Mia is mine. MINE. MINE!!!Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Hoarse-play
Right now, I sound like a man approaching eighty years of age, suffering from emphysema and athsma, being strangled with a telephone cord. That is, of course, if I can get anything past my throat other than my ragged breath. My windpipe feels like there is a cactus growing inside it, sprinkled with pepper and set ablaze. I can whisper, so yeah.
I have a presentation tomorrow, something that has been bugging me for the past week or so. I don't quite know how that will turn out, seeing as how I now possess the vocal aptitude of a newborn kitten under a blanket. Whispering won't do. No, no, no.
I'm not sure how this came about, really. Today was spent pointing out the flaws in grammar and the fallacies in attributing joy to the short-lived lives of poultry, followed by a long, arduous journey home which was largely uneventful, save for a weird man who stared at other people in the hope that his glassy eyes would eject them from their seats. That and I discovered a little shop that still sells Vanilla Coke. Yay!
Then I got home, and like a parent who just knows his child is gone, or like Luke, I had a very bad feeling about this. My mom asked me to sample some of the things she baked on her day home, and when I opened my mouth to speak, my once-lovely voice had deserted me. The toneless murmur that I just barely managed to exhale conveyed little but my own shock at my new-found muteness. Dumbly shaking my head, I trudged up the stairs, shut my room door, and stared at my neck in the mirror, for reasons beyond my immediate comprehension.
No, no marks indicating surgery to remove my larynx or vocal chords.
How, how, how?
I have even resorted to suggesting protraying a mute person at the presentation tomorrow.
I have a presentation tomorrow, something that has been bugging me for the past week or so. I don't quite know how that will turn out, seeing as how I now possess the vocal aptitude of a newborn kitten under a blanket. Whispering won't do. No, no, no.
I'm not sure how this came about, really. Today was spent pointing out the flaws in grammar and the fallacies in attributing joy to the short-lived lives of poultry, followed by a long, arduous journey home which was largely uneventful, save for a weird man who stared at other people in the hope that his glassy eyes would eject them from their seats. That and I discovered a little shop that still sells Vanilla Coke. Yay!
Then I got home, and like a parent who just knows his child is gone, or like Luke, I had a very bad feeling about this. My mom asked me to sample some of the things she baked on her day home, and when I opened my mouth to speak, my once-lovely voice had deserted me. The toneless murmur that I just barely managed to exhale conveyed little but my own shock at my new-found muteness. Dumbly shaking my head, I trudged up the stairs, shut my room door, and stared at my neck in the mirror, for reasons beyond my immediate comprehension.
No, no marks indicating surgery to remove my larynx or vocal chords.
How, how, how?
I have even resorted to suggesting protraying a mute person at the presentation tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Much Pain
They were all dead. The final gunshot was an exclamation mark to everything that had led to this point. I released my finger from the trigger. And then it was all over.
And it was, but those were the opening lines to the video game, and NOT the movie. I'm a huge fan of the games, really. Like many, though, I considered the first to be superior by far, but the second was still great. I mean, come on, bullet-time, Captain Baseball-bat Boy, Russians and Italians and moaning women? Can't get much better than that.
The movie, however, failed to encapsulate all the things that made the game(s) so kickass. I will go through my list of complaints as I see fit, fuming and generally annoyed at the outcome of my internet booking.
Anyone who has played Max Payne will recognise that Mona Sax plays an integral role in the story, at least as important as Max himself. Then you see Mila Kunis walk on screen in some black jacket, trying to look like anything other than Jackie. Come on. You cast someone famed for playing a short teenage bimbo as Mona Sax??? The same Mona Sax who is at least as high up there as Chun-Li or Lara Croft or Mrs Pac-Man? She's supposed to be like a leather-clad mysterious Chuck Norris-esque killing machine, not a high-school cheerleader.
