Thursday, October 18, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Meh
Blogger is being a bitch, so no Comic Relief today.
Happy birthday Shaun.
And to the two girls I know who have recently separated (not from each other), I hope you feel better soon.
Happy birthday Shaun.
And to the two girls I know who have recently separated (not from each other), I hope you feel better soon.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
A Long Weekend
Not looking forward to the next few days. Limping about, visiting relatives, which means that everyone will be sitting around and waiting for everyone else to leave. Perhaps some of the younger kids will find some mindless game to amuse themselves before I am met with their drivel.
It's going to be a long weekend.
So much for celebrations.
It's going to be a long weekend.
So much for celebrations.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Done
Walking away
From a chapter of my past
Thinking about
The real smile I had last
Watching the ring
As it fell upon the stone
Tracing the tear
As I failed to cast my own
Visions behind
Eyelids closed so tight
Memories hide
All the wrongs and all the rights
A pain in the leg
Both a metaphor and there
An pain in the heart
Or an aching everywhere
Cartoons and the like
Never seemed to bring you joy
A slap by the road
From a girl who loved a boy
But change always comes
Even mountains die in time
Irony circles
And even lovefools speak in rhyme
A lifetime we've had
But a lifetime spans ahead
Our laughter and love
Became dissent and only hate
If Cupid is watching
He can have back his arrow
Maybe he erred
He can check again tomorrow
But dreams always fade
When you lie awake at dawn
Reality bites
Losses bring us time to mourn
The Sun always sets
Even when the day is great
But days always end
Time does not a couple make
No happy endings
They were all so very wrong
No teal and velvet
No mushy wedding song
No more chances
Apologies so empty
No more goodbyes
Or wallowing in self-pity
So here it stops
Every road has its ending
No turning back
I'm done with just pretending
A breath so deep
It feels my heart would burst
But now I know
That would be but just a first
No Comic Relief today.
From a chapter of my past
Thinking about
The real smile I had last
Watching the ring
As it fell upon the stone
Tracing the tear
As I failed to cast my own
Visions behind
Eyelids closed so tight
Memories hide
All the wrongs and all the rights
A pain in the leg
Both a metaphor and there
An pain in the heart
Or an aching everywhere
Cartoons and the like
Never seemed to bring you joy
A slap by the road
From a girl who loved a boy
But change always comes
Even mountains die in time
Irony circles
And even lovefools speak in rhyme
A lifetime we've had
But a lifetime spans ahead
Our laughter and love
Became dissent and only hate
If Cupid is watching
He can have back his arrow
Maybe he erred
He can check again tomorrow
But dreams always fade
When you lie awake at dawn
Reality bites
Losses bring us time to mourn
The Sun always sets
Even when the day is great
But days always end
Time does not a couple make
No happy endings
They were all so very wrong
No teal and velvet
No mushy wedding song
No more chances
Apologies so empty
No more goodbyes
Or wallowing in self-pity
So here it stops
Every road has its ending
No turning back
I'm done with just pretending
A breath so deep
It feels my heart would burst
But now I know
That would be but just a first
No Comic Relief today.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Monday, October 08, 2007
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Corner of the Eye
"And this is why I hate people."
Yesterday saw me in the rare mood of nearly flinging a textbook at someone's face. It was already in my hand, I was weighing my options, so to speak. In the end, I decided that being suspended from school or charged with assault might not be worth the temporary pleasure of tracking the trajectory of a paperback missle en route to the source of my annoyance.
It's not rare that I feel annoyed. I was annoyed alot yesterday. I woke up annoyed, fighting back a tide of phlegm while trying to to aggravate my bad leg, fumbling for my Nokia as the theme from Sin City (Cells, by The Servant) plucked me from my slumber.
But I should rephrase my earlier statement.
Not the "source of my annoyance", but more along the lines of "the reason murder exists" or simply anal bitch.
The story so far...
Group project. Three guys and a girl. Girl doesn't show up for scheduled meeting to discuss presentation.
Fair enough.
Guys make do with assignment, come up with an outline for an essay.
At this point, think about what an outline for your own essay might entail.
I don't usually handle criticism very well. It's a fault of mine, I admit. Really. But what really irks me is when someone is critical of something that really isn't wrong at all.
If I had asked you what your favourite colour was and proceeded to ridicule you for answering "Blue" just because my favourite colour is silver, would you think I was in any way, shape or form justified? Or sane?
There we were, showing the "teacher" what we had come up with for an outline. And we were told we were wrong.
Firstly, she said, we had the numbering off.
Forgive me for being stoopid, but I didn't know that personal outlines required numbers with decimal places, following an apparently globalised system and code.
Taking a break from the strenuous task sitting on a table at the back of the class, she reached for the breakfast that was graciously provided by the school administration. Not two feet from my face.
"Can I have one?"
"Sure Ma'am, just don't eat in front of Naz."
Smirk.
"Oh, I'm sure it's fine, it will test his self-discipline."
