I like this one. Apparently "the one with the lead" is also acceptable.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Comic Relief #175
I would never have guessed what would compel someone to put something like fifteen ice cubs into his or her underwear, but some people do and say the weirdest shit after a few buckets.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Comic Relief #170
Verena doesn't wear that weird skirt anymore, nor does she have the "uneven hair" or the pink streak. oh well. Semester is ending soon, and maybe now we know why some people like 242 more than others!Saturday, April 04, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Light-Hearted
Someone said to me a few days ago, "Wow, Naz, you must have been really something to have gotten her. She's gorgeous."
She was half-right. And not about me.
Been about two weeks now, and it seems to get a little more difficult, but a little less painful each day. Hard to explain really, but the littlest of things have jogged my mind back to things long gone, things I never would have remembered if recent events hadn't come to pass.
I remember writhing, prone, in a decrepit ambulance in Thailand with a metal spoon in my mouth.
I remember waiting alone, watching the baggage conveyor belt thing in the airport for familiar faces.
I remember reading through pages and pages of Karl Marx and other sociologists, who all seem to share a common trait of not being able to write in succint sentences, though we as students are told we should.
I remember standing, bewildered and out of place in places of flashing lights and inebrieted others, but having a point of focus to ignore the crowd around me, jostling with the smell of musk and alcohol and intoxication.
I remember rings and pendants, bracelets and watches, wallets and bears, poems and postcards, cards and cakes.
I remember sneaking around and plotting little escapades, silently in the darkness, trying not to make a sound then and later.
I remember the slow process of removing the fear of kittens, jumpy and playful, harmless yet terrifying, and the way the purrs warmed my heart.
I remember serenades, cracking and ridiculous, heartfelt and embarassing, joyful and sincere.
I remember a bouquet of orange roses, twenty-three, tinged in red along soft petals.
I remember dashing from the stands, eyes wide as silence descended on the hockey pitch after the ball suffered and unfortunate deflection, and the trip to the dentist after.
I remember trips to the zoo, the science centre, both with and without the kids.
I remember all the photographs and how I was taught to smile.
I remember the thrill of being behind the wheel, taking control of your destination without having to be controlled by a magnetic strip and the way the vehicle jolted when the taxi hit it.
I remember picnics, frisbee, broken slippers and sandy meals.
I remember the stupid, hilarious things I used to hear about CAT Scans and Facebook.
I remember the feeling when likewise opinions of 300, The Mist and The Sixth Sense were shared.
I remember shirts and shoes and bags and watches and books and frames and that final haircut that wasn't a haircut.
I remember nearly retching at all the bad places discovered, and belching content at all the good places revisited.
I remember discussions about religion, politics, morality, life, money, love.
I remember how it was originally out of pity.
I remember playing games together, on a board and on-line, pieces and pixels, cracking heads and racking headshots.
I remember secretly gathering stories and well-wishes, messages from friends new and old.
I remember the different ways hair could be styled, his and hers.
I remember that one baby's birthday party surrounded by strangers, and shopping for a suitable gift prior to that.
I remember the view, clad in bathrobes and close together, wishing the checkout time was furthur away.
I remember the pager, the intrepid call to an obsolete device from a boy too out of his depth to realise what he was getting himself into.
I remember laughing together at the man in woman's clothes, and hoping he/she/it didn't pick on me.
I remember not being able to cry any more.
I remember football, playing with and watching, smiling at the clumsy attempts.
I remember the smiling grandmother, mee goreng reeking of awesomeness.
I remember sighing, being dragged into Topshop or Mango or Zara or Forever 21 "just to look".
There are many things I've remembered recently, which is surpising considering that those who know me best will attest that my memory is only slightly more impressive than that of a goldfish. Last night I had a great time with some friends, doing something that I would not have normally, and another thing I do too much of. Both were incredibly entertaining, though perhaps they made me... remember more.
Most of you reading this will understand the bulk of what I've been referring to, but I hope no-one comes up to me anytime soon and demands to know if I am emo. I'm not. Don't take this as anything else than me just expressing what's been on my mind recently. It's not regret or pangs of guilt or emotions of yearning or feeling alone. Just memories, some sweeter than others and all dear to me.
I've always hated those who try and glorify their own emo feelings, to glamorise what they interpret as their own little ends of the worlds, perhaps they revel in the attention it invariably garners, like some others bask in drama or conflict or tension or chaos. I don't see the point, really. This isn't meant to be an emo post. In fact, I am currently in the midst of a discussion full of smileys with someone I haven't spoken enough to for a long time, and who I have a polaroid of. She's quite proud of herself that she maanged to convince me into taking a picture, some believe that a photograph of Naz is a rarity. I would disagree.
To those who have expressed concern in the past week or so, and I will admit that some of them have surprised me greatly, I do sincerely and honestly thank you for taking the time, but I'm good. I only hope that to you I'm as good a friend as you seem to me.
In a few hours popular media will have you believe that by switching off your lights for 60 minutes, you will be voting for our planet, perhaps in some sort of galactic idol competition. I'm not sure if my lights will be switched off, but perhaps I'll spend some time in the dark remembering other times in the dark, and how bright they were.