OK, wait. I'll back up. Mila Kunis does have the Mona Sax look (window scene), but the on-screen Mona is written to be more impotent than important. She does have the trademark Uzi, but no red-leather. Sigh. It's also quite sad (but I'm not exactly complaining) that Mona's on-screen sister attracts much more attention than her. Olga Kurylenko seems to play the stripping Russian hottie perfectly.
Remember how Max Payne was perhaps the first thing after The Matrix to make use of bullet time? How cool it was to see someone dodging bullets and blasting baddies to oblivion (and the slow-mo deaths)? Yeah. Almost no bullet time in the film. Cept once where he jumps to shoot a door. And where he runs towards someone.
Speaking of shooting, it seems that the villians in the film are totally incapable of taking aim and firing with any sort of accuracy. I know that the hero almost never gets hit anyway, but when someone with a military rifle, on an elevated platform, with a scope, can fire three times and miss an un-moving target, from behind, it just goes to show that henchmen are trained by the incompetant. Maybe that's why there was so little bullet time in the film. He didn't need it.
No painkillers. WTF.
Lastly, one gets the distinct impression that alot of thought (and cash) went into making the film very Sin City-ish. While that isn't a bad thing - and to be honest, the movie looks good - for most of the film, the detail of the falling snow or feathers is far superior than the actual storytelling. The original game had a solid plot, probably one of the best one's I've ever had the pleasure of going through in any video game (fuck you, Metal Gear Solid), the film, for some strange reason beyond my limited intelligence, chooses to deviate from what was an established, enjoyable, awesome story and mix up how everyone in the story was tied to one another. In the end, you get a badly-rushed bad story (less than two hours) with a questionable and expected plot "twist", buffered by lacklustre action scenes.
AND JIM BRAVURA IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE BLACK.
God Dammit.
At least it was better than Hitman.
2.5/5
And it was, but those were the opening lines to the video game, and NOT the movie. I'm a huge fan of the games, really. Like many, though, I considered the first to be superior by far, but the second was still great. I mean, come on, bullet-time, Captain Baseball-bat Boy, Russians and Italians and moaning women? Can't get much better than that.
The movie, however, failed to encapsulate all the things that made the game(s) so kickass. I will go through my list of complaints as I see fit, fuming and generally annoyed at the outcome of my internet booking.
Anyone who has played Max Payne will recognise that Mona Sax plays an integral role in the story, at least as important as Max himself. Then you see Mila Kunis walk on screen in some black jacket, trying to look like anything other than Jackie. Come on. You cast someone famed for playing a short teenage bimbo as Mona Sax??? The same Mona Sax who is at least as high up there as Chun-Li or Lara Croft or Mrs Pac-Man? She's supposed to be like a leather-clad mysterious Chuck Norris-esque killing machine, not a high-school cheerleader.
OK, wait. I'll back up. Mila Kunis does have the Mona Sax look (window scene), but the on-screen Mona is written to be more impotent than important. She does have the trademark Uzi, but no red-leather. Sigh. It's also quite sad (but I'm not exactly complaining) that Mona's on-screen sister attracts much more attention than her. Olga Kurylenko seems to play the stripping Russian hottie perfectly.
Remember how Max Payne was perhaps the first thing after The Matrix to make use of bullet time? How cool it was to see someone dodging bullets and blasting baddies to oblivion (and the slow-mo deaths)? Yeah. Almost no bullet time in the film. Cept once where he jumps to shoot a door. And where he runs towards someone.
Speaking of shooting, it seems that the villians in the film are totally incapable of taking aim and firing with any sort of accuracy. I know that the hero almost never gets hit anyway, but when someone with a military rifle, on an elevated platform, with a scope, can fire three times and miss an un-moving target, from behind, it just goes to show that henchmen are trained by the incompetant. Maybe that's why there was so little bullet time in the film. He didn't need it.
No painkillers. WTF.
