nicotine, the opiates of the masses in this 21st century turbulence. I've got enough ego to fill up a phone book, rebellious to a fault, maybe not so much a creative genius but I try. I've got six years to prepare (so it's going to be a rush job), and then it's smooth sailing all the way.

Then again, maybe not.

PLAYLIST

Cigarettes In Hell -- Oasis

Oceania -- Björk

All Falls Down -- Kanye West

Wishful Thinking -- Wilco

Family Tree -- Loretta Lynn

*

follow the yellow freak toad

creeping laziness + attention deficit disorder + chronic depression + blatant indifference + lofty ambitions = constant disappointment

No, I can never be the hero I've always aspired to be. It takes commitment and determination and courage and all the other exemplary qualities that parents want their children to have. Sadly, those are the very things I lack. No motivation, so nothing progresses. Maybe in another life, where there are not too many screws loose to bring the whole framework come crashing down in the most bittersweet way. I'm inclined to say I'll just live my life the way I want to, but that's where the fault lies.

Oh how I wish things were different but with one look I can tell.

The first thing my sister got in London was diarrhoea. She also got me a cool black t-shirt with "London" scribbled on the front. Very chic, very avant-garde, very post-modernist. She must be homesick by now (or maybe her newfound freedom is exactly what she's been waiting for all these years), but the term's started for her so she should be be pretty occupied. She's gonna be a doctor, which is so cool. I hope she makes the cut; there's so much pressure on her to succeed I can't imagine what I'd do in her shoes. But it was her decision to go, so I don't think it would pose a problem for her. If anything, she was built for this.

Manchester United 4 - Arsenal 2
Sweet, sweet victory. Now, to claim the top spot from Chelsea (although it seems Jose Mourinho's boys are destined to win the title this season). Although the Champions League cup would be a nice consolation. Chelsea could, of course, win everything. Now that's a scary thought.

PLAYLIST

Meet Me In The Bathroom -- The Strokes

Snowblind -- System Of A Down

Thinking Of A Dream I Had -- The Walkmen

No Leaf Clover -- Metallica

Slow Hands -- Interpol

finnegan's dream

I think I dreamt about posting an entry on my blog last night, and this morning I woke up thinking, "Now that's behind me, I don't have any obligations to post anything for at least a week." Which makes it sound like a chore, which it isn't. Or it shouldn't be, because it's supposed to be an enjoyable past-time, this blogging thing.

Maybe I just haven't had the time to sit down and reflect, trying to come up with interesting and clever things to say so this blog remains relevant or at least readable, all the while not wanting to let down whatever readers I have. Which is funny, because from the very beginning I really only wanted to start a blog after I decided I was going to do it for myself.

For the person, by the person. On my own time, in my own way, for my own pleasure. Now there's a side of me that's worried I'm not writing enough for "the audience", that maybe "the audience" might not understand what I'm writing, or what if "the audience" thinks my writing stinks? It's funny. I'm not particularly bothered by it, but the thought always lingers at the back of my mind when I'm posting (or when I realize I'm not). I should just stick to thinking I don't have an audience.

I'm dreaming of getting my own bike.

The business competition is starting to heat up. I got a lump in my throat when they announced we got through to the Top 10. That's $350 in the bank, which is nice until you realize how insignificant that amount of money is (bear in mind, there's three of us in the group). Still, we're going in the right direction and now we've cleared all the obstacles there's only the grand prize to dream about.

Machine language is still Greek to me.

In line with the randomness of my thoughts (free-streaming audio-visuals at 1GHz), I haven't seen an actual rainbow in the sky for months now. I wonder why. I'm also wondering why I'm wondering why; I don't believe in omens, so it shouldn't matter. It would be cool to see a rainbow one of these days, though. Its fleeting beauty reminds me of the transient nature of life itself; one moment there and marvelous, the next gone... like a dream.

PLAYLIST

Morning Wonder -- The Earlies

Buddy Holly -- Weezer

New Slang -- The Shins

Somewhere Only We Know -- Keane

Idioteque -- Radiohead

a.w.o.l.

I've really taken my time in getting back to posting here. I was never in a hurry, although I did have a few stories I wanted to share. I just didn't have the time. Between getting things done, fraternizing with the usual crowd, and squeezing in a vacation on a tropical island after the semester has begun, I hadn't the luxury to navel gaze and wax philosophical.

And neither am I in the mood, after what just happened. So close, yet so far. The image of rotting corpses scattered all over churns the stomach; I can't imagine the stench. The fact that these used to be living, breathing human beings makes it even harder to accept. The fact that this many deaths could have been prevented makes it all the more tragic.

That's more than 144,000 presumed dead. ('Presumed', he says, when in reality the real figures are probably higher). I can't wrap my head around that number. And the personal stories are heart-wrenching. Entire families wiped out in seconds, leaving their sole survivors with hardly anything to live for. A gaunt, bespectacled Indian man in his fifties is made to bear the pain alone, because his wife and all his kids were killed. He doesn't know his purpose in life anymore, he tells the TV camera. His voice is pleading, desperate. A lady with an Australian accent can't contain her grief, because she can't find her daughters anywhere. She assumes the worst. An Indonesian recounts losing his daughter in his arms, calling out to her one last time.

And the thousands of children who are now orphans. So many, so suddenly, so unnecessarily. If only more could be done, instead of just handing out cash to the Red Cross in the hopes that it will reach the victims in time. If only warning systems were in place, there wouldn't be so much pain. If only...

What a way to start the new year.

cri de coeur

Tonight it's cold. Colder than most nights, and a fog has settled outside. The streetlights have been made dimmer, softer; the ring of nebulous orange that hangs around every lamp reveals the hazy smoke that abides by Bernoulli's principle on this windless night. Through the leaves of trees along the tiny road leading to my house, they create shafts of light reminiscent of a scene in any film that tries to evoke nostalgia through soft focus and a filtered lens.

It seemed surreal, on my way to the convenience store to buy a pack of cigarettes, how the fog creates a sense of foreboding, of the unknown, everytime the headlights of a car cresting the other side of the hill that separates my neighborhood from the rest of the world appeared to grow larger, more luminous; a large oval glow of mystery appearing in the dark out of nowhere... it's only a car. I thought this would make a nice backdrop for a film.

It's quiet. Quieter than most nights, with Dad on an overseas trip and my sister on a five-day physical training course somewhere off the coast on a semi-inhabited island. The only sources of loud noise being Mom and the little sister, and they're strangely sedated tonight. No one seems to be interested in watching TV in the living room; all somehow docile. It seems eerily tranquil, like the calm before the storm. I must be imagining things.

It feels like the right time for introspection, to come up with resolutions for the new year that's right around the corner. Of the things that have happened, and tying loose ends. Of the mess that's been made, and putting things back in order. Of noticing the burnt bridges, and mending them one by one. Of finding new meaning in everything, and not letting go. Of casting aside the shadows, and breathing in the sunshine. Of remembering all that's lost, and cherishing the ones that still last.

'Tis the season for twenty blackbirds to be baked in a pie, after all. All the regrets and the missed opportunities, the ex-girlfriends and the lonely nights, the awkward silences and the misspoken words, the anger at your parents and the contempt at those around you, the darkness and the emptiness, the hurtful tears and the weary years, the misunderstandings and the nonchalance, the disappointment and the sadness, the wrong people you've fallen in love with and the ones that didn't matter, the lies and the cold shoulders, the hatred and the disenchantment, the screaming and the silent treatment, the artificial friends and the inconsequential -- bake 'em all in a pie and eat it. It's time to move on.

PLAYLIST

Don't Let Me Down -- Stereophonics

Miles Away -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Semi-Charmed Life -- Third Eye Blind

Honey And The Moon -- Joseph Arthur

Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye -- Robbie Williams

performance anxiety

That's what I was trying to say.

I just couldn't get the words out when I was trying to say it. A terrible curse for anyone who has larger-than-life ambitions, but that's what I have -- performance anxiety. The inability to function properly in a desired or expected manner under pressure or stressful conditions. It's probably just a nicer, more medical term for "being chicken", but I'm pretty sure this psychological affliction goes far deeper than that.

Everyone has some form of performance anxiety, in varying degrees. This type of anxiety in moderate amounts can be healthy, as it forces the brain to direct attention, effort and energy to a particular task at hand. But when you're striving for perfection, and anything less won't satisfy, and you're comparing yourself or your work to others or theirs? The level of anxiety becomes ostensibly insurmountable, affecting your judgment and your ability to concentrate, and your mind starts to unravel.

You're getting the jitters, you start doubting yourself, your heart palpitates, your legs start to shake, your palms get sweaty, and you stumble over your words. Sounds familiar? It does to me, because I used to get stage fright. I've learned to overcome that impediment (although not completely, speaking in front of an audience is almost second nature to me now; in fact I welcome the challenge and sometimes take great pleasure in it), but there are a great many other things to have performance anxiety about.

Such as the start-up competition I'm currently devoting myself to. I'm really doubting that I'm good at business or financial matters at all, or even if the idea would work to begin with. Or the creative writing competition I was supposed to submit an entry to (some of my friends even said I would definitely win the top prize, but I wasn't going to be caught up in that hubris), which I didn't. Or the screenplay I was asked to write to be made into a short film, but I got so jittery by the time I was ready to consolidate my ideas into one cohesive script the deadline had passed (the concept was cool, if disparate but it would have been so kick-ass to have a film to call my own, gee, if only).

And that's just the ancillary stuff. Having performance anxiety in things that matter, like in relationships, in the workplace, in the bedroom (but that's another story, which I won't tell!), to name a few. Living up to people's expectations, of what is required of you in all sorts of situations. Don't you just hate that? Kinda makes you wish you could run away and never come back, doesn't it? Well, hold that thought because you still need the money.