And she tore open the plastic wrapping and ravaged the bun.
Wait a minute. Last time I checked, we here in clean green Singapore understood racial and religious issues and concerns. I don't spike food with beef when Hindus are going to dig in, and I don't expect that anyone goes around ripping the turbans off the heads of our Sikh friends.
So why in the blue hell is there a fucking teacher who claims to be a former lawyer fucking eating and smiling at the only Muslim in her class when she God Damn knows he is fucking fasting?
Self-discipline, yes. It takes alot of control and willpower not to grab her by her scrawy shoulders and deposit her out the window.
After glancing through the rest of the document while at the same time keeping an eye on the ceiling, she told us we needed to indicate every single point and sub-topic that we might want to touch upon in our essay.
Intro: History & Definition - Recent changes, etc
Later became
1. Intro
1.1 History
1.1.1 Recent changes
1.2 Definition
1.2.1 What
1.2.2 Who
1.2.3 Why
Out single page outline was starting to resemble the actual essay when one of us prudently pointed out that outlines shouldn't be more than a page in length.
"Oh, yes. Yours is too long. It has too many details."
Fuck you, you anal cross-eyed bitch.
"But Ma'am our outline before was only one page. You told us to expand it and include all these details."
"Yes, but it's too long now, too detailed."
"But what we did at first was a single page outline with everything we needed."
"I didn't see it."
And the unspoken retort of "Of course you didn't see it, you cross eyed mutant. You couldn't see an elephant if it farted in your face."
At this point I found the book in my hand, and the other two were already exasperated beyond compare.
If you've watched 300, you'd have remembered when Leonidas dropped his shield and helmet near the end, but gripped his spear and looked down at it, thinking of hurling the weapon to cause grievious bodily harm to Xerxes.
She is definitely not Xerxes, and I don't have the abs to be Leonidas, but it was slow-mo nonetheless.
But the moment passed, and I am still enrolled in school, though my urge to murder, maim and mutilate has never felt so right.
Yesterday saw me in the rare mood of nearly flinging a textbook at someone's face. It was already in my hand, I was weighing my options, so to speak. In the end, I decided that being suspended from school or charged with assault might not be worth the temporary pleasure of tracking the trajectory of a paperback missle en route to the source of my annoyance.
It's not rare that I feel annoyed. I was annoyed alot yesterday. I woke up annoyed, fighting back a tide of phlegm while trying to to aggravate my bad leg, fumbling for my Nokia as the theme from Sin City (Cells, by The Servant) plucked me from my slumber.
But I should rephrase my earlier statement.
Not the "source of my annoyance", but more along the lines of "the reason murder exists" or simply anal bitch.
The story so far...
Group project. Three guys and a girl. Girl doesn't show up for scheduled meeting to discuss presentation.
Fair enough.
Guys make do with assignment, come up with an outline for an essay.
At this point, think about what an outline for your own essay might entail.
I don't usually handle criticism very well. It's a fault of mine, I admit. Really. But what really irks me is when someone is critical of something that really isn't wrong at all.
If I had asked you what your favourite colour was and proceeded to ridicule you for answering "Blue" just because my favourite colour is silver, would you think I was in any way, shape or form justified? Or sane?
There we were, showing the "teacher" what we had come up with for an outline. And we were told we were wrong.
Firstly, she said, we had the numbering off.
Forgive me for being stoopid, but I didn't know that personal outlines required numbers with decimal places, following an apparently globalised system and code.
Taking a break from the strenuous task sitting on a table at the back of the class, she reached for the breakfast that was graciously provided by the school administration. Not two feet from my face.
"Can I have one?"
"Sure Ma'am, just don't eat in front of Naz."
Smirk.
"Oh, I'm sure it's fine, it will test his self-discipline."
And she tore open the plastic wrapping and ravaged the bun.
Wait a minute. Last time I checked, we here in clean green Singapore understood racial and religious issues and concerns. I don't spike food with beef when Hindus are going to dig in, and I don't expect that anyone goes around ripping the turbans off the heads of our Sikh friends.
So why in the blue hell is there a fucking teacher who claims to be a former lawyer fucking eating and smiling at the only Muslim in her class when she God Damn knows he is fucking fasting?
Self-discipline, yes. It takes alot of control and willpower not to grab her by her scrawy shoulders and deposit her out the window.
After glancing through the rest of the document while at the same time keeping an eye on the ceiling, she told us we needed to indicate every single point and sub-topic that we might want to touch upon in our essay.
Intro: History & Definition - Recent changes, etc
Later became
1. Intro
1.1 History
1.1.1 Recent changes
1.2 Definition
1.2.1 What
1.2.2 Who
1.2.3 Why
Out single page outline was starting to resemble the actual essay when one of us prudently pointed out that outlines shouldn't be more than a page in length.
"Oh, yes. Yours is too long. It has too many details."
Fuck you, you anal cross-eyed bitch.