Lastly, one gets the distinct impression that alot of thought (and cash) went into making the film very Sin City-ish. While that isn't a bad thing - and to be honest, the movie looks good - for most of the film, the detail of the falling snow or feathers is far superior than the actual storytelling. The original game had a solid plot, probably one of the best one's I've ever had the pleasure of going through in any video game (fuck you, Metal Gear Solid), the film, for some strange reason beyond my limited intelligence, chooses to deviate from what was an established, enjoyable, awesome story and mix up how everyone in the story was tied to one another. In the end, you get a badly-rushed bad story (less than two hours) with a questionable and expected plot "twist", buffered by lacklustre action scenes.
AND JIM BRAVURA IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE BLACK.
God Dammit.
At least it was better than Hitman.
2.5/5
Monday, October 20, 2008
The Fast & The Furious
I remember the days when little Naz looked at the clock at the top of the wall in longing, hoping for the time where the idiotic bell would ring and I could dash out as fast as my little manjan-looking legs could carry me, to join up with my mom after my kindergarten class in Marine Parade. While the motherly embrace was pleasant enough, what really made my heart race was the fact that the walk to the car would invariably lead us past... McDonald's.
I've always been a rather avid fast-food junkie. These prepubescent experiences seemed only to fuel the urge to drop by the conveniently-located outlets of the golden arches as well as KFC, when I progressed to secondary school. Later, I tried Burger King, and found their cheeseburgers pleasantly enjoyable. I would go on to blame my love for french fries for my less-than-herculean physique.
One of the few fast-food chains I had never enjoyed, however, was Long John Silver's. Firstly, I hate pirates. Peter Pan and Captain Hook? Lame. Jack Sparrow? Lame. Popeye (OK, sailor, but whatever)? Lame. And spinach is lame. I've probably only visited their outlets and actually purchased something other than a soft drink only twice in my entire life, before a few days ago.
Again, the fates brought me and my rather empty gut (I had made the conscious decision to not take a slice or two of pizza at home) to Marine Parade. With a rather irritable someone at my side, I, being the paragon of chivalry that I am, allowed her to select where we would sate our appetites. She pointed at the blue and yellow motif.
I did my best to keep my derision hidden from view, but I succeeded only as much as I would when trying to iron. Ever the perceptive cynic, the lovable girlfriend offered to allow me the choice instead, but again, my gentlemanly ways won the day over, and we walked into the joint. Well, it has no walls, and no doors, so we walked... to it.
So. Fish and chicken, eh? The regular combo's looked as appealing as CSE 101 and so I elected instead to go with the "grilled" choices, which seemed, for all intents and purposes, the lesser of two evils. After several frustrating moments, the lone girl at the counter finally turned to us to listen to our orders.
Before I continue, I will have to say that the labelling of "girl" to this "girl" is only one of convenience, for while it was quite apparent that she was of the female sex, and thus possessed such furnishings like mammary glands and a nose, she looked more like a cross between E.T. and a dayak. Watching us with eyes dulled far beyond any semblance of intelligent thought, she nodded like a drunk pirate (lame) wench and turned to yell, like a pirate, to the invisible person working in the kitchen. The unseen ninja chef yelled back, and the dayak-alien mumbled that the grills were not available anymore.
I was aghast. Heartbroken. Lost for words. Disappointed. Annoyed. Hungry.
I picked the Chicken Combo instead, seeing as how it was cheaper than the fish, which was what Little Miss Makeover ordered. Under the scrutiny of the strange life-form behind the counter, we collected our trays and our "food" and proceeded to take our (uncomfortable) seats. If the heat and humidity of the place was supposed to simulate a kind of hell, what was on the trays definitely lived up to it.
The chicken tasted like wet cardboard, left to dry on the ground a day before. It had a comparable texture as well, something even a mangy dog might turn its nose away from. The fish "fillets" were slightly more bearable, but still fell far short of the sub-standard norms that one might expct from the nearby supermarket, where frozen chunks of processed seafood waited patiently for poor untrained cooks to attempt to turn them into gourmet meals. The fries? Well, if potatoes could commit suicide, they would have been turned into fries like those. They tasted of despair and made my taste buds cry out for sweet merciful death.