One way to cope with performance anxiety (from "Performance Anxiety" by M. Robin) is to "be process-oriented, not product-oriented." Wow, whatever the hell that means. Concentrate in the means, not the ends? Live in the moment, not the future? Fulfillment is in the journey as much as the destination? Hey actually, that's not bad advice.

Not surprisingly, performance anxiety is more often than not caused by cognitive distortions -- irrationality clouding perception and awareness of the real world, amplifying the negative and minimizing the positive, looking at everything from a worst-case scenario perspective. That fits my profile perfectly, which I oughta change (it should make life a lot easier for anyone if they do). Understanding it will require heavy reading, and I'm always up for that.

And so, to end with a cute analogy from someone else,

"An archer competing for a clay vessel shoots effortlessly, his skill and concentration unimpeded. If the prize is changed to a brass ornament, his hands begin to shake. If it is changed to gold, he squints as if he were going blind. His abilities do not deteriorate, but his belief in them does, as he allows the supposed value of an external reward to cloud his vision."

I think that hits it right on the dot.

PLAYLIST

Under Control -- The Strokes

Boulevard Of Broken Dreams -- Green Day

Story Of The Year -- Sidewalks

Way Down The Line -- The Offspring

Black Hole Sun -- Soundgarden

polyanna-ish fantasies

Turns out our business idea has been approved. It's hard to contain the excitement, but there's still a few stages left before we get to the mother lode -- fifty thousand freakin' dollars as capital to start out with. Fifty thousand reasons to toil zealously towards pitching our idea in front of a panel of judges. Fifty thousand jumper cables to infuse some motivation into this sad, lackadaisical creature. Fifty thousand steps closer to a permanent vacation in Italy.

And the best thing about it is there are no strings attached. We could take the $50,000 and spend it on handmade, overpriced kitchenware from Lithuania and no one would mind. (Well, anyone in their right mind would but they won't be able to do anything about it!) It would be ours to keep and do with it as we please. *Cue hyper-maniacal laughter and gleaming pearly whites*

Then again, I'm getting ahead of myself. Way ahead, because right now we've only been short listed in the top twenty out of the three hundred entries they received. Which means our business idea is viable, workable, and potentially profitable (music to my ears!). In the next stage, they'll cut the list to ten and then subsequently to the final three. Hopefully, we'll be there (major disappointment if we don't, but we'll probably find other avenues to realize the idea).

Right now, we have to etch out the perfect business plan to seduce the judges and coax the fifty big ones out of them. This involves actual numbers in copious amounts, which I'm really bad at. Stuff like projected revenue, accrual basis, retained earnings, start-up costs, franchise, statement of cash flows, tangible assets, current assets, working capital, balance sheet, revenue recognition, financial statement, matching principle, net income, present value -- you know, the stuff they come up with to complicate everything because everything is not complicated enough as it is.

As well, there is the morality question that won't quit bugging me. For example, is it purely greed that is motivating me to do this? And if so, should I feel guilty about it? Will it have negative repercussions on my state of mind? Should I care? I don't know, but all this crap is making me nervous and I'm not entirely sure why (it's not even that much money to begin with, plus we're splitting it three ways).

So on one hand, I'd be terribly disappointed if we don't get the cash and on the other, I'd feel tremendously guilty if we do. This anxiety, this gut feeling that I don't deserve my share of the spoils and that I won't do anything good with it anyway must surely be my conscience trying to tell me something; I just wish the message was clear. But if I had to decide between the two, would I rather feel tremendously guilty on my way to the bank than be terribly disappointed and broke? Why, a resounding ¥€$, of course! Was there ever any doubt?

PLAYLIST

Main Offender -- The Hives

Hella Good -- No Doubt

Flood -- Jars Of Clay

My Favorite Game -- The Cardigans

This Is A Call -- Foo Fighters

*

do not talk about

"The liberator who destroys my property is fighting to save my spirit. The teacher who clears all possessions from my path will set me free."
--Tyler Durden, Fight Club

painting the swing

Or: "I'm finally doing something productive!"

We have an outdoor swing set on our front lawn, given to us as a gift from my aunt several years ago. It's large enough to seat four small-sized adults (or six children, whichever group came running to it first). It came in dull maroon, which was ghastly but it was a gift so we didn't mind. The last time I painted it with my cousin was three years ago, in metallic silver, because it was beginning to rust and the paint was peeling off. Now it was beginning to rust again.

In part one of our home improvement project, we decided it was time to re-paint it. This time, in white and gold to match the gates. And this time with my sisters. So we bought the paint, the paintbrushes, the thinner and a few chocolate bars (mostly for my little sister) and set out to do what we set out to do. Here's a chronicle of sorts.

day one
Seemed like a nice day to start -- a cloudless, sunny day. We laid out the paraphernalia next to the swing, and decided to paint the ornate parts in gold and everything else in white. I tilted the swing to one side while my sisters inserted newspapers underneath to prevent paint dripping on the carpet grass (suitable for golf, if only the lawn was big enough to accomodate). We did the same on each side, and I told them I was already tired from the heavy lifting and needed a break. No mercy from them, so we proceeded to stir the paint a little to homogenize the color, and we started dipping the paintbrushes... but we hadn't bought gloves! We applied the first coat of white paint, covering almost half of the swing in an hour but covered almost all our hands as well. I started sweating within the first ten minutes because it was so hot in the sun. We thought it was a job well done for a day's work.

day two
My sister found several pairs of old ice-skating gloves in the store room, so we're saved! The hardest part was painting the slats; so many hard to reach places. We went around, under, over, spilling paint all over our clothes in the process. Whew! Not as easy as I thought it was gonna be. And there was still so much to be done. And it was still hot as hell. We thought it'd be better to do it at night the next day. Then it started to rain! All the hard work down the drain.

day three
We resumed the paint job at half past midnight. A lot cooler now, but the humidity was just the same -- I was soaked not long after. Almost done with the white parts, so one of my sisters started with the gold paint. It was starting to look real nice! Had an argument with the little sis (as usual), and she thought white would look good on my shorts. Really funny stuff.

day four
Too lazy. I let my sisters do it instead. Maybe tomorrow.

day five
Yay! It's looking spiffy! The second coat of paint was already dry, so I just touched it up a little. The gold areas were difficult, because now I had to be careful not to paint over the white parts. But there were so many nooks and crannies where they met, I just couldn't resist! I kept a mental note to touch those up when I'm done, but then the inevitable happened. We ran out of gold paint. And it started to rain again. Not having much else to do, we packed it up and considered it done.

So yeah, it's not finished. If this was a murder case, it would be classified under 'unsolved' in the filing cabinet of an FBI agent. If it was a patent awaiting the stamp of approval, it would still be pending. Maybe some other day.

PLAYLIST

California -- Phantom Planet

I'm Looking Through You -- The Beatles

Summer Romance -- Incubus

1985 -- Bowling For Soup

I'm Only Sleeping -- The Vines

palestine

As I'm writing this, they're showing the funeral procession of one Yasser Arafat 'live' on just about every news channel you can think of. The scene is bewildering -- thousands upon thousands of Palestinians have gathered at the Muqataa in Ramallah, chanting praise for their late leader (perhaps the only leader they've ever known), waving flags (Palestinian, Iraqi, Saudi, Syrian, Jordanian, even the Canadian flag can be seen held aloft amidst the swarm of people), firing shots into the air (probably from beyond the compound, as the only ones that can be seen carrying rifles are the soldiers), pulling at the coffin as it makes its way slowly... stopping now, the coffin slanting to one side, almost dropping off the hearse... on its way again.

The soldiers pushing, the crowd pulling... I wonder what those people are thinking. Are they thinking it's time for reflection, a time for peace that has eluded them for so long? Or will their discontent, and their frustration in knowing the only person who stood for their cause is now dead, boil over into violence again?

In a way, it is a microcosm of the peace process there that's almost non-existent. Ever since it stalled four years ago, partly due to the very person they're paying their last respects to, no progress has been made that can be seen as promising. Add in the volatile Palestinian militants and the draconian methods of the Israeli government into the mix, and the future seems even more uncertain, the cycle of violence seeming virtually endless.

It's hard to pinpoint exactly where it all began. Was it when the state of Israel was declared, against the counsel of the United Nations and the British government, before a demarcation between the two was even drawn? Did this trigger the Palestinians' refusal to recognize the state of Israel, inciting the Arab-Israeli war, leading to the guerrilla warfare between the Palestinian factions and the Israeli government that hasn't abated to this day? Was it the prejudice of the Arab nations, their inability to compromise, that led to this? Or was it before any of that happened, when the British government, in its presumptuosness, decided to take matters into its own hands?

Well, that's all semantics now. I believe both sides have been in the wrong, and so both sides have to make it right. It's ironic how the word 'diaspora', once used to describe the Jewish people around the world, can now be used to describe the Palestinians (refugees and second-class citizens even in their own lands); ironic how the belligerence of the Palestinian militants and their sucide bombers have led the Israeli government to respond in kind for the sake of its nation's security.

The state of Israel has the right to exist, and so does the state of Palestine. I'm really hoping they can work together towards that end. After all they've been through, they deserve a happy ending at the very least. Now that Arafat and his legacy have been laid to rest, they should let bygones be bygones, look forward and strive for a brighter future -- one that was promised but never delivered.

In an edition of National Geographic, I read that a hundred years ago the Palestinians and the Jews co-existed side by side as neighbors, sharing celebrations together, and harboring no ill-will towards one another. Wouldn't it be nice to see that again someday?

the incredibles

Gonna catch the latest Disney/Pixar animated feature "The Incredibles" as soon as I get the chance. Is it any surprise I can't wait to see the film? Having been a life-long comic book fan (okay, not really; my first comic book reading experience was at the age of four), nothing beats watching superheroes come to life on the silver screen. I love movies that celebrate comic book culture and this one especially is going to bring the obscure world of comic books to the kids again (those who, for some weird reason, missed out on the Spider-Man and X-Men films).