She was half-right. And not about me.
Been about two weeks now, and it seems to get a little more difficult, but a little less painful each day. Hard to explain really, but the littlest of things have jogged my mind back to things long gone, things I never would have remembered if recent events hadn't come to pass.
I remember writhing, prone, in a decrepit ambulance in Thailand with a metal spoon in my mouth.
I remember waiting alone, watching the baggage conveyor belt thing in the airport for familiar faces.
I remember reading through pages and pages of Karl Marx and other sociologists, who all seem to share a common trait of not being able to write in succint sentences, though we as students are told we should.
I remember standing, bewildered and out of place in places of flashing lights and inebrieted others, but having a point of focus to ignore the crowd around me, jostling with the smell of musk and alcohol and intoxication.
I remember rings and pendants, bracelets and watches, wallets and bears, poems and postcards, cards and cakes.
I remember sneaking around and plotting little escapades, silently in the darkness, trying not to make a sound then and later.
I remember the slow process of removing the fear of kittens, jumpy and playful, harmless yet terrifying, and the way the purrs warmed my heart.
I remember serenades, cracking and ridiculous, heartfelt and embarassing, joyful and sincere.
I remember a bouquet of orange roses, twenty-three, tinged in red along soft petals.
I remember dashing from the stands, eyes wide as silence descended on the hockey pitch after the ball suffered and unfortunate deflection, and the trip to the dentist after.
I remember trips to the zoo, the science centre, both with and without the kids.
I remember all the photographs and how I was taught to smile.
I remember the thrill of being behind the wheel, taking control of your destination without having to be controlled by a magnetic strip and the way the vehicle jolted when the taxi hit it.
I remember picnics, frisbee, broken slippers and sandy meals.
I remember the stupid, hilarious things I used to hear about CAT Scans and Facebook.
I remember the feeling when likewise opinions of 300, The Mist and The Sixth Sense were shared.
I remember shirts and shoes and bags and watches and books and frames and that final haircut that wasn't a haircut.
I remember nearly retching at all the bad places discovered, and belching content at all the good places revisited.
I remember discussions about religion, politics, morality, life, money, love.
I remember how it was originally out of pity.
I remember playing games together, on a board and on-line, pieces and pixels, cracking heads and racking headshots.
I remember secretly gathering stories and well-wishes, messages from friends new and old.
I remember the different ways hair could be styled, his and hers.
I remember that one baby's birthday party surrounded by strangers, and shopping for a suitable gift prior to that.
I remember the view, clad in bathrobes and close together, wishing the checkout time was furthur away.
I remember the pager, the intrepid call to an obsolete device from a boy too out of his depth to realise what he was getting himself into.
I remember laughing together at the man in woman's clothes, and hoping he/she/it didn't pick on me.
I remember not being able to cry any more.
I remember football, playing with and watching, smiling at the clumsy attempts.
I remember the smiling grandmother, mee goreng reeking of awesomeness.
I remember sighing, being dragged into Topshop or Mango or Zara or Forever 21 "just to look".
There are many things I've remembered recently, which is surpising considering that those who know me best will attest that my memory is only slightly more impressive than that of a goldfish. Last night I had a great time with some friends, doing something that I would not have normally, and another thing I do too much of. Both were incredibly entertaining, though perhaps they made me... remember more.
Most of you reading this will understand the bulk of what I've been referring to, but I hope no-one comes up to me anytime soon and demands to know if I am emo. I'm not. Don't take this as anything else than me just expressing what's been on my mind recently. It's not regret or pangs of guilt or emotions of yearning or feeling alone. Just memories, some sweeter than others and all dear to me.
I've always hated those who try and glorify their own emo feelings, to glamorise what they interpret as their own little ends of the worlds, perhaps they revel in the attention it invariably garners, like some others bask in drama or conflict or tension or chaos. I don't see the point, really. This isn't meant to be an emo post. In fact, I am currently in the midst of a discussion full of smileys with someone I haven't spoken enough to for a long time, and who I have a polaroid of. She's quite proud of herself that she maanged to convince me into taking a picture, some believe that a photograph of Naz is a rarity. I would disagree.
To those who have expressed concern in the past week or so, and I will admit that some of them have surprised me greatly, I do sincerely and honestly thank you for taking the time, but I'm good. I only hope that to you I'm as good a friend as you seem to me.
In a few hours popular media will have you believe that by switching off your lights for 60 minutes, you will be voting for our planet, perhaps in some sort of galactic idol competition. I'm not sure if my lights will be switched off, but perhaps I'll spend some time in the dark remembering other times in the dark, and how bright they were.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
A Story I See.
I'm surrounded by psychos, weirdos, liars and hypocrites.
There are some people I can't stand, and you know what you are.