"But Ma'am our outline before was only one page. You told us to expand it and include all these details."
"Yes, but it's too long now, too detailed."
"But what we did at first was a single page outline with everything we needed."
"I didn't see it."
And the unspoken retort of "Of course you didn't see it, you cross eyed mutant. You couldn't see an elephant if it farted in your face."
At this point I found the book in my hand, and the other two were already exasperated beyond compare.
If you've watched 300, you'd have remembered when Leonidas dropped his shield and helmet near the end, but gripped his spear and looked down at it, thinking of hurling the weapon to cause grievious bodily harm to Xerxes.
She is definitely not Xerxes, and I don't have the abs to be Leonidas, but it was slow-mo nonetheless.
But the moment passed, and I am still enrolled in school, though my urge to murder, maim and mutilate has never felt so right.
Monday, October 01, 2007
A Blight For Sore Guys
With the somewhat recent popularity of Facebook and previously Friendster, ICQ and mIRC, the internet has allowed us the opotunity to meet and mingle without actually having to meet and mingle. Hold up, this isn't your average essay/article on the pros and cons of the web; it's merely an above average critique of the con-men who act all spiderish on it.
Hello hottie...
Nice figure!
We should hang out and chill sometime soon.
Hey, can I get to know you?
There is something deeply disturbing about an individual who continually sends suggestive messages such as these to girls over the internet. Of course, I've failed to mention that this same dude is supposedly happily married (proudly displaying a picture of him and his wife on his profile page) while attempting to "get to know" these younger girls.
They're way out of his league anyway.
Firstly, all guys are in some way frisky. Gatal. Friendly. I admit (have been accused of) it. Others around me have been as well.
But at least we have the decency to not address complete strangers with the poser attitude of being an ultra cool pimp daddy.
That being said, there is one rather large example that I know of. I have actually taken a look at his friendster profile (or can get to it quickly) and he fits the bill perfectly. He must have married a completely illiterate and oblivious girl, for it seems she puts up with his crap like a dog with a master with a penchant for swift kicks to the ribs.
To you nice girls reading this (and the not-so-nice who I still call nice simply for being here), let me tell you how a guy's brain works.
He wakes up in the morning, replaying the highlights of a dream that contains either sex, violence, sports, or a combination of the three. He then takes a shower, still groggy, wondering about the girls he is going to meet that day and how to best impress them. Upon contact with the girls, he turns on the charm, to varying effects.
Most guys will be rewarded with smiles and girlish titters, laughter and the occasional friendly punch on the shoulder.
Other, more dashing ones like myself would fare slightly better.
There are also those who would view courtship like the way frogs and other amphibians and lower life-forms do.
If you try hard enough, with enough people, long enough, you're bound to score.
So while it's always nice to be friendly and responsive, actually replying to someone who says...
Hey there, you look hot!
...with a "friendly thank you" is actually the equivalent of a OHMAHGAWDIWANJOO to these sort of guys.
Trust me on this.
Now that we're all clear on that issue, I'll go back to my focal point, Big Daddy Drool. Here we have a prime example of the kind of guy you do not reply to on MSN, Friendster, Facebook or anywhere else for that matter. In fact, if he was the sole male survivor and the future of the human race depended on the dispersal of his seed among ther emaining women, I hope those ladies turn girl-on-girl really quick and enjoy what little time they have.
I have a strong urge to take a screenshot of the messages he sends to people I know, send it to his wife who is also conveniently registered on the service. Oh, the joys of the internet.
Hello hottie...
Nice figure!
We should hang out and chill sometime soon.
Hey, can I get to know you?
There is something deeply disturbing about an individual who continually sends suggestive messages such as these to girls over the internet. Of course, I've failed to mention that this same dude is supposedly happily married (proudly displaying a picture of him and his wife on his profile page) while attempting to "get to know" these younger girls.
They're way out of his league anyway.
Firstly, all guys are in some way frisky. Gatal. Friendly. I admit (have been accused of) it. Others around me have been as well.
But at least we have the decency to not address complete strangers with the poser attitude of being an ultra cool pimp daddy.
That being said, there is one rather large example that I know of. I have actually taken a look at his friendster profile (or can get to it quickly) and he fits the bill perfectly. He must have married a completely illiterate and oblivious girl, for it seems she puts up with his crap like a dog with a master with a penchant for swift kicks to the ribs.
To you nice girls reading this (and the not-so-nice who I still call nice simply for being here), let me tell you how a guy's brain works.
He wakes up in the morning, replaying the highlights of a dream that contains either sex, violence, sports, or a combination of the three. He then takes a shower, still groggy, wondering about the girls he is going to meet that day and how to best impress them. Upon contact with the girls, he turns on the charm, to varying effects.
Most guys will be rewarded with smiles and girlish titters, laughter and the occasional friendly punch on the shoulder.
Other, more dashing ones like myself would fare slightly better.
There are also those who would view courtship like the way frogs and other amphibians and lower life-forms do.