I find comic books (or graphic novels, as some like to call 'em) to be a great medium for fiction and non-fiction alike. It's a powerful blend of the visual and the written, words and pictures coming together to create magic when it's done right. It should appeal to a subsection of society that enjoy movies and also read books, which should cover just about everyone.

Somehow, though, it doesn't. Maybe because it can be an expensive hobby (and these are economically uncertain times), or because the comic book market is dominated by superheroes (which shouldn't be a problem, actually, as the films I've mentioned above drew audiences from all walks of life -- though the variety of genres like crime noir, sci-fi, romance, drama, comedy, etc. are clearly there if one looks carefully enough), or because they're not widely available (that should change pretty quickly, since bookstores like Barnes & Noble, Borders and Kinokuniya have their own comic book sections these days).



Whatever it is, at least it's regaining popularity again. It'll probably never be restored to its former glory (way back when, comic books sold in the tens of millions every single month), but at least it's part of the mainstream again. It's hip to be square again especially if you're a comic book square like me. If you haven't been bitten by the bug yet (pun intended), go check out a comic book or two from your local library; I'm pretty sure you won't be disappointed.



Anyway, back to film... the trailers are fun, funny and irreverent. Deconstructing the superhero philosophy, with all the strings attached -- like the stereotypical, mad scientist villain for starters, and the multitude of costumes and super powers that will occupy the imagination of comic book geeks like me for hours. I just can't wait; I love being a kid again and "The Incredibles" will definitely bring out the inner child in me.



Sure, they're gonna make fun of the subject (the inanity of the stereotypes is exactly what makes it so fun in the first place), and absolutely no comic book geek will be spared from the cracking humor that permeates such Disney/Pixar releases (nor should they be spared; Lord knows there are quite a number of oddballs in our ilk), but its family values and coolness factor will endear to the hearts and minds of children and adults all over the world, and pretty soon the meek shall inherit the earth and all will be well again.

Alright, then. Gotta go. Might miss dinner tonight on account of saving the world and stuff.

an idle mind

Feeling kinda upbeat.

Not sure why, though. Maybe because the exams are over (for the term, at least) and there's finally time to relax. Maybe because I don't miss the things I've lost as much as I thought I would. Maybe, and here's a thought, things are finally going my way. Who knows, who cares, it probably won't last anyway; someone or something is bound to mess things up for me again. But you should always count your blessings.

Should start writing the songs I've put on hold, read the books I've been meaning to read, spend some time with the people I've neglected, discuss that business idea we had, put pen to paper for that screenplay I was supposed to write, catch a movie, help clean up the house, learn a few songs on my guitar, do something productive.

Though I'll probably be lounging around and doing nothing most of the time. I'm a very lazy person. It's rare to find anyone lazier than yours truly. Just need something to motivate me so I can get off my ass. Fame and fortune might be just the things I need. So if you're reading this, and you have more money than God himself, then drop me a line and we'll work something out.

PLAYLIST

Let's Misbehave -- Elvis Costello

Roses -- Outkast

One Thing -- Finger Eleven

You're The Top -- Cole Porter

I Can't Win -- The Strokes

the interrogator

Is it really that bad?

I prefer to think of myself as a scientist, or a journalist. Seeking out the truth wherever it may be found, understanding the logic behind everything, finding out and verifying, analyzing, testing, dissecting, asking questions along the way. I like to know things, grasp the fundamental ideas, appreciate how the world works and seize the meaning beneath its smoky veneer; every word, every gesture, every nuance, every suggestion or implication or hint; every little thing including the ones that don't concern me (but especially the ones that do).

I am curious. Curiosity may have killed the cat, and will probably kill me one day, but at least it died for a good cause. Having an inquisitive mind, it gives me a sense of satisfaction when I'm able to take something apart (both literally and metaphorically) and figure out every single element, making the sum of the parts all the more intriguing. It's true the more you know, the more you realize that you actually don't know much of anything.

And since Mr. Know-It-All doesn't know it all, I'm constantly searching for answers. I may not ask all the right questions, though, which is something I'm trying to work at. The intention is not to interrogate (as those who know me call my method of questioning), but to learn. As I've said before, I can be disconnected from everything. Living in my own world exacerbates the need to know more about the outside world; isolation leads to the perception that you're the center of the universe (making your fall from grace a lot more painful than it's supposed to be). Keeping your head in the clouds makes you high, but you can no longer walk in a straight line and you're beginning to see things that aren't there.

My refusal to let go might actually be an attempt to cling on to something real, something tangible, to keep my feet on the ground -- a boat lost at sea needs an anchor before it can get its bearings right. I'm no psychiatrist so I don't know for sure (really, I'm just making this stuff up). I do know I need reassurance, and the truth does it better for me than anything else. I just need to be sure, that's all.

To think I've rubbed almost everyone I know the wrong way by questioning everything; best friends, relatives, parents, God, acquaintances, even the kids I teach tuition to -- the other day one of them asked me why I keep asking her "Why?" every time she answers a question, and I told her that it's because she keeps saying the dumbest things (relax, she knew I was kidding so she laughed and took out her .32 Magnum but that's not the issue here).

I may hurt some people along the way, and for that I apologize. I'm pretty sure it was unintentional; sometimes I even forget that communication affects both sides of the equation. I've learned not to open my mouth when it's not needed, but sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me. And at times it makes me wish I was more sensitive to feelings other than my own. Thoughtless words are usually the most trenchant, and I'm guilty as charged. Forever blurting out things that I'll regret later, but I guess that's just me.

PLAYLIST

Foolish Games -- Jewel

Do You Realize? -- The Flaming Lips

You Were Right -- Badly Drawn Boy

Maybe -- N.E.R.D.

The Ballad -- Millencolin

the little things

I'm quite the neurotic when it comes to a lot of things, especially the minor, nitty-gritty details. You could say I tend to appreciate the little things in life in a very big way. In fact, this quibble of mine is a little too much sometimes. It preoccupies the mind a little too much; takes a little too much of my time; I indulge in it a little too much; a little too much of something I don't need. Not just a little bit of an obsessive/compulsive streak runs through me, probably.

One little thing leads to another, like the tiny neurons connecting in every direction all at once, until the brain stalls trying to process this sensory overload and forces the visual cortex to gloss over everything as a defense mechanism or the person risks being immersed in an enraptured stupor every single moment of its waking life.

So in a way, without warning or any conscious effort on my part, I am automatically disconnected from my surroundings. Much like the way your computer stubbornly refuses to allow you access to the Internet when it somehow feels obligated. On these rare occasions, there's little choice except for introspection. A little solitude doesn't hurt, but the problem here is there's just too little of it.

Little things like a fingerprint on the outside of a drinking glass, or a barely-noticeable stain on a piece of clothing, a blemish on the skin, a crease on the cover of a book borrowed from the library, a greasy smudge on a page of one of my comic books, a typographical error on a piece of manuscript, CDs stacked in a messy pile, a waterline mark on the wall, the discolored seats in a bus, a scratch on the face of my watch, a carpet rolled up improperly, a book that won't close completely anymore because it's been opened too wide and too many times, a magazine with dog-eared pages, a speck of dirt on the tiled floor, a question on last week's test that I didn't know the answer to, a coffee mug stain on the study table, books stacked together that are disproportionate in size -- these things bother me to no end. They drive me nuts!

But I also enjoy indulging in the little things. The harmless little things that no one hardly ever notices. Like arranging pillows on the floor when my little sister sleeps on the couch, in case she tosses around too much. Like keeping the pages of the newspaper crisp and in line, and rearranging back the sections in the correct order for my Dad because he likes it that way. Like keeping orange-flavored soda stocked in the fridge because it's my Mom's favorite drink. Like carefully taking off my sister's glasses and putting them on the bedside table when she falls asleep with them on. Like holding onto Grandma's hand longer than you usually do. Like kissing your lover's cheek while she's sleeping so you don't wake her up. Like sharing a pint of Ben & Jerry's with the ones who need it most.

So there's a flip-side (like most things do) in keeping attention to every detail. It's an unhealthy obsession that can consume your every thought; where everything you see has to be arranged a certain way or it becomes displeasing; where nothing is ever satisfying to your eyes. But when you think about it, the good it does -- you can almost imagine the quiet smile on everyone's lips without knowing why it's there -- it's well worth it.

PLAYLIST

Southern Girl -- Incubus

More Life In A Tramp's Vest -- Stereophonics

Born Too Slow -- Crystal Method

Tiny Dancer -- Ben Folds

Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground -- The White Stripes

the afterglow

bush or kerry

You decide.

There's little else to say. I hope the voter turnout is high; there seems to be an indication it's gonna be much higher than in the previous elections. This is good, because all the complaining doesn't change anything if you don't go out and vote. Change is good. Politics is becoming a passion again, especially among the younger voters -- the indifference is still there, no doubt, but it's becoming a rarity. There also seems to be some controversy over absentee and provisional ballots and malfunctioning polling machines. I just hope every vote is counted because that's what really matters.

Preference? What can I say; having a largely liberal outlook on most things I have to go with Kerry. Change is good, especially with the specter of a second term with Bush hanging over our heads (and not just Americans, mind you, but the world over). For every person who agrees with my views there's another person who doesn't, so I won't go into details. Except that I don't think Bush has done a lot of good for the people in America and the world.