Nearly everyone has read or been read fairy tales. You know, where once upon a time lived a fair princess, oblivious to the world, perfect in her perfectness, adored and admired, celebrated and cherished, loved and lauded. Then something dark and dastardly happens to her, and alas, she is a damsel in distress, crying for rescue and for a handsome prince, who rides in on his shining unicorn or pegasus and does away with the evil witch and monster. He and the princess then ride off and live happily ever after. Sometimes there are dwarves or talking brooms or genies or birds or magical upholstery but basically that's the fairy tale.
Sometimes though, you see creatures of myth and fancy in real life. Sometimes one might be so fortunate as to meet something with two faces, or a monster disguised as something else. It may be something as harmless as a lopsided elf or a giggling midget, but sometimes it's not.
Stories, fairy tales, don't always end well. Neil Gaiman said somewhere in the Sandman that all stories end in sadness and loss eventually. Something like that. Sometimes you just come to that end alot quicker than you'd expect, sometimes when you think you're just at a new chapter, getting into the better parts of the story, you realise that the story is over.
But then you realise that there is never only one single story, one lone tale, one sole fable. Everyone is part of many different stories. Some might end prematurely, others might go on and you might never see that sorrowful end that is promised to us all. Which is good. But ultimately we're all characters in many plays. Life's a stage, but there's more than one show, and we are the cast, crew and audience. We have the ability to pick which stories we want to be part of the most, even if you've invested what you thought was a significant amount of time in another. Sometimes it's best to get out of a story, to close the book before you reach an end you don't want to see. Sometimes that book is closed for you.
Sometimes you need to step out of the book to rewrite it.
For now, I've taken a long, hard look at the books and stories and fairy tales that I've been involved with. I'm pretty happy with most of them, and some could use a little editting. Others have closed, for better or for worse, be it permanently or no.
In the end, that's all there is. Hoping to enjoy the stories we write and read and hear and feel and see and be a part of. Knowing when to stop. Learning when to start again. Realising it all.
Naz
There are some people I can't stand, and you know what you are.
Nearly everyone has read or been read fairy tales. You know, where once upon a time lived a fair princess, oblivious to the world, perfect in her perfectness, adored and admired, celebrated and cherished, loved and lauded. Then something dark and dastardly happens to her, and alas, she is a damsel in distress, crying for rescue and for a handsome prince, who rides in on his shining unicorn or pegasus and does away with the evil witch and monster. He and the princess then ride off and live happily ever after. Sometimes there are dwarves or talking brooms or genies or birds or magical upholstery but basically that's the fairy tale.
Sometimes though, you see creatures of myth and fancy in real life. Sometimes one might be so fortunate as to meet something with two faces, or a monster disguised as something else. It may be something as harmless as a lopsided elf or a giggling midget, but sometimes it's not.
Stories, fairy tales, don't always end well. Neil Gaiman said somewhere in the Sandman that all stories end in sadness and loss eventually. Something like that. Sometimes you just come to that end alot quicker than you'd expect, sometimes when you think you're just at a new chapter, getting into the better parts of the story, you realise that the story is over.
But then you realise that there is never only one single story, one lone tale, one sole fable. Everyone is part of many different stories. Some might end prematurely, others might go on and you might never see that sorrowful end that is promised to us all. Which is good. But ultimately we're all characters in many plays. Life's a stage, but there's more than one show, and we are the cast, crew and audience. We have the ability to pick which stories we want to be part of the most, even if you've invested what you thought was a significant amount of time in another. Sometimes it's best to get out of a story, to close the book before you reach an end you don't want to see. Sometimes that book is closed for you.
Sometimes you need to step out of the book to rewrite it.
For now, I've taken a long, hard look at the books and stories and fairy tales that I've been involved with. I'm pretty happy with most of them, and some could use a little editting. Others have closed, for better or for worse, be it permanently or no.
In the end, that's all there is. Hoping to enjoy the stories we write and read and hear and feel and see and be a part of. Knowing when to stop. Learning when to start again. Realising it all.
Naz
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
But I Am Le Tired
I just got home, more or less, from one of the most frustrating 90 minutes of my life. No, I didn't watch the Singapore football team lose to a bunch of schoolgirls. And no, I wasn't chained to a wall just out of reach of a sashaying Jessica Alba. Neither did I miss out on finding a free PS3 randomly hidden in the trunk of my scratched car.
Some of the more regular readers may remember the kid I used to teach. Since then I did move on to another boy with an identical name, though tutoring him was an infinitely more pleasant experience, and something that I would take up in a flash should the price and timing be right. Unfortunately though, I fear that his single mother is finding hard to make ends meet, and I wish them all the best. I'll miss that funny skinny kid.
But now, I'm close to receiving my first payment after a gruelling month of tutoring the new kid. A long-running saga, I had the distinct feeling that the kid's dad actually wanted my sister to try and improve his youngling, but she spurned his advances. Several times. So he came to me, and gave me the most irritating text message conversations I've ever had the misfortune to be a part of.
"Hello uncle, Nazreen here. Do you still want me to teach your son? English, Maths, Science right? Please reply to confirm."
Nothing for a week. Then he calls me one Monday evening asking if I'm on the way. Double you tee eff? I don't even know where your frickin son is and you want me to tutor him? I tell him I don't have his address or any other details for the matter, and ask him to text it to me as soon as he can.