If you try hard enough, with enough people, long enough, you're bound to score.
So while it's always nice to be friendly and responsive, actually replying to someone who says...
Hey there, you look hot!
...with a "friendly thank you" is actually the equivalent of a OHMAHGAWDIWANJOO to these sort of guys.
Trust me on this.
Now that we're all clear on that issue, I'll go back to my focal point, Big Daddy Drool. Here we have a prime example of the kind of guy you do not reply to on MSN, Friendster, Facebook or anywhere else for that matter. In fact, if he was the sole male survivor and the future of the human race depended on the dispersal of his seed among ther emaining women, I hope those ladies turn girl-on-girl really quick and enjoy what little time they have.
I have a strong urge to take a screenshot of the messages he sends to people I know, send it to his wife who is also conveniently registered on the service. Oh, the joys of the internet.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Juh-Juh-Jaded...
I remember a good friend of mine used to have the hots for the girl in that Aerosmith video. I can't really remember what she looked like though, was she wearing green? Or was that just Jennifer Love Hewitt in Girl on TV?
I find myself feeling, well, jaded. I know that might seem a little weird or out of place to some others, seeing as how I don't exactly live a life of misery. I have a great girlfriend/wife/fiaance/dragon lady (eternally) by my side, am usually priveledged to be able to ride around looking snazzy in a (sometimes) shiny car, and (occasionally) enjoy the hedonistic pleasures that I used to only dream of or secretly watch online.
But I do.
I'm not entirely sure why exactly, but I think it might have a good deal to do with the kinds of people I have to encounter on a regular (read: day to day) basis.
Exhibit A
A teacher who personifies painfully anal, and not in any erotic way either. One who laughs at an unfortunate foreign student with difficulty getting around the English vocabulary, who dismisses a verbal presentation with a classy "Whatever" and one who might seem to be naturally inclined to view the world in wide-screen.
Exhibit B
Another teacher, but that is such a stretch of the term it isn't even funny anymore. It's like calling myself an internationally reknown and modest journalist/writer. The distinguishing difference between these analogies is that in the one invovling my person, it might actually come true in the future. I don't quite understand how someone who intentionally misinforms his largely-oblivious students and who can retort "OK, all of you, read the notes in your hands, I will stop talking. If you have any questions, come and see me." can be qualified to receive a friggin salary for his day's "work". If "looking smug" or "being maliciously boring" was in his job description, I'd say he'd need a raise though.
Exhibit C
And another teacher, can you detect a trend here? After several weeks of epileptic observation, I have concluded that this one is colour-blind. In case you are wondering how I came to this amazing deduction, you need to understand that when someone expects you to read black text on a dark blue background, while that someone is clad in a horrendous pink and white "top" (which, in all fairness, looks like the underside of a large piece of roadkill), you'd come to the same logic as I have. In addition to her unfortunate deficiency, we are also treated to roughly half an hour of verbal attendance taking every lecture, and sermons on the righteousness of a certain deceased professor and brief interludes on the inflections of a name.
Wow, I actually think I know what's been bugging me. Writing can be therapeutic after all.
Alright, I need to pack my shotgun now.
PS: There are more, but if I had included everything till Exhibit ZZZ93265 v81736, the Internet would crash.
I find myself feeling, well, jaded. I know that might seem a little weird or out of place to some others, seeing as how I don't exactly live a life of misery. I have a great girlfriend/wife/fiaance/dragon lady (eternally) by my side, am usually priveledged to be able to ride around looking snazzy in a (sometimes) shiny car, and (occasionally) enjoy the hedonistic pleasures that I used to only dream of or secretly watch online.
But I do.
I'm not entirely sure why exactly, but I think it might have a good deal to do with the kinds of people I have to encounter on a regular (read: day to day) basis.
Exhibit A
A teacher who personifies painfully anal, and not in any erotic way either. One who laughs at an unfortunate foreign student with difficulty getting around the English vocabulary, who dismisses a verbal presentation with a classy "Whatever" and one who might seem to be naturally inclined to view the world in wide-screen.
Exhibit B
Another teacher, but that is such a stretch of the term it isn't even funny anymore. It's like calling myself an internationally reknown and modest journalist/writer. The distinguishing difference between these analogies is that in the one invovling my person, it might actually come true in the future. I don't quite understand how someone who intentionally misinforms his largely-oblivious students and who can retort "OK, all of you, read the notes in your hands, I will stop talking. If you have any questions, come and see me." can be qualified to receive a friggin salary for his day's "work". If "looking smug" or "being maliciously boring" was in his job description, I'd say he'd need a raise though.
Exhibit C
And another teacher, can you detect a trend here? After several weeks of epileptic observation, I have concluded that this one is colour-blind. In case you are wondering how I came to this amazing deduction, you need to understand that when someone expects you to read black text on a dark blue background, while that someone is clad in a horrendous pink and white "top" (which, in all fairness, looks like the underside of a large piece of roadkill), you'd come to the same logic as I have. In addition to her unfortunate deficiency, we are also treated to roughly half an hour of verbal attendance taking every lecture, and sermons on the righteousness of a certain deceased professor and brief interludes on the inflections of a name.