As I said, I won't elaborate much -- whether you grant my premise or not only reveals where you stand among the issues in contention. Everyone is biased in some way, especially in politics. I usually reserve my opinions after the fact, and having seen what the Bush administration has done in four years I can't say I have much confidence in him to change things for the better. If anything, it seems almost everything is a lot worse than it was before.

The American economy, the unemployment rate, the deficit, the inalienable rights of the American people, 9-11, the situation in Iraq, the sovereign rights of other nations, Osama bin Laden, homeland security, accountability as President, transparency of government, Iran's nuclear capabilities, health care, foreign policy -- you know, whatever. As far as I can tell, the Bush administration made a mess of these things (and more, at the very least).

That's not to say they haven't done anything right. Afghanistan is almost free from the Taleban, women's rights are finally being established there, the world's largest exporter of opium is being held in check, and they recently held their first ever elections --the first step to self-determination and a democracy-- to choose their own government (although the fact remains that the country is teetering on the edge of oblivion, so there's still a lot more to be done).

Saddam Hussein is in chains, which is a plus (probably the only plus in invading Iraq). I'm adamant the means to that end was wrong and dishonest, and quite reprehensible -- lying to the American public and the world to serve their own agenda, for instance, does little to instill confidence in this government and I don't think it would be out of line to say it borders on being a criminal offence -- but at least we can all let out a sigh of relief that the madman has been rendered inert.

Don't let that sigh out too long, though, now that Iraq is a terrorist playground. A terrible thing to do, letting them fill up the vacuum in Iraq when Saddam's regime was toppled. It shows a lack of vision; fools rushing in where angels fear to tread. The gates were left exposed (because the invading forces were, you know, busy securing the Iraqi Oil Ministry -- the very first building they occupied upon touching Iraqi soil. Which is understandable, you know, they probably needed time to lay down the red carpet for when the Halliburton contingent arrived. Who has time to control the borders, anyway, the country is so freakin' big!) and now all hell is breaking loose, with soldiers and civilians dying by the thousands.

According to latest estimates 100,000 Iraqis have perished. A hundred thousand! Bringing the war on terror there was one thing (terrorists had no place under Saddam's totalitarian rule, and in fact he and Osama were the worst of enemies), but allowing this to happen is just indescribable. More than a thousand American soldiers dead (the worst since Vietnam), and counting. Can you tell what Bush was referring to when he said mission accomplished? I can't.

Well, I thought I wasn't going into details. But then again... Still, whatever the outcome of the elections it's good that more people are deciding for themselves. Whatever the outcome, it's gonna be big and it's gonna be affecting all of us one way or another. It's good to see democracy at work. Every vote counts, and ultimately that's what matters.

PLAYLIST

Hysteria -- Muse

This Fire -- Franz Ferdinand

In Bloom -- Nirvana

All Of Our Hands -- Joseph Arthur

Mosh -- Eminem

tempus fugit

animus fuggedaboudit.

I was supposed to mention 'Before Sunset' in my last overbearing diatribe. The intention was there, the film was still fresh in my mind, and to say that it left quite an indelible impression would be an understatement. But I guess I got carried away with this narcissistic preoccupation with... well, with myself and by then the post was getting nauseatingly protracted and it left me in a foul mood. Next to Charles Dickens, I am an understudy in the school of prolix but I think I'm getting there. Nowhere near as good at it as he ever was, though.

Nevertheless, I went to see the recently-released sequel with the only other person I know, besides yours truly, who loved the first film as much as I did (and who is --in part due to this-- one of my favoritest people in the world). Jun, you know who you are. She didn't like how it ended, and I have to admit it took some adjusting for me as well. It took me approximately 1.0000087 seconds in total, give or take a nanosec. But in the end I fell in love with it just the same.

I might spoil the movie for the hardly here who haven't seen it, so if you're hardly here and if you haven't seen it then it goes without saying that you know what to do. But seriously, you should experience the movie for yourself; it's very much open to intrepretation (you'll know it when you've seen it, stop asking too many questions!).

The original film was... well, very original. It got me hooked from the beginning, because I hadn't seen anything like it before (haven't seen anything like it since, in fact). It blew my mind away. A "romance flick" built almost solely on the intellectual repartee between two young and very talented actors, but also on the emotional frankness of the film. What was left unspoken was just as important as what was said, and this nuance was testament to director Linklater's deft handling of the story and Hawke's and Delpy's acting abilities. There was an undeniable chemistry between the two main characters; both very unassuming and very natural in their own roles. There was no denying they were just being themselves, and this was integrated into the sequel with the actors writing a very large part of their real lives into it. It didn't hurt that the entire movie was shot in Vienna (I've been there only once, and yes it's as beautiful as they say it is).

The ending of the original film really got to me, and in a way reflected a lot of what I was feeling at the time (and what I would feel years later, as well) just as every teenager did at some point in their lives. It ends on a very poignant note, especially when the film takes you back to all the nooks and street corners of the previous night. The camera lingers on every landmark reminding you that they were there for a very brief period of time, but no more. And you just know, when they promise to meet again and when they board the different trains, that it is unlikely they will ever see each other again. It ends with a longing, a yearning for something that is no longer attainable. A sense of nostalgia, of wishing things were back to what they used to be. Very familiar feelings to anyone who has ever fallen in love.

I believe I was fourteen when I first saw it, and back then I was an oversexed kid dealing with the onset of puberty and very addicted to comic books and everything testosterone-filled or -fueled. 'Before Sunrise' must have been something special for me to have stuck around in front of the TV screen; I was riveted the whole time. It was something special, which was why I fell in love with it in the first place.

I guess nothing much has changed about me, except heady puberty has been offset with a certain down-to-earth maturity. Which in a sense is what the sequel is all about. It's amazing how everything falls into place perfectly, including the timing of these films in relation to my life. The premise of the two films is simple, the script brilliant, the story honest, but the timing is just perfect. A concoction of pure magic, some might say. Funny how things work out that way, but enough about me.

Whereas the original dealt with young love and, in some ways, teenage angst (the two are almost interchangeable terms), the sequel revolves around the fallout from such naïveté of youth and the responsibilities and commitments of growing older. The maturity is apparent here, both physically and acting-wise. The attraction between them is more subtle, the words spoken and the physical cues are handled more gracefully compared to the youthful brashness in the first film. Unfettered romanticism versus low-key pragmatism (and indeed the maturity and the almost telepathic understanding between the two leads allow for the ending to be what it is).

Jesse and Celine are no longer who they used to be; not as explosively passionate as they once were, tempered by level-headedness and quite a bit of disenchantment. Their optimism is diminished by a certain world-weariness, but they still cling to remnants of their past and so the changes are not as drastic as they seem to be at first. Emotionally, the sequel comes through as truer than the original. Everything is just as raw when the old wounds are opened again, and the actors shine during these moments of emotional fragility.

In fact, towards the end we can see that Jesse and Celine have hardly changed at all. Their lives are not as care-free and unpredictable as they used to be and there is a tragic aspect to their lives, but they're just as playful and flirtatious as before. The weight of their individual realities did little to change their lightness of being; they were just hiding it from view all this time.

Hence, the laid-back approach to the ending complements the maturity of the sequel because there is no rush -- the teenage angst that gave them so much trouble in the first place, that kept them on their toes and teetering on edge is long gone. It may seem abrupt at first, but I think it works to continue the mystery that the first film had woven. The uncertainty isn't there anymore, but there is just enough mystery to keep the audience captivated long after the movie has ended. The softer, more subtle approach to the ending goes hand in hand with the characters as grown-up adults. They are mellower, more seasoned in some ways and so there is no rush.

Unlike the first film's ending, which was to put it simply a crowd-pleaser in the mushiness scale, here we're given just the right amount of information to know everything there is to know and the sequel ends right where it's supposed to. A happy ending (that is to say, they get back together) is merely hinted at for Jesse and Celine, so if you're the pessimist you'll invariably miss the subtle cues put in throughout the film to point us in the right direction but not show us exactly the destination.

'Waltz For A Night' is the perfect culmination for this mesmerizing film. That must have been the climax. How do I know? Well, I felt the tears swelling up in my eyes (of course I hid it, being a guy and all) listening to the song midway through. An exquisite and gentle song, for an exquisite and gentle film. Equally as good as the original, and could have surpassed it if perhaps the film wasn't so short -- I'm now having withdrawal symptoms. Maybe they should make another.

PLAYLIST

Who Is It -- Bjork

The Past And Pending -- The Shins

Obstacle 1 -- Interpol

Against All Odds -- The Postal Service

Leaving New York -- R.E.M.

m.i.a.

It's been a while.

Then again, it doesn't feel that long. Life has been so hectic as of late, I haven't time even for myself. Partly due to the exams (all down to the last minute stuff, which explains my unending underachiever status), partly because I've been terribly depressed these past couple of weeks or so (and boy, did I want to write about my feelings but thought better of it), and also because of my extra-curricular activities (might be starting a business with some friends, so watch this space because I'll definitely be advertising it here).

So where to begin? Considering this is supposed to be a substitute for therapy, I guess talking about my feelings is a good start... I don't know where to start. Too many things bringing me down, and I hate to be specific because (a) I don't think I should be, and (b) the story would never end. The best I can make out of it is a general, ambivalent view of things because that's how it really is anyway. My life is a nebulous cloud of stars slowly fading out one by one.

It's like being a spool of thread. And everyone you hold dear is tethered to an end, and they're all around you pulling and tugging because people you really care about have a strong influence on you. Some more than others. And so your whole being is constantly jostled around, back and forth, here and there, slowly unravelling until finally -- from something that had a lot of potential for greater things -- there is nothing left.