Day goes by, still nothing. And I ask him again.
"Uncle, if you still want me to teach him I need your address and phone number. And what time do you want me to come over?"
"ok"
Yeah. That's a great answer, mister. When I finally, three hours and six messages later, receive a coherant and semi-useful response, I make plans to meander my way to the hidden plot of land in Tampines where his kid hibernates. Oh shit.
I don't know where to begin.
His math, surprisingly, is actually more than decent. other than a less-than-firm grasp of model-drawing, he's able to do most other things with little supervision. That was fine. And he figured out models after an hour of me imparting my infinite wisdom into his kickable head. And then...
I know someone who is jokingly told that her ingerlish is bowderful. This one can't spell "both". It's not that he spells if B-O-F which would be somewhat understandable. Instead, he struggles though every other letter of the alphabet after the T, even sounding out some of them rather than saying the actual letter names.
"Uhhh.... B-O-T-... L?"
"No..."
"B-O-T-... Y?"
"Do it slowly."
"B... O... T... fffff...?"
"FFFuuuck!"
I am driven to the edge of a homocidal frenzy whenever he looks at me with those eyes that stare expressionlessly like a beached fish that just got trampled on by a drooling lecturer. It seems the only thing smart about him is his haircut, but then his dad is a barber. The fact he supports Man Utd, Arsenal and Chelsea makes me even more twitchy, and he likes "Lonaldo". I think he needs to see a newogist to check his brain matter is fully functional.
And Science... I won't even get started. What pains me the most, is not that he can be dafter than a plank, but that he is either incredibly forgetful or has the ability to bring levels of laziness to new depths.
"OK, for this question, fill in the blanks with the name of the animal group that the animal in the other box belongs to. See, Lion is a Mammal. Eagle is a bird. OK?"
"OK... How to spell mammal?"
"Try and sound it and spell it slowly."
"M... A... L...."
"No, Ma-MMMMMM-mal."
"M... A... S..."
"OK, here. Like this, see? M-A-M-M-A-L."
"OK. This one is cow right? How to spell mammal?"
OhmygodIwanttokillthislittlespawnofdumb.
The fact that I have to explain (and I kid you not...) "reproduce", "yeast", "stem", "birth", "gills", "respond" and "feeler" every single fucking god -damn time it appears anywhere in sight doesn't help matters either, and I don't even get a frickin DRINK while doing this?
Fark.
Some of the more regular readers may remember the kid I used to teach. Since then I did move on to another boy with an identical name, though tutoring him was an infinitely more pleasant experience, and something that I would take up in a flash should the price and timing be right. Unfortunately though, I fear that his single mother is finding hard to make ends meet, and I wish them all the best. I'll miss that funny skinny kid.
But now, I'm close to receiving my first payment after a gruelling month of tutoring the new kid. A long-running saga, I had the distinct feeling that the kid's dad actually wanted my sister to try and improve his youngling, but she spurned his advances. Several times. So he came to me, and gave me the most irritating text message conversations I've ever had the misfortune to be a part of.
"Hello uncle, Nazreen here. Do you still want me to teach your son? English, Maths, Science right? Please reply to confirm."
Nothing for a week. Then he calls me one Monday evening asking if I'm on the way. Double you tee eff? I don't even know where your frickin son is and you want me to tutor him? I tell him I don't have his address or any other details for the matter, and ask him to text it to me as soon as he can.
Day goes by, still nothing. And I ask him again.
"Uncle, if you still want me to teach him I need your address and phone number. And what time do you want me to come over?"
"ok"
Yeah. That's a great answer, mister. When I finally, three hours and six messages later, receive a coherant and semi-useful response, I make plans to meander my way to the hidden plot of land in Tampines where his kid hibernates. Oh shit.
I don't know where to begin.
His math, surprisingly, is actually more than decent. other than a less-than-firm grasp of model-drawing, he's able to do most other things with little supervision. That was fine. And he figured out models after an hour of me imparting my infinite wisdom into his kickable head. And then...
I know someone who is jokingly told that her ingerlish is bowderful. This one can't spell "both". It's not that he spells if B-O-F which would be somewhat understandable. Instead, he struggles though every other letter of the alphabet after the T, even sounding out some of them rather than saying the actual letter names.
"Uhhh.... B-O-T-... L?"
"No..."
"B-O-T-... Y?"
"Do it slowly."
"B... O... T... fffff...?"
"FFFuuuck!"
I am driven to the edge of a homocidal frenzy whenever he looks at me with those eyes that stare expressionlessly like a beached fish that just got trampled on by a drooling lecturer. It seems the only thing smart about him is his haircut, but then his dad is a barber. The fact he supports Man Utd, Arsenal and Chelsea makes me even more twitchy, and he likes "Lonaldo". I think he needs to see a newogist to check his brain matter is fully functional.
And Science... I won't even get started. What pains me the most, is not that he can be dafter than a plank, but that he is either incredibly forgetful or has the ability to bring levels of laziness to new depths.