Wow, I actually think I know what's been bugging me. Writing can be therapeutic after all.
Alright, I need to pack my shotgun now.
PS: There are more, but if I had included everything till Exhibit ZZZ93265 v81736, the Internet would crash.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
People I Know
The progeny of a weekend of boring nights...
PS: If you're name isn't in here... sorry.
Kisses Hugs And Delightful Inspirations
Just Everything And Nothing Never Is Enough
An Interesting Sociable Young Adventurous Hip Romantic And Zany Amiable Kiddo
Somebody Understands Long Tedious And Nonsensical Animated Hits
He Always Never Needs A Hug
So, A Jolly Indian, Very Amazingly Nice
Jumping Around Gaming Just Everyday Everytime Totally
Eccentric Rabbit Finds Exotic Nuclear Destructive Isotope
Finally A New Gigantic Xtreme Ultra Nerd
Ye Angry Queen In Need
Find A Zodiac Lie Every Easter
Everyday Finding Everything Irritating
Can Lousy Emergency Medics Ever Not Talk?
Suddenly He Enters My Mind Over-and Over...
Kids Everywhere Run Ragged Instead!
Kinda Evil Villian In Not So Evil Anymore-way Huh?
Wont I Live Lavishly Crapping Happily In Nova-scotia
Meet An Unusual Fellow And His Magic Yak
Find English Lies In Cheesy Interesting Articles
Never Attempt Zero Randomness Except Everyday Now
Joyous Or Holy, New Whispers Often Near God
A Zoo Has Animals, Right?
Kudos And Noise Irritate Anything
Hell Only Opens Every Yesterday
Dude, Everyone Understands English Lah
Maybe We Encountered Nudity
Xylophone Inspector Now Cooks His Erotic Embers
A Happy Man And Down-to-earth
Elephants Live In Zoos Although Bats Excite The Horde
Anytime Kings Murder, Anyone Lives
Average Nicety Going In Everyone's Boring Ordinary Head
Something Headed Everywhere Next November, Yeah?
Aethists Run To His Unlucky Rabbit
Neolithic Airhead That Announces Loudly In Earnest
Atrophy Likes Big Egomaniacs Ready Tomorrow
PS: If you're name isn't in here... sorry.
Kisses Hugs And Delightful Inspirations
Just Everything And Nothing Never Is Enough
An Interesting Sociable Young Adventurous Hip Romantic And Zany Amiable Kiddo
Somebody Understands Long Tedious And Nonsensical Animated Hits
He Always Never Needs A Hug
So, A Jolly Indian, Very Amazingly Nice
Jumping Around Gaming Just Everyday Everytime Totally
Eccentric Rabbit Finds Exotic Nuclear Destructive Isotope
Finally A New Gigantic Xtreme Ultra Nerd
Ye Angry Queen In Need
Find A Zodiac Lie Every Easter
Everyday Finding Everything Irritating
Can Lousy Emergency Medics Ever Not Talk?
Suddenly He Enters My Mind Over-and Over...
Kids Everywhere Run Ragged Instead!
Kinda Evil Villian In Not So Evil Anymore-way Huh?
Wont I Live Lavishly Crapping Happily In Nova-scotia
Meet An Unusual Fellow And His Magic Yak
Find English Lies In Cheesy Interesting Articles
Never Attempt Zero Randomness Except Everyday Now
Joyous Or Holy, New Whispers Often Near God
A Zoo Has Animals, Right?
Kudos And Noise Irritate Anything
Hell Only Opens Every Yesterday
Dude, Everyone Understands English Lah
Maybe We Encountered Nudity
Xylophone Inspector Now Cooks His Erotic Embers
A Happy Man And Down-to-earth
Elephants Live In Zoos Although Bats Excite The Horde
Anytime Kings Murder, Anyone Lives
Average Nicety Going In Everyone's Boring Ordinary Head
Something Headed Everywhere Next November, Yeah?
Aethists Run To His Unlucky Rabbit
Neolithic Airhead That Announces Loudly In Earnest
Atrophy Likes Big Egomaniacs Ready Tomorrow
Elementary
(Person) says:
there's actually something in my personal message too
(Person) says:
hahas
(Person) says:
if u can decipher it, i will treat u to a meal
(Person) says:
hahaha
nAz says:
in the tag board?
(Person) says:
no my msn nick personal message
nAz says:
oh
nAz says:
hmm
nAz says:
[CENSORED]
nAz says:
in there?