The best thing about the meal was the chili sauce, in those little white and green packets.
After deciding against hacking my tongue off with the flimsy plastic spoon, I stood up from the rickety table, taking my darling by the hand, and whisked her away from the wretched place. In all my life, I don't think I have ever left so many french fries untouched. Even the freaky escargot the other day was less of a chore. With the hated place barely out of my questionable sight, I began to realise that the only thing I had missed by not being a regular patron of Long John was a severe case of food-poisoning.
I will make a pact today. Between myself and all of you. A plea, a deal, an agreement, a promise. If you ever, ever, eeeeeeever see me walking into or even close to another Long John Silver's outlet, feel sorry for me, for it would be the clearest sign yet that I wish to end my life. You may wish to stop me, advise me, warn me of the obvious dangers. But no. I have suffered through the experience of a "meal" from this "restaurant", and barely survived. If I go again, it would mean I would be seeking a slow, painful end.
I just hope the fries in heaven are good.
I've always been a rather avid fast-food junkie. These prepubescent experiences seemed only to fuel the urge to drop by the conveniently-located outlets of the golden arches as well as KFC, when I progressed to secondary school. Later, I tried Burger King, and found their cheeseburgers pleasantly enjoyable. I would go on to blame my love for french fries for my less-than-herculean physique.
One of the few fast-food chains I had never enjoyed, however, was Long John Silver's. Firstly, I hate pirates. Peter Pan and Captain Hook? Lame. Jack Sparrow? Lame. Popeye (OK, sailor, but whatever)? Lame. And spinach is lame. I've probably only visited their outlets and actually purchased something other than a soft drink only twice in my entire life, before a few days ago.
Again, the fates brought me and my rather empty gut (I had made the conscious decision to not take a slice or two of pizza at home) to Marine Parade. With a rather irritable someone at my side, I, being the paragon of chivalry that I am, allowed her to select where we would sate our appetites. She pointed at the blue and yellow motif.
I did my best to keep my derision hidden from view, but I succeeded only as much as I would when trying to iron. Ever the perceptive cynic, the lovable girlfriend offered to allow me the choice instead, but again, my gentlemanly ways won the day over, and we walked into the joint. Well, it has no walls, and no doors, so we walked... to it.
So. Fish and chicken, eh? The regular combo's looked as appealing as CSE 101 and so I elected instead to go with the "grilled" choices, which seemed, for all intents and purposes, the lesser of two evils. After several frustrating moments, the lone girl at the counter finally turned to us to listen to our orders.
Before I continue, I will have to say that the labelling of "girl" to this "girl" is only one of convenience, for while it was quite apparent that she was of the female sex, and thus possessed such furnishings like mammary glands and a nose, she looked more like a cross between E.T. and a dayak. Watching us with eyes dulled far beyond any semblance of intelligent thought, she nodded like a drunk pirate (lame) wench and turned to yell, like a pirate, to the invisible person working in the kitchen. The unseen ninja chef yelled back, and the dayak-alien mumbled that the grills were not available anymore.
I was aghast. Heartbroken. Lost for words. Disappointed. Annoyed. Hungry.
I picked the Chicken Combo instead, seeing as how it was cheaper than the fish, which was what Little Miss Makeover ordered. Under the scrutiny of the strange life-form behind the counter, we collected our trays and our "food" and proceeded to take our (uncomfortable) seats. If the heat and humidity of the place was supposed to simulate a kind of hell, what was on the trays definitely lived up to it.