"OK, for this question, fill in the blanks with the name of the animal group that the animal in the other box belongs to. See, Lion is a Mammal. Eagle is a bird. OK?"
"OK... How to spell mammal?"
"Try and sound it and spell it slowly."
"M... A... L...."
"No, Ma-MMMMMM-mal."
"M... A... S..."
"OK, here. Like this, see? M-A-M-M-A-L."
"OK. This one is cow right? How to spell mammal?"
OhmygodIwanttokillthislittlespawnofdumb.
The fact that I have to explain (and I kid you not...) "reproduce", "yeast", "stem", "birth", "gills", "respond" and "feeler" every single fucking god -damn time it appears anywhere in sight doesn't help matters either, and I don't even get a frickin DRINK while doing this?
Fark.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Bleargh
Monday: Rot.
Tuesday: Watch Heroes illegally
Wednesday: Man Utd vs Inter
Thursday: Get paid
Friday: Football/Winning Eleven. Maybe CS?
My plan for the next week. Hopefully it all works out.
Tuesday: Watch Heroes illegally
Wednesday: Man Utd vs Inter
Thursday: Get paid
Friday: Football/Winning Eleven. Maybe CS?
My plan for the next week. Hopefully it all works out.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Rain Rain
I remember back in Secondary School, when I used to frequent long(ish) walks home alone, I would look forward to rainy days. Trudging home in anything from a light drizzle to an outright downpour, I used to enjoy the sensation of being soaked to the skin and not having a care in the world. I never understood what drew me to such foolishness, and only now realise it is a slight wonder that I never suffered from anything worse than a ticking off from my mother for drenched uniforms. I never understood that, though. Wouldn't it help with the washing?
Walking home in the rain today reminded me of days gone by. The tap-tapping of the sky's tears on your shoulder, like a long-lost friend, accompanying you as you put one foot before the other on the way to wherever you call home. Getting drenched, in clothes already damp and chilled with the memory of another, refreshes you, reminds you. Forces you to think.
Watching someone walk away in the rain can sometimes be the hardest thing in the world.
Walking home in the rain today reminded me of days gone by. The tap-tapping of the sky's tears on your shoulder, like a long-lost friend, accompanying you as you put one foot before the other on the way to wherever you call home. Getting drenched, in clothes already damp and chilled with the memory of another, refreshes you, reminds you. Forces you to think.
Watching someone walk away in the rain can sometimes be the hardest thing in the world.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
A Spitting Image
Someone thought that the recent (tragic?) case of the NTU stabbing was me getting to a certain lecturer faster than expected. While I know little about what's on the news these days, I've contemplated throttling a certain chunky spinster before my peers.
There are few lecturers or teachers I hate.
No, I lied.
Just add this one to the list, yes, fine.
What I really cannot stand is the fact that we are expected to sit in our thinly-padded seats and pretend to listen to someone pretending to know what she is blithering on about. I mean, come on. Someone with a "Degree in English" can't spell or pronounce "geographical", "methodology" or "neurology"?
Her immaculate way with words aside, what irks most is the fact that she seems to grade our papers with the consistency of a senile goldfish, and she has the same glassy stare to match. You can submit two near-identical papers and receive two grades which are letters apart, and conflicting, hypocritical "comments" to boot.
Case I
Literature review. I speak of two well-known communication theories, and how they relate to the thesis of the research paper. Angry red circles, with "How is this relevant?!?". Friend of mine has same words in the same section ticked and marked for "Good work". Weeks later, both of us hand in literature reviews as part of a laarger assignment. This time mine is rated highly, hers assumes the appearance of a toddler's finger-painting masterpiece.
Case II
When said lecturer throws a question to the class about relevant areas of research for the topic of biochemical causes and effects of love and romance, the answer of "neurology" is greeted with a look utterly devoid of anything remotely approaching comprehension. After struggling with the word for a good fifteen seconds, the blob stammers "newogy?" and someone is forced to interject with a more proper pronounciation and its associated definition and proposed validity. "Newogy" is promptly shot down because "Biopsychology is much easier than newogy" and "newophysiology is better". Later claims to have a "newogis" friend.
Case III
Grades an assignment with a straight A, but then grades a later assignment as a B, saying that the earlier one was flawed.
I can go on. But the most recent thing that has promtped me to consider flinging my textbook at the slobbering twit standing before us was her self-assured, holier-than-thou response of "whatever I say, I can't convince you because you simply don't know." So much for instructors and students teaching each other.
I want to strangle her sometimes, but I am afraid that I will get bowser's spittle all over me.
There are few lecturers or teachers I hate.
No, I lied.
Just add this one to the list, yes, fine.
What I really cannot stand is the fact that we are expected to sit in our thinly-padded seats and pretend to listen to someone pretending to know what she is blithering on about. I mean, come on. Someone with a "Degree in English" can't spell or pronounce "geographical", "methodology" or "neurology"?
Her immaculate way with words aside, what irks most is the fact that she seems to grade our papers with the consistency of a senile goldfish, and she has the same glassy stare to match. You can submit two near-identical papers and receive two grades which are letters apart, and conflicting, hypocritical "comments" to boot.