I just realised my parents don't know me at all. Well, not really. I've felt that way for years, but recently they confirmed my fears by making it blatantly obvious. There have been hints now and then from as far back as I care to remember, little things that surface which makes you doubt the veracity of it all. And you keep telling yourself it's fine, let it slide, whatever nevermind. Until one day the truth strikes you squarely between the eyes, and you regret not dealing with those nagging thoughts, the uneasy feeling in your throat when you're faced with something you don't like so you don't face it all. Hell, you knew it all along. You just didn't want to say it. You just didn't want it to be true, so you kept it locked away in the deep recesses of your mind.

A lot of good that did. Like spilling spaghetti on the floor and, instead of cleaning it, you sweep it under the rug. Unbeknownst to you, it starts to turn bad in a few days. In a few weeks, there's a funky smell in the room but it doesn't kill you or anything. Out of sight, out of mind. But for months now it's grown into something unrecognisable, covered with mold and festering with maggots. It's hideous, and it's probably poisoning everyone in the house with a fungus infection. And now you're all dying. But it's too late to change anything, and it's all your fault.

And so it festers, to the point that it takes a life of its own in your head and finally you're resigned to the fact that you're strangers living under the same roof. It's not easy to accept, knowing they don't know you at all. But what can you do? A few weeks ago, my Dad invited a friend over with his family (which we're all very close to) to discuss and help out with my sister's preparation to leave for London to study in January next year. He (my Dad's friend) sent his kids to study there as well, so my sister was really glad there were folks to offer her some advice.

And so we were talking over dinner and having a ball of a time. Jokes were made (my Dad's friend is a real joker -- like, laugh-out-loud funny) and questions were asked and answers were given. It was fun and informative; very fruitful. I made a joke about my sister being given the opportunity to study overseas even though I was denied that very same opportunity when I asked for it a few years ago. Everyone laughed (because I'm a very funny person as well), and you could tell it was a joke and there was nothing bitter about it. There was nothing to it, really, and I was definitely over any negative feelings by then because it was so many years ago. I'd moved on from that juncture in my life.

You should have heard my Dad's laugh. I could have sworn there was a tinge of something cynical to it. Maybe even a bit of guilt. No one else noticed, and of course I didn't mention it out loud. The rest of the evening was splendid; a great time was had by all. The next day, very early in the morning, he messaged me on the phone while I was on the train.

Your sister can't take the pressure anymore. But she wants to pursue a degree.
We should all support her. I hope you understand.

Damn if I didn't want to call him up and scream my lungs out. To totally misconstrue what I said was one thing, but to mock me by having to tell me we should all support her and that I should be understanding about it... Christ! I was so fucking angry it soured my mood the whole day in school. You don't know me at all, Dad. It was a joke. Nothing more. Yes, I was hurt. Four freakin' years ago. Thanks for making this pseudo-apology now. In a message through the phone, no less. And now that you brought it up, why did you tell me I couldn't go anyway? Just... you know, curious. I'm not bitter or anything.

Was it because you thought I wasn't good enough, that I was gonna throw away all the money spent on me? I asked again two years later, when things weren't working out for me where I was. Did you feel maybe, in retrospect, you were right about me? You should have said something. At least I wouldn't have kept wondering why. At least I wouldn't have doubted myself, if I had known in fact it was true.

And were you thinking, when I joked about it, that I was still stuck in the past? That I was begrudging the fact that she gets to go and I didn't? Do you really think that I'm that shallow, that I wouldn't support her and be happy for her? Well, I am rooting for her with all my heart, Dad. No, I'm not resentful towards her (or you, for that matter) at all.

But it hurts. In those four sentences you brought up my past, and then you made me feel small in your eyes. In those four sentences, you proved to me what I've known all along. That you don't know me at all, Dad. Twenty fucking years, and you don't know me at all. And by God, it hurts.

Turns out to be just like I said. A never-ending story. Didn't wanna be specific, but look what you made me do. So what else is there in my bag of tricks? Well, how about the fact that I've been arguing with my Mom almost everyday now. It never ends because (you guessed it) she doesn't know me at all. Quit comparing me to my cousin when we're talking about money, Mom, because his Dad is a taxi driver and they don't have a lot of money to spend and if you want to do the comparing then let's compare the cost of our house and their apartment, or your Braun Buffel purses and Prada handbags and your car to what his mother owns. What, is that unfair? Or just too in-your-face?

Is the only way to know me, to understand what I want, to understand how I feel, is to compare me with someone else as a point of reference? It's me we're talking about, Mom. Me. You don't even know me, which is why it's so difficult for you to understand. Am I such a fucking disappointment it's hard to see me for who I am, instead of using someone else on a different playing field to make me feel guilty about everything? Can you make it any more obvious that you don't know me at all, Mom? I really doubt it.

Wow, it's so long and I haven't even gone on about my friends. Friends who are mostly good for a laugh and nothing more. The real ones are few and exclusive, and thank God for them but they let you down just the same sometimes. Which kinda makes me sad, but hey that's life. What can you do?

I've covered family and friends. Anything else? A lot more, in fact. Insecurities, exams, a non-existent love life. You know, the works. When it rains, it pours. And I'm drowning in it. I'm descending so far down, I can't even tell if I'm just sinking or if I'm digging myself deeper. But I just can't be bothered anymore. A lot of my friends ask why I started smoking. Well, the truth is I just stopped caring. I get a kick out of it when I'm listless, and it's been a few years now so I'm already addicted to the nicotine anyway.

It's funny how clichés turn out to be true. It's like I don't even need enemies; I've got you guys to let me down. Can't even tell if I'm gonna be missed when I'm gone (if only I had a gun to experiment with). I feel like I'm losing something inside me, like my soul is dying. Giving pieces of it to everyone I care about, hoping they'll nurture and strengthen the pieces so when it's time to give them back to me I become whole again but like never before -- better, stronger, purer, more complete. But some are never returned and some get lost, and some are neglected and so these fragments of me start to fade away. And in the end I'm just shattered glass.

ministry of space

sisyphus stone

It hasn't been easy, trying to remove all the spyware and viruses and trojans and whatchamacallits from my PC. It seems I'm the only one actually trying to protect the computer from any malicious software, while everyone else in the household is flirting with danger and inviting them in for tea. I wouldn't mind actually, if it only involves scanning and fixing things. But it's been so bloody difficult because these things keep coming and going and there's so many of them and they keep slipping off the radar and I'm not exactly computer-savvy and every little thing that I change causes another thing to screw up and it takes such a long time and there's so much to do before mission is accomplished, goddammit!

Fuck, if I mess everything up I'm just gonna have to format the whole hard drive. I hope no one blames me if that happens, 'cos I'm liable to beat the crap out of anyone who dares. Let's see you do it, butthead! Best intentions, as they say, will inevitably make a mess out of everything (which is ironic, really, since I'm actually trying to clean up the mess they created in the first place). It's no wonder my life is such a mess. Baby steps, I guess. Baby steps. Let the stone roll down the mountain; I'm just gonna keep pushing it up till I don’t have the energy to do it.

Anyway, the anti-virus has now been installed and the firewall is currently up-and-running. Some peace of mind at least. If you're just as technologically-illiterate as I am, the basic protection you should get is a firewall. I'm using a ZoneLabs Firewall, firstly because it's free and secondly it was recommended to me by a very reliable source. So far, it’s been working fine.

Next, you’ll need an anti-virus software. I installed AVG Anti-Virus, firstly because it's free and secondly it was recommended to me by a very reliable source (you get the picture). Clear up any clutter if you wish to have a relatively faster scan. On your Internet browser, go to Tools > Internet Options > General. Under 'Temporary Internet files', click on 'Delete Cookies' and 'Delete Files'. I do that regularly, because I am anal-retentive. Also, defragment your drive and free up space now and then (they’re both found in Control Panel > Performance and Maintenance).

So what is this very reliable source I keep referring to? Glad you asked (I know, I'm talking to myself -- leave me alone!). There's an Internet community that offers help with no strings attached. It's called Net-Integration, and it's heaven-sent for people like me. Their help forums are indispensable, so join up already.

Also, get the latest versions of Spybot - Search and Destroy and Spyware Blaster to keep your PC spyware free. For more advanced users, download HijackThis and make full use of the help forums at Net-Integration (in fact, it's critical that you use their forums for HijackThis).

Online anti-virus scans can be found here and here, although they sometimes overlook a few things so it’s better to cover all your bases and get your own anti-virus software (already mentioned above).

So, why am I writing all this stuff? Just spreading the love, I guess. Inadvertently putting this blog to good use, how about that? Maybe I'll write about my feelings next time, since it doesn't make a difference either way. OK, go away now.

PLAYLIST

Evil Town -- The Vines

So Sad To Say -- The Mighty Mighty Bosstones

The World At Large -- Modest Mouse

Walk Idiot Walk -- The Hives

Time Bomb -- Rancid

more than a superman

"I refuse to allow a disability to determine how I live my life."
--Christopher Reeve

I grew up watching Superman on the TV screen. I also grew up wanting to be Superman, and I don't think I've actually given up on that dream. Christopher Reeve was a huge factor in my deciding on that childhood ambition because he was Superman personified -- a comic book superhero come to life. He made it seem as though nothing was impossible to my young, impressionable mind -- that man could defy gravity and fly, crush enemies through strength and determination, and become a benevolent champion who represented truth and justice in their purest forms. He did all that and more, and he did it draped in full-blown technicolor (and he even looked exceptionally sharp in that get-up!). Not only was he great in those films, not only did he understand the character, and not only was he good-looking, he also brought a deeply humanising element to Superman. To me, he will always be the quintessential man of steel.