(Person) says:
yea
nAz says:
HA
nAz says:
[CENSORED]
(Person) says:
without the [CENSORED]
(Person) says:
WOW
(Person) says:
oh mann
(Person) says:
now i owe u a meal
(Person) says:
haha!
nAz says:
hahahahaha
(Person) says:
u are getting clever
nAz says:
are you implying that you thought I was stupid?
there's actually something in my personal message too
(Person) says:
hahas
(Person) says:
if u can decipher it, i will treat u to a meal
(Person) says:
hahaha
nAz says:
in the tag board?
(Person) says:
no my msn nick personal message
nAz says:
oh
nAz says:
hmm
nAz says:
[CENSORED]
nAz says:
in there?
(Person) says:
yea
nAz says:
HA
nAz says:
[CENSORED]
(Person) says:
without the [CENSORED]
(Person) says:
WOW
(Person) says:
oh mann
(Person) says:
now i owe u a meal
(Person) says:
haha!
nAz says:
hahahahaha
(Person) says:
u are getting clever
nAz says:
are you implying that you thought I was stupid?
Saturday, September 22, 2007
The Greatest (S)Hits
Relationships can be such complicated matters sometimes.
Everytime, really.
Movies and TV and love songs lie to the masses. No boy meets a girl only to secretly fall maddeningly in love with her, finding that she too has the same feelings towards him as they celebrate with a gentle kissing session against the sunset, on the hood of a Corvette.
I believe we are defined by our relationships. As Celine said in (the divinely excellent) Before Sunrise, "If there is any kind of magic in this world, it is in the act of understanding another person" because that's the gist of a relationship, I guess.
I've been lucky enough to find myself the girl, woman, that I can say I'm utterly and completely proud to call my own. At the same time, I've been able to surround myself with friends and minions who make me laugh and can show me a good time or two.
Not everyone is as blessed, of course. There are those who, try as they might, continue to feel lost (not you, Sul) or disappointed or confused or simply wrong. For these people, a few words of advice.
1. Never put up with anyone who physically abuses you. Even once. That's once too many. Even a good excuse leads to bad ones.
2. Remember to say the things you mean, and mean the things that you say. Don't hold back; regret is worse than rejection.
3. Be yourself. Even if it means commenting on the choice of meat at a cafeteria.
4.Sometimes it pays to be selfish. There's no point getting into or staying in something that will make you miserable, only to keep someone else marginally satisfied.
5. The only people worth changing for are the ones who love you just the way you are.
Everytime, really.
Movies and TV and love songs lie to the masses. No boy meets a girl only to secretly fall maddeningly in love with her, finding that she too has the same feelings towards him as they celebrate with a gentle kissing session against the sunset, on the hood of a Corvette.
I believe we are defined by our relationships. As Celine said in (the divinely excellent) Before Sunrise, "If there is any kind of magic in this world, it is in the act of understanding another person" because that's the gist of a relationship, I guess.
I've been lucky enough to find myself the girl, woman, that I can say I'm utterly and completely proud to call my own. At the same time, I've been able to surround myself with friends and minions who make me laugh and can show me a good time or two.
Not everyone is as blessed, of course. There are those who, try as they might, continue to feel lost (not you, Sul) or disappointed or confused or simply wrong. For these people, a few words of advice.
1. Never put up with anyone who physically abuses you. Even once. That's once too many. Even a good excuse leads to bad ones.
2. Remember to say the things you mean, and mean the things that you say. Don't hold back; regret is worse than rejection.
3. Be yourself. Even if it means commenting on the choice of meat at a cafeteria.
4.Sometimes it pays to be selfish. There's no point getting into or staying in something that will make you miserable, only to keep someone else marginally satisfied.
5. The only people worth changing for are the ones who love you just the way you are.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Remembering
On the eve of the anniversary of one of the most tragic and controversial events in world history, let me just point my minions to a few interesting opinions.
Loose Change
News Flash
What they say
Now, I'll leave you be.
Enjoy your stay, and do come again.
Loose Change
News Flash
What they say
Now, I'll leave you be.
Enjoy your stay, and do come again.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Live And Dream
Neil Gaiman writes of Morpheus or Oneiros, the Sandman, or Dream and how he resides and presides in all the fantastic little worlds we concoct in our heads. The tall, enigmatic and eclectic figure has become a favourite of mine since a few good friends of mine so brilliantly concluded that I deserved the pleasure of the first four books of the library.
Everyone has their own dreams, desires, delights and despairs. Not everyone will have theirs come true; indeed few truly do. It is said that the pursuit of the dream, or maybe the essence of the dream itself, something intangibly and utterfly wonderful that is just beyond reach, can be more rewarding than any actual reality, however it may coincide with what the dreamer may have originally, well, dreamt of.
When I'm driving alone on the highway, watching the shrubbery whizz by a few feet from my shoulder, I tend to break into song if a particularly cooperative track plays on the radio. Yes, you read right. Naz sings. Only when he's alone, though. Don't get your hopes up. No. No. Not even for two bucks.
No.