Case I
Literature review. I speak of two well-known communication theories, and how they relate to the thesis of the research paper. Angry red circles, with "How is this relevant?!?". Friend of mine has same words in the same section ticked and marked for "Good work". Weeks later, both of us hand in literature reviews as part of a laarger assignment. This time mine is rated highly, hers assumes the appearance of a toddler's finger-painting masterpiece.
Case II
When said lecturer throws a question to the class about relevant areas of research for the topic of biochemical causes and effects of love and romance, the answer of "neurology" is greeted with a look utterly devoid of anything remotely approaching comprehension. After struggling with the word for a good fifteen seconds, the blob stammers "newogy?" and someone is forced to interject with a more proper pronounciation and its associated definition and proposed validity. "Newogy" is promptly shot down because "Biopsychology is much easier than newogy" and "newophysiology is better". Later claims to have a "newogis" friend.
Case III
Grades an assignment with a straight A, but then grades a later assignment as a B, saying that the earlier one was flawed.
I can go on. But the most recent thing that has promtped me to consider flinging my textbook at the slobbering twit standing before us was her self-assured, holier-than-thou response of "whatever I say, I can't convince you because you simply don't know." So much for instructors and students teaching each other.
I want to strangle her sometimes, but I am afraid that I will get bowser's spittle all over me.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Comic Relief #154
Finally maanged to give Kerri a distinct look. Here she is in her "favourite" jeans. And yes, be afraid.Monday, February 23, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Comic Relief #151
My first attempt at a video version of everyone's favourite true-life stick figure web-comic. A disclaimer, though: She didn't FORCE me to make the diabetically sweet video (thanks, Jeremy). It was done out of love!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
An Indian Summer
Yesterday was Valentine's, or rather, overpriced roses day. What occupied the bulk of the planning for Khadi and I this year was the debate on which movie to watch: The Wrestler or Sulmdog Millionaire. Checking the movie listings, though, quickly disqualified Micky Rourke's flick, much to my chagrin. I then made my way to the theate, fully expecting to be less than thrilled, considering The Wrestler got a staggering score of 98% on Rotten Tomatoes.
The film started out well, with Khadi squealing excitedly that Anil Kapoor was on screen, and that she knew him. Of course, I assumed she meant she knew of him rather than that she knew him personally, but one can never be sure with the ladies. Dev Patel also made an early appearance, and indeed, he's the star. The star.
Slumdog Millionaire, as any generic movie rater will tell you, revolves around a guy (Jamal) who is accused of cheating his way to the final question of India's version of Millionaire (hence half of the clever title). Him being a mere "slumdog" (the other half, yay!) attracts suspicion, and almost the whole movie is then a recap of his life in the bowels (literally!) of India, battling gangs, disease, crime, and falling off trains.
Most places will have the phrase "critically acclaimed" somewhere in the vicinity of the desciption of this film, directed by Danny Boyle. I would have to say that that tag is a deserved one. The cinematography, while not as stunning as, say, 300, is done very very well. Stories which jump through events happening throughout different periods in time can often leave the audience going "Eh?" but this one leaves you with "Oooh" and then some.
There's very little that is anything but enjoyable about the film, really. It's a gritty, immersive and engaging account of life in India, though I've never actually been there, so all I can say is that the illusion of realism is very much present, and if you told me that it was a true story, I would find it very hard to disagree or doubt it. The plot is unique, even if the ending was predictable down to the specifics had you paid attention to the dialogue like I tend to do, much to Khadi's annoyance.
The acting is top-class almost throughout, especially the kids. I can't really do justice to the performance here, except to say that you can laugh and cry and cringe at nearly every corner, every plot twist. The three main characters display more depth than you'd expect in a movie about a gameshow, and Jamal's older brother Salim is especially awesome in this regard.
To those who will eventually end up catching this film - and that should be nearly everyone - remember to stay to the credits, and your appetite for the traditional sterotypical Bollywood film will be sated.
Overall, 4.8/5
The film started out well, with Khadi squealing excitedly that Anil Kapoor was on screen, and that she knew him. Of course, I assumed she meant she knew of him rather than that she knew him personally, but one can never be sure with the ladies. Dev Patel also made an early appearance, and indeed, he's the star. The star.
Slumdog Millionaire, as any generic movie rater will tell you, revolves around a guy (Jamal) who is accused of cheating his way to the final question of India's version of Millionaire (hence half of the clever title). Him being a mere "slumdog" (the other half, yay!) attracts suspicion, and almost the whole movie is then a recap of his life in the bowels (literally!) of India, battling gangs, disease, crime, and falling off trains.
Most places will have the phrase "critically acclaimed" somewhere in the vicinity of the desciption of this film, directed by Danny Boyle. I would have to say that that tag is a deserved one. The cinematography, while not as stunning as, say, 300, is done very very well. Stories which jump through events happening throughout different periods in time can often leave the audience going "Eh?" but this one leaves you with "Oooh" and then some.