And not just for the reasons I've mentioned above. He exuded qualities that we can hardly find in real life; attributes more befitting of a fantastical, highly-idealised character like Superman. He never gave up. Even after that fateful day nine years ago when he became paralysed from the neck down, he never gave up. He never gave up trying to find a cure for his debilitating physical affliction. He never gave up believing that one day he would be able to walk again. He never gave up, even when all the odds were stacked up against him.

Tragically, life gave up on him. But not before he made me realise, in spite of my deficiently disenchanted mind, that impossible is nothing. May you rest in peace, Mr. Reeve. You've been an inspiration and a hero to millions.

russian roulette

More prove of my non-existent circadian rhythm can be found in last week's activity schedule:

4/10/04
Don't sleep. Finish up report.

5/10/04
Don't sleep. Finish up report.

6/10/04
Present report. Sleep: minimum twelve hours.

7/10/04
Don't sleep. Finish up project.

8/10/04
Don't sleep. Finish up project.

9/10/04
Present project. Sleep: minimum twelve hours. Get some rest.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was during an entire school week! I think I'm still recovering from the crippling effect of fatigue. Both the body and the mind reached a consensus to have a break during the weekend, but where's the fun in that?! Itinerary for Saturday was class at 9:00am (which we have to attend every week, in fact, because the syllabus is so fucking huge), followed by another class at eleven, and then an entire afternoon at a reception at the Meritus Mandarin, and a family gathering in the evening at my uncle's.

Sunday was fun and games with the tuition kids, starting from ten in the morning till dusk, in which we ran around town searching for clues à la mode de The Amazing Race (as seen on TV!). After the kids were sent home packing all exhausted and droopy (my team won, by the way), we got a soccer game going for a good two hours until I decided to stop because my legs were beginning to buckle under the unfamiliar strain of exercise (hell, all the muscles and sinews are right now still screaming for some sort of release).

No rest for the wicked, as they say.

PLAYLIST

Where's Your Head At -- Basement Jaxx

Sympathy For The Devil -- The Rolling Stones

Bring The Pain -- Mindless Self Indulgence

The Man Who Sold The World -- David Bowie

Sacrifice -- Elton John

doing time

"You do the time. Don't let the time do you."
--David Letterman's advice on surviving a stint in prison.

california dreamin'

Just spent two days with no sleep whatsoever. And I didn't get to see anything out of the ordinary; no third-eye of any kind awakened to perceive the world beyond its usual dimensions. I couldn't see God, couldn't see any angels or demons, and I certainly didn't get to see the yellow submarine. Kinda disappointed, really. I was hoping to catch some real action of the supernatural kind, to distract me from the mundane activity of finishing up my aircraft maintenance report.

Well, I did get the feeling there was someone or something looking from behind my shoulder every two minutes while I was typing (this was late at night, alone in the study room downstairs, with everyone asleep and the back door open to keep the cigarette smoke from filling up the room). But it was probably just me.

Heard a few rustling sounds coming from outside. Looked around to make sure. Nothing there. Just the stirring of the wind and the endless high-pitched droning of cicadas, interspersed with the occasional screeching cry of bats in the hunt for food. At times there were brilliant flashes of incongruent images being imprinted on my retina, but that was probably from staring at the computer screen for too long. Nothing weird, no strange happenings.

No aliens landing in my backyard to see the leader, no Lucifer appearing out of nowhere demanding I sell my soul to the devil 'cos it's late and there's nothing to live for, no divine visitations from celestial beings yearning for my presence in heaven, and definitely no voluptuous-looking succubi willing to offer me a back rub and stroke my aching neck. Oh well, better luck next time.

Forty-eight hours of pure sleep deprivation, and nothing to show for it (well I did finish the report on time, I'm happy to say). Forty-eight hours, unless you count the naps on the train ride to school and back. Which shouldn't count, because the trains never stop rattling to accomodate the slumberers onboard and the other passengers rarely show the courtesy to stop yammering, two inches away from your face. Listening to The Strokes was the only reprieve to maintain some semblance of peace and quiet.

To think of it, it was actually more than 48 hours. On the third day of my inadvertent sleep deprivation experiment, I had to present my report to class (which went quite well) after which I slept through all the classes for the rest of the day. It helped that I was looking terribly close to dying, and my emphatic phlegm-induced coughing and leaking nostrils accentuated the fact that I probably was. All the lecturers steered clear of me, and so no one disturbed while I slept with unadulterated impunity, except when it was time to leave.

Came home just in time for my brain to shut down completely, and before I could even get out of my clothes to something more comfortable a fail-safe mechanism of the reptilian medulla took over and knocked me out for the next twelve hours. I doubt I dreamt about anything last night, to compensate for the overworked mind.

O glorious, glorious sleep, thou art heaven-sent.

PLAYLIST

Dream On -- Aerosmith

Smooth Operator -- Sadé

If It Were Up To Me -- Rooney

Date With A Night -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Daysleeper -- R.E.M.

autumn leaves

triply garbled tripe

Watched the first presidential debate between Bush and Kerry in its entirety, and I was kinda disappointed. There were moments when they looked like they were debating, but more often than not the responses were vague and unpleasantly clichéd (Bush, in particular, sounded like he was reading from a teleprompter) -- strongly suggesting that they were prepared way in advance.

Nowhere near as lively as I anticipated, having seen the TV ads they've been dishing out at each other lately. If anything, they should have been throwing everything and the kitchen sink on the table, grabbing one another's throat and calling each other's bluff. Where was the Swift Boat Veterans controversy when Bush was asked to comment on Kerry's credibility? Where was Bush's draft-dodging capabilities and non-existent military records when Kerry was given the opportunity to prove he would make a better commander-in-chief? What's the matter with these people, complimenting on the other's wife and kids while their mud-slinging advertisements are pretty much still stinking up the air? Where's all the bad blood? It would have been fun to watch, at the very least.

Kudos to JFK for remaining focused throughout the hour and a half (in comparison, Bush seemed at times irritated, tired and nonplussed), and to Bush for not slipping in too many of his trademark Bushisms (there were only two this time). It was interesting to watch the two speak without their respective spin-meisters doing the talking for them, and it's quite clear at this point who is the better independent speaker.

I've taken part in debates myself, and it's never easy to think on your feet (especially when you need to sound eloquent while you're at it). And the butterflies inevitably find their way into your stomach right before you come up to speak. I've seen people struggle to organize their thoughts (having been one of those people, I know it's no fun at all), and the most difficult part is to wield the attention of the audience when you yourself are arrested by the presence of the audience. Much more so when the crowd is both demanding (ie. your supporters and the judges) and hostile (generally the supporters of your opponent).

Hell, public speaking is the number one fear for most people. The second greatest fear is dying. Which means most of us would rather be the one in the grave than the one giving the eulogy. I bet George Bush was feeling that way, judging from his performance. I bet he was thinking, "Man, I wish I was dead." Or maybe he wasn't. He seems to enjoy talking in front of large congregations of people, though half the time he doesn't seem to know what he's talking about.

Like when, during the presidential debate, in front of all the people and the TV cameras, in a brilliant display of clear-headedness and passionate grandiloquence -- rare for someone such as him -- Bush vociferously proclaimed (and I quote):

“Of course we’re after Ira-- uhh... Saddam Hussei-- I mean, uhh... Bin Laden. He’s-- he’s-- he’s-- he’s isolated. We’re making progress. But the front on this war is more than just one place.”

'Nuff said. Thank you, Mr. Bush, you may step down now.

PLAYLIST

Eight Easy Steps -- Alanis Morissette

Megalomaniac -- Incubus

Explode -- Nelly Furtado

Ego Brain -- System Of A Down

Triple Trouble -- Beastie Boys

can ya dig it?

I was listening to Dr. Dre's The Chronic album a while ago, and it reminded me of a friend who can really rap. I mean really, really rap. With his 'wicked style' and his 'bad-ass beats'. He's won several rap competitions over the years, and it probably won't be long before he's snapped up by some record company to cut an album or two.

I must admit I can't rap. At all. Which amuses me to no end, because I enjoy listening to N.E.R.D., Snoop Dogg, Outkast, 2Pac, Run DMC and their ilk but there is no way in hell I'd be able to rap half as good as they do. I can put on the baggy pants and the over-sized tees; incorporate the swagger and the sign-language into my everyday routine; the crotch-grabbing and the care-free attitude; and I still won't be able to rap. I can walk the walk, but I can't talk the talk (whatever that means).

In what would probably be considered a clear sign of mental ineptitude, I once tried my luck in a rap competition (this was back in high school). I'm still embarrassed by the thought of it, and would gladly put it behind me altogether. It must have been quite a spectacle! I don't even want to imagine! No prize for guessing what I won (or didn't win, as the case may be).

Such is the foolishness and naïveté of youth. Looking back, I don't regret doing it. Though if I were given the chance to relive those moments, I wouldn't want to. Or maybe I would, for the sheer silliness of it. At least I know better now -- to stick to my day job.

That is, if I had one.

PLAYLIST

No Diggity -- Blackstreet

What's The Difference -- Dr. Dre

Lose Yourself -- Eminem

Thug Luv -- Bone Thugs N Harmony

Rock Star -- N.E.R.D.

oktoberfest

WARNING!

Track circuit interruptor ahead!
I think it's time you got out of bed!
The dream is done, it's as good dead.
You'll have to work, for your own bread.
There is no time to be afraid,
Do you really believe that you'll be paid?
To sit and lounge,
Around and around
And flirt with girls,
With really cute curls?
Just take the test,
And beat the rest!
And now you’re ready to join the cavalry!
To live the life of constant drudgery!

much ado about nothing

An update of sorts.

I'm currently thinking of a story to submit for a creative writing competition (a measly $300 for first prize, which I could really use). The keyword here is "thinking". I haven't written a single word, and the deadline for submission is tomorrow. I'm having writer's block just when I can finally put my penchant for prose to good use. As any aspiring writer would know, this is immensely frustrating. Maybe I'll write a poem instead, or just discard the whole idea altogether.