The chicken tasted like wet cardboard, left to dry on the ground a day before. It had a comparable texture as well, something even a mangy dog might turn its nose away from. The fish "fillets" were slightly more bearable, but still fell far short of the sub-standard norms that one might expct from the nearby supermarket, where frozen chunks of processed seafood waited patiently for poor untrained cooks to attempt to turn them into gourmet meals. The fries? Well, if potatoes could commit suicide, they would have been turned into fries like those. They tasted of despair and made my taste buds cry out for sweet merciful death.
The best thing about the meal was the chili sauce, in those little white and green packets.
After deciding against hacking my tongue off with the flimsy plastic spoon, I stood up from the rickety table, taking my darling by the hand, and whisked her away from the wretched place. In all my life, I don't think I have ever left so many french fries untouched. Even the freaky escargot the other day was less of a chore. With the hated place barely out of my questionable sight, I began to realise that the only thing I had missed by not being a regular patron of Long John was a severe case of food-poisoning.
I will make a pact today. Between myself and all of you. A plea, a deal, an agreement, a promise. If you ever, ever, eeeeeeever see me walking into or even close to another Long John Silver's outlet, feel sorry for me, for it would be the clearest sign yet that I wish to end my life. You may wish to stop me, advise me, warn me of the obvious dangers. But no. I have suffered through the experience of a "meal" from this "restaurant", and barely survived. If I go again, it would mean I would be seeking a slow, painful end.
I just hope the fries in heaven are good.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Comic Relief #131
I don't know why girls cut their hair when it already looks good. Tsk. Maybe it's just girls with names starting with K.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Comic Relief #129
First appearance of Mag/Maggie from school, and she said her current favourite colour was black. No prizes for guessing who the person in question is.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Friday, October 03, 2008
Critical Thinking
I got a new cordless phone a few days ago.
I hate it.
Firstly, it's rather bulky, angular, white. Unlike my older, sleeker one which I could spin around and envision it being a lightsabre. It also sounds like the person on the other end of the call is talking to you from behind a wall of sand. And is suffering from a bout of hiccups.
But most importantly, this new model seems to have lost one of the features I liked best about my old phone (and really, most phones in this day and age); the ability to key in the numbers before "picking up" the phone. It just bugs me that this newer phone lacks such a straightforward yet useful ability that its predecessor exhibited with such utter simplicity. Some people just fail to think. Like the new Facebook, you know? It was great the way it was. Now, rubbish. I can't even find my feckin' wall.
I was writing some garbage today on a pilfered sheet of A4 paper, something about Plato and Aristotle in school, during an exam. The exam itself was "OK", as I told someone, who proceeded to reveal to me with not a small amount of glee that I was the only one with such a positive prognosis of the paper. After reiterating that my dedfinition of "OK" merely meant that it was not a 100% chance of sure-failure, he then agreed with my assessment.
But as I was in the midst of my prose, I happened to notice one girl who I don't know (and never bothered to know/remember) stand up and stride puposefully to the front of the theatre to thrust her sheet of papyrus at the instructor, who was expectant in every sense of the word. Of course, people finish exams early all the time (well, not all the time, only early... you can't finish an exam early, late...). I found myself staring at the wood panels that made up our Grand Hall after roughly 20 minutes during my Health Psychology paper, scheduled for two hours.
But I've always believed that if you're going to enter an exam hall, and be the first to hand in your paper, you have to either be A) very good, B) sure you're going to fail, or C) stupid. The name of today's class was Critical Thinking.
This girl, after handing in her paper, spun sharply on her heel, like some uptight ballerina missing a tutu and slippers, and stormed out of the class. I was sure she was proud of herself, or at least happy to have the week over with. But then the instructor mentioned she had, in all her nimble brilliance, seen it fit to totally not do a whole section of the paper (this is where you circle option C). Of course, the girl had already left, and was destined to the doom of a crappy grade.
Or was she???
Not five minutes later, as most of us were still wondering how Evian promotes nudity, the girl returned, miraculously. And asked for her paper back as she realised she had so cleverly failed to complete the afore-mentioned section (I believe it was arguments and premises).