There's very little that is anything but enjoyable about the film, really. It's a gritty, immersive and engaging account of life in India, though I've never actually been there, so all I can say is that the illusion of realism is very much present, and if you told me that it was a true story, I would find it very hard to disagree or doubt it. The plot is unique, even if the ending was predictable down to the specifics had you paid attention to the dialogue like I tend to do, much to Khadi's annoyance.
The acting is top-class almost throughout, especially the kids. I can't really do justice to the performance here, except to say that you can laugh and cry and cringe at nearly every corner, every plot twist. The three main characters display more depth than you'd expect in a movie about a gameshow, and Jamal's older brother Salim is especially awesome in this regard.
To those who will eventually end up catching this film - and that should be nearly everyone - remember to stay to the credits, and your appetite for the traditional sterotypical Bollywood film will be sated.
Overall, 4.8/5
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Comic Relief #142
Travers and Kania at their best. It almost seems as if lewd jokes come with all the fruit she buys.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Net Gains
I can still remember the sound of the 14.4 dial-up, back when a poorly-timed phone-call could spell distaster for an agonisingly incomplete and thoroughly illegal intellectual property infringement via our friends at Napster. Those were the days. The times of ICQ and mIRC, where the term "you tube" might only refer to an article of female clothing and "google" was a typo for swimming apparel. Nowadays people think Alta Vista is Microsoft's next big flop.
I myself have had many thoroughly memorable experiences with this "new media" as some term it. Some good, and some bad. One such experience got me an "A" in secondary school as I recounted it to a faceless invigilator who was smitten by my romantic wiles, but that is another tale for another time. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what to write on this week; I'm facing some sort of mental blank, possibly brought upon by seven-hour-long MMORPG sessions and doing my best ninja impersonation to steer clear of certain people. The Internet does that to you, I guess. It gives you a second life, some say (sometimes literally). I would take another look at that statement, actually. To many, the internet doesn't offer a second life as much as it seems to become a person's life. To many, the term "real life" isn't so different from the persona or avatar or image or profile or character or toon or username or callsign or moniker that he or she (and even that can be a mystery unsolved) goes by on any given game, forum, chatroom, messageboard, newsgroup or network.
A few weeks ago someone I know but had never spoken to beyond "Hey, nice Man Utd jersey, is it an imitation?" came up to me and introduced me to someone else (who I actually had spoken to before), bringing her attention to some webcomics I had come up with over the past year or so. For a fleeting moment, I envisioned myself as the next A-list celebrity, though I have since not seen them or the expected horde of adoring fans clamoring for my autograph.
What is the internet? An outlet for personal opinion? A tool for fame and infamy? A facilitator for social networking? A matchmaker? A new, interactive form of entertainment? An addiction? An answer to boredom? A cause for academic mediocrity? A realm of smut and smugness? A source of information and illumination? Perhaps it is all these.
I myself have had many thoroughly memorable experiences with this "new media" as some term it. Some good, and some bad. One such experience got me an "A" in secondary school as I recounted it to a faceless invigilator who was smitten by my romantic wiles, but that is another tale for another time. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what to write on this week; I'm facing some sort of mental blank, possibly brought upon by seven-hour-long MMORPG sessions and doing my best ninja impersonation to steer clear of certain people. The Internet does that to you, I guess. It gives you a second life, some say (sometimes literally). I would take another look at that statement, actually. To many, the internet doesn't offer a second life as much as it seems to become a person's life. To many, the term "real life" isn't so different from the persona or avatar or image or profile or character or toon or username or callsign or moniker that he or she (and even that can be a mystery unsolved) goes by on any given game, forum, chatroom, messageboard, newsgroup or network.
A few weeks ago someone I know but had never spoken to beyond "Hey, nice Man Utd jersey, is it an imitation?" came up to me and introduced me to someone else (who I actually had spoken to before), bringing her attention to some webcomics I had come up with over the past year or so. For a fleeting moment, I envisioned myself as the next A-list celebrity, though I have since not seen them or the expected horde of adoring fans clamoring for my autograph.
What is the internet? An outlet for personal opinion? A tool for fame and infamy? A facilitator for social networking? A matchmaker? A new, interactive form of entertainment? An addiction? An answer to boredom? A cause for academic mediocrity? A realm of smut and smugness? A source of information and illumination? Perhaps it is all these.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Quarantine
Do you like scary movies?
Been a while since I caught a decent film, I thought. I skipped 007, didn't get to catch Blindness, sat through the ordeal that was Max Payne, and even Madagascar 2 was somewhat of a disappointment.
Then I decided to catch Quarantine, with the girlfriend, on Saturday.
Ooooooooh damn. If you've never seen someone get hit full in the face repeatedly with a television camera, now's the time to do it. Here's my breakdown of it, for those of you contemplating getting some practice in holding your breath.
Firstly, I'll say this. If you are one of the few people I know who liked Cloverfield, you deserve a high-five, and will also bask in the knowledge that there is a high chance that you'll like this one too. The style of cinematography aside, there is a big "Oh-shit-what's-happening" feel to it, and I would actually say that this one doesn't have a single thing at all wrong with the plot.