Caught the flu bug (again!), and this time the phlegm is really pissing me off. There's so much of it, I'm practically hacking the stuff out every two minutes (if only they were words I'm hacking out). In fact, a huge glob just flew out of my mouth while I was coughing a second ago. Like, literally, flew right out. (Where's the tissue when you need it?! Ugh!)

A friend of mine commented yesterday that I'm coughing like an old man, to which I replied, "I am an old man!" My palms are shaky, my fingertips are numb and my running nose's just completed a cross-country marathon. My brain's been sluggish for the past two days and the drugs, which are supposed to be helping, are knocking me out cold every time I take them.

Which should make me a happy man; God knows I need the rest. But I have reports due by the end of the week and there's no way I can focus when my mind has been rendered insensate like this! I feel like I'm stuck in limbo -- between a vegetable and a slab of cement -- where everything is moving oh-so-slowly and sleep is only a temporary amnesty. Damn it, I really don't need this right now.

On a positive note, I'm really into soccer again and I plan to play a game every week or so (the cigarettes are really slowing me down, though). Also, gym on Thursdays (just not this week) and a whole lot of running (to catch up with my nose) on weekends. That's about it, I guess. Should really get on with writing the story. Till next time, adios amigos!

PLAYLIST

God Save The Queen -- The Sex Pistols

Matinee -- Franz Ferdinand

Ride -- The Vines

Automatic Stop -- The Strokes

Self-Esteem -- The Offspring

*

suffer the little children

How do you keep out the suffering of others from the solitude of your mind? How do you prevent the invasion of the cerebral trespassers? I've never been able to. Like it or not, the demons will find their way into my thoughts, and sooner or later they will breed like the maleficence that they are. Black mariahs transmogrify into dreadful thoughts, and back again.

There is no 'straight and narrow path' in my head. The closest thing resembling a roadmap of my consciousness would probably be the streets of late-19th century London on its darkest nights -- where it's cold, filthy and delapidated; the murky alleyways carrying the stink of debauchery; the countless cobblestone pavements with dead-ends where the cloven-footed wait for the naïve and the gullible; where the children cry every night in their beds for fear of the unknown; and newborns die needlessly on account of mysterious illnesses still unheard of and a medical community too afraid to find out; where the taverns and inns serve absinthe to men sickened with despair for the loss of innocence and the God that failed them; as Jack the Ripper lurks in the shadows and delights at the prospect of meeting his next unsuspecting victim; where one false step could lead you to your very worst nightmare.

It's not a nice place to visit (and I wouldn't recommend taking a look; never a pretty sight). As I've said, the demons see what they like and in turn, seem to like what they see. And as far as I can tell, they have no intention of leaving. Uninvited guests overstaying their welcome (not that they were welcome to stay in the first place).

Looks like I don't need anyone to paint my picture black; I can do that all by myself! To be fair (while sustaining the metaphor), there are times -- and these are the moments I look forward to every single day of my life -- when the fog clears, and everything is not as bleak as it seems. There are times when lady luck smiles favorably upon me. Heck, I can even see the sun sometimes! And the London rain washes away the muck and the filth, and the streets become uncluttered; the malapropos transgressors of the mind swept away like the inconsequential flotsam that they are. The fumes, thick and nebulous, previously blotting out the sun from view gives way to an atmosphere of such forceful brilliance you would cry tears of joy so painfully sweet, and you begin to wish this would never end.

The air (oh, how I wish you could smell the air!) turns so fresh and breathable you could bottle an ounce and sell it on e-bay for a hefty profit, though you wouldn't because you'd want to breathe it yourself; air so crystalline clear you could see for miles all around you, and cut through the red tape and the lies that have thus far impeded you for so long. You could finally be free, unfettered by the emotional baggage of existence and the unbearable weight of reality and everything else that is undesirable to you.

And that's when you begin to realize that some things are too good to be true and, ironically, that's the truth. You tell yourself: "You're right… whatever happened happened to the dying children and the evil monsters of today? Whatever happened to the sorrow and the pain, the greed and the ugliness? Whatever happened to the problems that serve to lessen the dignity of Man and tarnish the name of God? Whatever happened to the endless cycle of violence heaped upon the helpless and the innocent?"

Why, they're still here. Hits me like a kick in the gut, every single time. They're all here. You see, the demons never left. They were here all along, hidden from view. And now they're taunting you, reminding you that you've just deluded yourself. Oh, why do I keep deceiving myself? There is no light at the end of the tunnel, at least not until we've all learned our lesson (and from the looks of it, we're gonna have to wait for quite awhile).

Don't they see it? Amidst the weapons of mass destruction and the serial killers, the warmongers and the paedophiles, the murderers and the suicide bombers? Amidst their indifference, and their cowardice, and their excessive indulgence? Can't they see they've chosen the wrong path, that somewhere along the way they've taken a turn for the worse? Can't we? Whatever happened to the sanctity of life and the ideals of our forefathers and the virtues of humanity we agreed upon?

The only thing I've accomplished here is to remind myself again that the children are still suffering, and I have done nothing to mitigate this. Sadly, that is not good enough. And I don't choose to pretend that it is. In the words of a man much smarter than I am (by the name of Eugene V. Debs),

"Years ago I recognized my kinship with all living things, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on the earth. I said then and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it; while there is a criminal element, I am of it; while there is a soul in prison, I am not free."

I am not free. And I am not one bit better than the meanest on the earth. And I'm probably laying this too thick, even by my standards. I guess this is what one would expect from a manic-depressive insomniac with too much time on his hands (hell, I've got class in the morning). Anyway, I'm practically writing this for myself (closest thing I'll get to therapy). I'm letting it all out. I'm keeping it together.

If you're still reading this, I apologize for taking so much of your time. Britney says "Get in the zone," and Madonna agrees. I can't seem to get out of it. I'll try to keep it short and light next time. More reader-friendly, if you will. And if I may offer some advice, it is this: one should never heed the incessant ramblings of a manic-depressive insomniac with too much time on his hands.

Oh, no! I've created some kind of paradox! Okay, okay, I'll stop now.

PLAYLIST

Praying For Time -- George Michael

Karma Police -- Radiohead

Seven Nation Army -- The White Stripes

Everybody Wants To Rule The World -- Tears For Fears

Fortune Faded -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

the lone ranger

time out

A friend of mine broke up with his girlfriend of six years. What would Spider-Man do?

ride my bicycle

A friend of mine fell off her bike and landed flat on her face. What would Spider-Man do?

truly fruity

what's in a name?

ten·chi mu·yo (tûrn-chē 'mü-yō) Pronunciation Key
n.

An expression in Japanese, generally translated as: "There is no need for Heaven and Earth."

----------
[From Japanese: ten (てん), heaven; + chi (ち), earth; + muyo (むよ), unnecessary.]

I came across the phrase while reading a graphic novel (for the fellow comic book connoisseurs here, I’m referring to the Mark Waid/Alex Ross magnum opus "Kingdom Come"), and it’s stuck ever since. Personally, I feel it appeals to both the rational and the emotional faculties of the mind; profoundly clever and sad at the same time. It is as much a matter-of-fact as it is a passionate outcry of sentiment. I like to think my writing works on as many levels. As well, part of my brain subscribes to the notion of the futility of having a heaven and an earth; which is just me being pragmatic rather than nihilistic. Or so, I choose to believe.

angel eyes

Through night and day
You'll find your way
I'm sure

The words you give
Will not deceive
I know

You've seen too much
Don't lose your touch
In here

Don't ever think
That I'm not being
Sincere

May god bless your heart
For the songs you sang
To me. . .

And god bless your heart
For the souls you saved
For free. . .

Through all your tears
You faced your fears
Alone

Looking in your eyes
Am I with my lies
Atoned

The sound of your voice
So lovely and poised
My dear

But it won't be long
Before you are gone
I fear

May god bless your heart
For the songs you sang
To me. . .

And god bless your heart
For the souls you saved
For free. . .

Where did you leave the things you loved
Are you looking in the back of your mind
In the memories of your treasure trove
For the things you can no longer find

Now don't despair, oh angel eyes
You've done enough, no need to cry
In god you trust, in him you'll find
Your paradise where you can fly

They shook the world and stole your pride
You stood your ground and pushed aside
The pain

So thank you, love, for sharing your soul
And thank you, dear, for making me whole
Again

May god bless your heart
For the songs you sang
To me. . .

And god bless your heart
For the souls you saved
For free. . .

caveat emptor

The results are out.

And I didn't do too well. Whichever way you choose to look at it, passing two out of four tests is not what I'd call an achievement. And I'm in a dour mood right now, because everyone else managed to score in the paper (Microcontroller Technology) I did very badly.

I feel stupid.
To quote Kurt Cobain, "I think I'm dumb, or maybe just happy..."

Serves me right for studying on the day right before the tests. In fact, I only studied for MCT for twenty minutes on the train ride to school. Which is no excuse, but machine language is all Greek to me, anyway. Fuck this bullshit, I don't need it!

I did well enough for Human Factors and Error Management (scored 82% for the paper) and OK for Engineering Mathematics II (if you consider 67% an OK grade, and I do) which should offset the sickening feeling of failing a test or two. But it doesn't.

I should have done better on the other paper, on Aircraft ServoMechanisms and Electronics (I got 47%, man! Woo-fucking-hoo!). I should have done better on every single one of those papers. I don't want what I get, and I don't get what I want. In fact, I hardly deserve to get what I want. It would be nice, though. If anything, at least I'd get to satisfy my insatiable ego. Maybe next time, huh?