Now... unlike some past instructors, the one we had today is not an idiot by any stretch of the imagination. Sure, she has a funny accent and is a feminist and sometimes exudes a weird sense of humor, but she isn't a moron. But she was sure as hell looking one in the eye!
"How did you know you did not do one part?"
"My friend messaged me."
"But no one has left the room except you."
"..."
I hate it.
Firstly, it's rather bulky, angular, white. Unlike my older, sleeker one which I could spin around and envision it being a lightsabre. It also sounds like the person on the other end of the call is talking to you from behind a wall of sand. And is suffering from a bout of hiccups.
But most importantly, this new model seems to have lost one of the features I liked best about my old phone (and really, most phones in this day and age); the ability to key in the numbers before "picking up" the phone. It just bugs me that this newer phone lacks such a straightforward yet useful ability that its predecessor exhibited with such utter simplicity. Some people just fail to think. Like the new Facebook, you know? It was great the way it was. Now, rubbish. I can't even find my feckin' wall.
I was writing some garbage today on a pilfered sheet of A4 paper, something about Plato and Aristotle in school, during an exam. The exam itself was "OK", as I told someone, who proceeded to reveal to me with not a small amount of glee that I was the only one with such a positive prognosis of the paper. After reiterating that my dedfinition of "OK" merely meant that it was not a 100% chance of sure-failure, he then agreed with my assessment.
But as I was in the midst of my prose, I happened to notice one girl who I don't know (and never bothered to know/remember) stand up and stride puposefully to the front of the theatre to thrust her sheet of papyrus at the instructor, who was expectant in every sense of the word. Of course, people finish exams early all the time (well, not all the time, only early... you can't finish an exam early, late...). I found myself staring at the wood panels that made up our Grand Hall after roughly 20 minutes during my Health Psychology paper, scheduled for two hours.
But I've always believed that if you're going to enter an exam hall, and be the first to hand in your paper, you have to either be A) very good, B) sure you're going to fail, or C) stupid. The name of today's class was Critical Thinking.
This girl, after handing in her paper, spun sharply on her heel, like some uptight ballerina missing a tutu and slippers, and stormed out of the class. I was sure she was proud of herself, or at least happy to have the week over with. But then the instructor mentioned she had, in all her nimble brilliance, seen it fit to totally not do a whole section of the paper (this is where you circle option C). Of course, the girl had already left, and was destined to the doom of a crappy grade.
Or was she???
Not five minutes later, as most of us were still wondering how Evian promotes nudity, the girl returned, miraculously. And asked for her paper back as she realised she had so cleverly failed to complete the afore-mentioned section (I believe it was arguments and premises).
Now... unlike some past instructors, the one we had today is not an idiot by any stretch of the imagination. Sure, she has a funny accent and is a feminist and sometimes exudes a weird sense of humor, but she isn't a moron. But she was sure as hell looking one in the eye!
"How did you know you did not do one part?"
"My friend messaged me."
"But no one has left the room except you."
"..."
"So she used her cell phone, during an examination? I would like to speak with you and your friend."
Dictionary.com lists "sabotage" as a "treacherous action", among other things. Think about it, for just one quick, hilarious moment. You walk out of an examination, and suddenly return because you forgot something? And then you say, to the instructor (and in front of everyone) that someone messaged you with this vital bit of information?
As Jonno said:
Hahahahahahahahaahhahaahahahaahaahahahaahahahaahhahahah!
This single event ranks up there, no, surpasses "It was my friend who doesn't work there anymore" as the stupidest, most idiotic, staggeringly moronic, blindingly brainless AND stab-your-friend-in-the-back-in-front-of-her-face moves I have ever seen. Even "I suddenly remembered" would have been so much better.
Seriously.
It took all of my willpower to keep from rolling on the dusty carpeting in rapturous laughter and glee after witnessing such a historic act of profound treason.
Ah.
Critical thinking, how I love thee. All the more that you are so rare among people nowadays.
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