And my regular minions will know how picky I am about things like plot-holes.
A simple, but not stupid story, told at a good pace and punctuated with sudden, heart-stopping scenes of carnage and suspense. I like.
Cast-wise, I'm quite happy with the one chosen to play the lead female. She isn't hot. Not at all. Which makes Quarantine that much more realistic than Cloverfield, with whoever it is I can't remember acting as that somewhat hot girl. Which made the unsteady camera even more annoying. For Quarantine, the only hot girl I could see was seated beside me. There's Maya though.
The only real complain I have about it is actually the people around me. Nothing on-screen can be construed to be less than good, let alone bad. Two rows to the front, a bunch of German teenagers were making more noise than Hitler at a World War rally, and behind me was a Chinese couple, blabbering incessantly about what was happening to the characters and the dogs.
As Khadi said, "Aren't there Chinese subtitles already? If you can't understand this show don't watch it lah."
Again, Quarantine is hardly rocket science.
There's no soundtrack of note, to so complaints about the music, and the special effects are actually very... wow. As I mentioned earlier, if you've never seen someone's head pummeled to an oozing pulp with a camera, now is the time to do it. The shots of bodies hurtling through the air would also leave you with a sense of awe as you start to comprehend the effects of gravity on a zombified human being.
Don't get me wrong, though. This is not a "zombie" flick. But then it would be, if you consider I am Legend to be a zombie movie. I won't say anything else about that, but some other movies that have attempted to portray a microbial antagonist should pay close attention to this one.
Finally, the end of the film is actually predictable, but that makes it all the more enjoyable. It's realistic, and not something that leaves you with a feeling of "how did that happen". If that has spoilt it for you, fear not, because if you know of the movie, you've probably already seen the end. But don't let that stop you.
After the first ten minutes of light humor, be ready to quake and shiver on the edge of your seat until that final night-vision scene. It isn't the go-home-and-be-scared-to-look-under-your-blanket kind of scary like Ju-On, but be ready for nearly two hours of apprehension.
4.5/5
Been a while since I caught a decent film, I thought. I skipped 007, didn't get to catch Blindness, sat through the ordeal that was Max Payne, and even Madagascar 2 was somewhat of a disappointment.
Then I decided to catch Quarantine, with the girlfriend, on Saturday.
Ooooooooh damn. If you've never seen someone get hit full in the face repeatedly with a television camera, now's the time to do it. Here's my breakdown of it, for those of you contemplating getting some practice in holding your breath.
Firstly, I'll say this. If you are one of the few people I know who liked Cloverfield, you deserve a high-five, and will also bask in the knowledge that there is a high chance that you'll like this one too. The style of cinematography aside, there is a big "Oh-shit-what's-happening" feel to it, and I would actually say that this one doesn't have a single thing at all wrong with the plot.
And my regular minions will know how picky I am about things like plot-holes.
A simple, but not stupid story, told at a good pace and punctuated with sudden, heart-stopping scenes of carnage and suspense. I like.
Cast-wise, I'm quite happy with the one chosen to play the lead female. She isn't hot. Not at all. Which makes Quarantine that much more realistic than Cloverfield, with whoever it is I can't remember acting as that somewhat hot girl. Which made the unsteady camera even more annoying. For Quarantine, the only hot girl I could see was seated beside me. There's Maya though.
The only real complain I have about it is actually the people around me. Nothing on-screen can be construed to be less than good, let alone bad. Two rows to the front, a bunch of German teenagers were making more noise than Hitler at a World War rally, and behind me was a Chinese couple, blabbering incessantly about what was happening to the characters and the dogs.
As Khadi said, "Aren't there Chinese subtitles already? If you can't understand this show don't watch it lah."
Again, Quarantine is hardly rocket science.
There's no soundtrack of note, to so complaints about the music, and the special effects are actually very... wow. As I mentioned earlier, if you've never seen someone's head pummeled to an oozing pulp with a camera, now is the time to do it. The shots of bodies hurtling through the air would also leave you with a sense of awe as you start to comprehend the effects of gravity on a zombified human being.
Don't get me wrong, though. This is not a "zombie" flick. But then it would be, if you consider I am Legend to be a zombie movie. I won't say anything else about that, but some other movies that have attempted to portray a microbial antagonist should pay close attention to this one.
Finally, the end of the film is actually predictable, but that makes it all the more enjoyable. It's realistic, and not something that leaves you with a feeling of "how did that happen". If that has spoilt it for you, fear not, because if you know of the movie, you've probably already seen the end. But don't let that stop you.
After the first ten minutes of light humor, be ready to quake and shiver on the edge of your seat until that final night-vision scene. It isn't the go-home-and-be-scared-to-look-under-your-blanket kind of scary like Ju-On, but be ready for nearly two hours of apprehension.
4.5/5
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Monday, November 03, 2008
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Comic Relief #137
Sometimes I don't know if I should laugh or cry. At least it's always entertaining, though.
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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