Others have their own dreams or fantasies. I know of a couple of school-mates who envision themselves as suave and cool secret agents, kicking in doors of empty classrooms and brandishing fist-pistols at imaginary shadow enemies while one or two bewildered girls walk on beside them. Then they glance up and realise that yes, every classroom does indeed have at least one security camera, and their antics have been immortalised in digital form.
Some use the medium of photography to weave a tale of intrigue or bright lights, snapping pictures of themselves in poses and expressions more suited for morgues or Halloween rags. A few others simply see themselves as celebrities and papparazzi at the same time, unable to resist the urge to shoot themselves (with a camera) at any given opportunity.
A wise woman once said, "I don't get it."
Now, I know what you're thinking; wise people usually get it, but I wasn't done yet.
"I don't get it. Everyone here goes to pieces about how hot or sexy Beyonce or J-Lo are, but then they strive to look like Nicole Ritchie."
Alright. First thing's first.
1. Jessica Alba
2. Scarlett Johansson
3. ...
4. ...
....
N. Nicole Ritchie
N+1. Rosie O' Donnell
That's the official hottness list, summarised by yours truly. Angelina Jolie is one of the ladies duking it out for third and fourth. And the list doesn't include the lucky ones who've been with me.
Back to business, the wise woman mentioned before also went on to talk about cats, marriage, shopping and cars, though I have prudently decided that you can, in fact, have too much of a good thing.
A girl I know in school half-shrieked in a lecture recently, "You think I'm FAT?!?!?"
This, from a waif in Prada or Gucci, who looks like the weight of her assorted riches might unbalance her easily.
It's just weird. And yes, I don't get it. How and why some actually rationalize the idea that a walking skeleton with a painted face and perky, err, humps, can be remotely considered umm... humpable.
Of course, neither do I get why half the world is fascinated with Beyonce and J-Lo's monolithic prosteriors or the absence of undergarments on a formerly-bald teeny-bopper or a hotel heiress' bedroom antics. Maybe it's just me.
Or maybe, just maybe, those members of the XX population that I have discreetly pointed at can rethink their remodelling campaigns.
Jessica Alba >>>>> All.
Except Khadi!
Everyone has their own dreams, desires, delights and despairs. Not everyone will have theirs come true; indeed few truly do. It is said that the pursuit of the dream, or maybe the essence of the dream itself, something intangibly and utterfly wonderful that is just beyond reach, can be more rewarding than any actual reality, however it may coincide with what the dreamer may have originally, well, dreamt of.
When I'm driving alone on the highway, watching the shrubbery whizz by a few feet from my shoulder, I tend to break into song if a particularly cooperative track plays on the radio. Yes, you read right. Naz sings. Only when he's alone, though. Don't get your hopes up. No. No. Not even for two bucks.
No.
Others have their own dreams or fantasies. I know of a couple of school-mates who envision themselves as suave and cool secret agents, kicking in doors of empty classrooms and brandishing fist-pistols at imaginary shadow enemies while one or two bewildered girls walk on beside them. Then they glance up and realise that yes, every classroom does indeed have at least one security camera, and their antics have been immortalised in digital form.
Some use the medium of photography to weave a tale of intrigue or bright lights, snapping pictures of themselves in poses and expressions more suited for morgues or Halloween rags. A few others simply see themselves as celebrities and papparazzi at the same time, unable to resist the urge to shoot themselves (with a camera) at any given opportunity.
A wise woman once said, "I don't get it."
Now, I know what you're thinking; wise people usually get it, but I wasn't done yet.
"I don't get it. Everyone here goes to pieces about how hot or sexy Beyonce or J-Lo are, but then they strive to look like Nicole Ritchie."
Alright. First thing's first.
1. Jessica Alba
2. Scarlett Johansson
3. ...
4. ...
....
N. Nicole Ritchie
N+1. Rosie O' Donnell
That's the official hottness list, summarised by yours truly. Angelina Jolie is one of the ladies duking it out for third and fourth. And the list doesn't include the lucky ones who've been with me.
Back to business, the wise woman mentioned before also went on to talk about cats, marriage, shopping and cars, though I have prudently decided that you can, in fact, have too much of a good thing.
A girl I know in school half-shrieked in a lecture recently, "You think I'm FAT?!?!?"
This, from a waif in Prada or Gucci, who looks like the weight of her assorted riches might unbalance her easily.
It's just weird. And yes, I don't get it. How and why some actually rationalize the idea that a walking skeleton with a painted face and perky, err, humps, can be remotely considered umm... humpable.
Of course, neither do I get why half the world is fascinated with Beyonce and J-Lo's monolithic prosteriors or the absence of undergarments on a formerly-bald teeny-bopper or a hotel heiress' bedroom antics. Maybe it's just me.
Or maybe, just maybe, those members of the XX population that I have discreetly pointed at can rethink their remodelling campaigns.
Jessica Alba >>>>> All.
Except Khadi!
Monday, August 27, 2007
Hot Dog
I'm a cat lover. It's true. I regularly make cute noises and/or snap my fingers at any half-cute cat I see wherever I go.