"Most of all, there is a caustic shame for my own stupidity." --Scott Turow

PLAYLIST

The One -- Foo Fighters

Crazy Times -- Jars Of Clay

This Is The New Shit -- Marilyn Manson

Fight Test -- The Flaming Lips

Punk Rock Rebel -- Millencolin

in my own prison

Сергей Максимишин ©

[addendum]

As a footnote: I consider myself immensely fortunate to have a hero who has never failed me, and if indeed she has fallen before, has risen to even greater heights of eminence. She more than anyone else is the kind of person I strive to be everyday of my life. The be-all and end-all (in some ways, quite literally) of so many around her, she gives and never asks for anything in return. A pillar of faith and strength, she is resolute and unstinting in her dedication. Possessing a heart of gold so loving and tender, and yet truly a force to be reckoned with. But this is a story for another day, which I will tell.
(I promise!)

we can be heroes

We all need heroes. But they hardly exist. And the ones that do fail miserably at some point or another in our lives. These heroes fall, and they don't rise again. It is an inevitable fact that these pseudo-exemplars will crash, and bring you down with them. Tina Turner once voiced her frustration by insisting that "we don't need another hero", perhaps for fear of facing yet another disappointment.

We find heroes both in fiction and in real life.

Unless you live in fantasy-land (of which I was guilty before, but not anymore), the former has this fundamental disadvantage of being fake -- a fabrication, a sham, a hoax, an artifice, a ruse, a deception, a make-believe illusion conjured by manipulative writers intermittently high on drugs projecting their personal ideals and doctrine into fictional characters, simultaneously belying their own inadequacies. There is a term for this: terminological inexactitude (in other words, "faking it").

We don’t want that because they don't work. They satisfy your craving for escape; a pointless exercise in cognitive dissonance. They last, sometimes for centuries, but they don't work. Does 'Lord Of The Rings' inspire you to lead a better lifestyle, to do good and strike evil to the ground? Maybe for a day or two, until you realize it doesn't work that way -- you don’t have incredible foresight to predict the future; the cavalry doesn't arrive at the most opportune moment; the best intentions usually make things worse; there is no one willing to sacrifice their immortality for you; the world is not defined in black and white; you don't have a sword sharper than your enemy's; and sometimes you can't even see your enemy.

Finally, you have to succumb to the fact these feel-good stories of unflinching honor, dignity and justice are just that -- feel good stories (with a contrived ending to boot). Deconstruct it deep enough, and fiction is nothing more than entertainment -- a flight of fantasy on the trajectory of imagination. Are you willing to base your hopes and dreams on fictitious beings, and fictitious events and fictitious things? At the whim and fancy of a partly-deranged storyteller with an addiction?

Real-life heroes, as I've said, barely exist; too far and too few in between. So let's make a pact. Let's sign a binding agreement on the veneer of our conscience for all to see. Let us create real-life heroes, by being heroes ourselves. Let us be the best that we can be, and achieve a level of transcendence for others to aspire to.

Talk is cheap and everything is easier said than done, but look to the stars and step forward to be accounted for. We'll guide each other every step of the way. We'll make it a conscious and collective effort. We'll use real-life heroes as a stepping stone to further our cause. We'll try not to disappoint. It won't be easy, and we'll definitely fall along the way. But we will make it count, because we will rise again. We'll start today, so spread the word. Today will be the day the heroes prevail.

PLAYLIST

Highway Song -- System Of A Down

Minerva -- Deftones

New Pollution -- Beck

Man In The Mirror -- Michael Jackson

Stairway To Heaven -- Led Zeppelin

these days

Wake up to the smell of coffee
Though no one was making any
Is this a TV world I live in?
Where nothing's where it’s been?

You take a chance at romance
You don’t know where you'll dance
Stray cats burn effigies
In screeching melodies

Take all your sorrow
And let them ride the wind
Maybe, baby, you don't have to sing...

Open the window
And let your heroes in
Maybe, baby, you don't have to dream...

Remember all of yesterday
Don't give your mind away
The things we've said were magical
Now show them to the world

You wake up as a passenger
Your whole life's just a blur
There's always something in between
And nothing's what it seems

Take all your sorrow
And let them ride the wind
Maybe, baby, you don’t have to sing...

Open the window
And let your heroes in
Maybe, baby, you don't have to dream...

of dice and men

"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main... (A)ny man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."
--John Donne

a day in the life of...

a bum.

Clocked in a total of four hours of sleep in the past two days. My circadian rhythm is totally out of whack, as it's been all my life. On the lighter side, if I keep this up I might be able to see God in a day or two. Maybe we could play chess and compare notes on life and philosophy. Perhaps He could show me the way around, and help reaffirm my faith in Him (and vice versa). And maybe, just maybe, He could finally prove to me that He exists. I know it sounds silly, and that even if it happens, it'll only be a hallucination. But I think I really need something like that right now.

Breezed through a test this morning. At least I think I did. Aircraft Systems Maintenance Practices. (Gesundheit!) Not exactly something you'd want for breakfast, but it was OK. Slept through the remaining half hour, so it was OK. Not too sure about the other tests over the past week, though. The results will be out in a week or so. More updates as they come.

My younger sister has decided to continue her studies in London, as she wishes to pursue a Degree (and obviously a career) in Medicine. Her first semester there starts in January 2005. This is splendid news! Everyone should have a chance to see the world at least once, and to live through and experience the world is even better. She, more than anyone I can think of, deserves this chance. I am glad she has the drive and ambition to go through with this. Hopefully, she'll make the best of it and not forget her older brother when she's rich and famous!

A single academic year at the college she's been accepted to amounts to £7,300 in tuition fees alone. (Yes, that is in English Pounds, if you were wondering.) Registration and miscellaneous fees cost a further £1,500. And that's not inclusive of accommodation, living expenses, etc. This is bad news! My daily allowance will probably be cut down by more than half to compensate for this. I need to find a job, fast! She better not forget the sacrifices her older brother will have to endure! She better be rich and famous!

You know I'm kidding. She has the verve and the will, and that's more than enough for me. I'm more than happy for her. And if I'm a little jealous (which I'm not... just yet), it is in a good way. She'll introduce me to the English babes when we get to visit her there. (She better!) We'll go watch the hustle and bustle of Trafalgar Square, swing by London's West End for an opera or two, travel on the Underground to Paddington Station, and maybe meet Mr. Blair at No.10 Downing Street for tea. Put on the telly and see ourselves on TV!

Enough itinerary for one afternoon, ya think? Turrah!

PLAYLIST

I Wish You Were Here -- Incubus

Suspicious Minds -- Elvis Presley

Linger -- The Cranberries

Closing Time -- Semisonic

Building A Mystery -- Sarah McLachlan

the bipolar anomaly

Think woodland and faeries,
Pink flowers and strawberries.
Then think of me and the ladies,
Making lots and lots of babies.
This doesn't make any sense,
But no point sitting on a fence.
Go crazy or stay sane,
Dead end or one-way lane.
No sleep till dawn,
All day just yawn.
Now study for the test,
And gather all the rest.
To show that you're a god,
A reason for being so odd.
Inversely proportional,
And highly delusional.
Semi-intellectual,
A crackpot individual.

olympique mayonnaise

Witnessing the explosive return of Ruud Van Nistelrooy to top form was a blast. It's been nine months since we've seen him this good, and most of it was spent watching him being sidelined with injuries. I must admit I kinda lost faith in him for awhile. My mistake. The predator is back, and clearly in need to whet his appetite. And once Wayne Rooney and Louis Saha recover, Fergie will be terribly spoilt for choice. Bottoms up!

gridlocked

I thought this would be a good idea.

Now that I'm here, I'm not entirely sure what to write about. I had second thoughts about publishing my thoughts on the Internet. First and foremost because I was against the idea of spending some time of my day to write about my day. Everyday.

Granted, most well-adjusted people write entries into their personal diaries to reflect upon their experiences on a daily basis. First point of contention: I am not a well-adjusted person; I've never had a personal record of events in all my twenty years of existence. Second point of contention: a personal diary is private; this is as public as it gets.

Which brings me to the other reason why I was apprehensive at first. Why the Internet? Do I need an audience? (Do I have an audience? Now that virtually everyone has a blog, who has the time to read? We're all busy writing!) Am I too caught up in my own illusions of grandeur to examine the possibility that, in fact, no one might be the least bit interested?

Does it really matter? As far as I can tell, I'm not looking for an audience. If you just happened to stumble across this weblog (at the very least, I'm pretty confident it wasn't intentional), you're more than welcome to read my foolish rants! And thank you, by the way! So sweet of you to stop by! Feel free to inadvertently chance upon my incessant ramblings again! No, really! I don't mind! We'll have sweetcakes and tea next time!

Who knows, this could prove to be cathartic for someone as anal-retentive as I am. I've always needed a creative outlet of some kind so perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, this will suffice until something better comes along. In the meantime, thank God for small favors. Plus, if this doesn't work out, there's always the "delete" button.

Anyway, if you're in for the long haul, welcome aboard this rollercoaster of mine. It's going to be quite a ride, satisfaction guaranteed*. And if you wish to post a comment, or share your weblog, drop me a line (I'm new to this, so be gentle). In the foreseeable future, we'll be covering hotbed topics like religion, procreation, politics, semantics, love, poetry, and all that jazz! You've been warned.

Hey, would you look at that? I've found something to write about...

* Not really. But the kettle's on, so it won't be long till we have some tea!

PLAYLIST

Jumper -- Third Eye Blind

Put Your Lights On -- Santana ft. Everlast

Erase & Rewind -- The Cardigans

It's Oh So Quiet -- Bjork

This Mess We're In -- PJ Harvey ft. Thom Yorke