I usually don't have anything in particular against dogs, though. A certain someone and her Fluffy would attest to that as well. By the way, I still think the other one comes from the pits of hell.
Most dogs can be lovable and cuddly, things you'd go ga-ga over, almost like an extra-hairy little baby. Except I don't usually have the urge to kick them. So many movies and films have been made about dogs, not too many on cats, so surely they must all be this way, no?
All except the ones in Lorong Melayu.
You know how weird or scary or freaky or horny things happen on one particular street or district? Like Elm Street or Fear Street or Sesame Street? Well, down here in ol' Singapore, we have our very own stretch of road where dogs turn into vicious little mongrels.
There is a house there, with a flat-screen plasma TV. Now, you might think that many a house would have that spiffy addition to their living and/or bedroom(s), yes? You'd be right, too. But stay with me here, this house in particular has said appliance outside its walls. Yes, outside.
Like, climb-over-my-gate-and-run-off-with-my-Sony outside.
You can even grab a few pillows and cushions while you're at it.
Of course, I haven't finished my narrative. This beacon of pilferage is often watched over by a sentry. Not an armed security guard or anything, but a dog.
You see what I did there? I put everything together? Back to my story...
At first glance, the dog isn't all that impressive. Not big and imposing like a German Shepard or inspiring terror like a pit-bull. It's just... there. Still, the first glance is all it takes for the little bastard to snap.
And I mean snap.
If you've ever seen someone go beserk, or an elephant run amok, you'd know how someone or something can snap. Rage, drunkedness, so many things can lead to somebody just losing it. Unfortunately for the residents of Lorong Melayu, even a gust of wind can set this volatile freak off.
I've been walking down that stretch of road for over half a decade now, and I can safely say that there has never been a time where I had not been barked at by some crazy dicked bitch whith the intensity of Leonidas hurling his spear at Xerxes.
Seriously, that little monster sounds like he has a lighted pineapple up his urethra, barking like his owner's spiked his food with ecstacy. Now, that'd be funny. A canine junkie. But then I wouldn't be surprised if this one was thrown out of some competition years ago after failing a doping test.
I must confess, there have been many a time where I've walked my lady love home on a dark, quiet night, with only the wind and the stars to accompany our silent footfalls, only to have our moment shattered by a yipping that can only be described as moronic and maniacal.
Sigh. What I'd give for a shank of meat coated in arsenic.
I usually don't have anything in particular against dogs, though. A certain someone and her Fluffy would attest to that as well. By the way, I still think the other one comes from the pits of hell.
Most dogs can be lovable and cuddly, things you'd go ga-ga over, almost like an extra-hairy little baby. Except I don't usually have the urge to kick them. So many movies and films have been made about dogs, not too many on cats, so surely they must all be this way, no?
All except the ones in Lorong Melayu.
You know how weird or scary or freaky or horny things happen on one particular street or district? Like Elm Street or Fear Street or Sesame Street? Well, down here in ol' Singapore, we have our very own stretch of road where dogs turn into vicious little mongrels.
There is a house there, with a flat-screen plasma TV. Now, you might think that many a house would have that spiffy addition to their living and/or bedroom(s), yes? You'd be right, too. But stay with me here, this house in particular has said appliance outside its walls. Yes, outside.
Like, climb-over-my-gate-and-run-off-with-my-Sony outside.
You can even grab a few pillows and cushions while you're at it.
Of course, I haven't finished my narrative. This beacon of pilferage is often watched over by a sentry. Not an armed security guard or anything, but a dog.
You see what I did there? I put everything together? Back to my story...
At first glance, the dog isn't all that impressive. Not big and imposing like a German Shepard or inspiring terror like a pit-bull. It's just... there. Still, the first glance is all it takes for the little bastard to snap.
And I mean snap.
If you've ever seen someone go beserk, or an elephant run amok, you'd know how someone or something can snap. Rage, drunkedness, so many things can lead to somebody just losing it. Unfortunately for the residents of Lorong Melayu, even a gust of wind can set this volatile freak off.
I've been walking down that stretch of road for over half a decade now, and I can safely say that there has never been a time where I had not been barked at by some crazy dicked bitch whith the intensity of Leonidas hurling his spear at Xerxes.
Seriously, that little monster sounds like he has a lighted pineapple up his urethra, barking like his owner's spiked his food with ecstacy. Now, that'd be funny. A canine junkie. But then I wouldn't be surprised if this one was thrown out of some competition years ago after failing a doping test.
I must confess, there have been many a time where I've walked my lady love home on a dark, quiet night, with only the wind and the stars to accompany our silent footfalls, only to have our moment shattered by a yipping that can only be described as moronic and maniacal.
Sigh. What I'd give for a shank of meat coated in arsenic.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Chapter N
The boy waited in the afternoon gloom, made possible by the lack of initiative that the majority of his species is endowed with as the living room light remained darkened. His hands, like two bifurcated serpents wriggled endlessly across the largely-empty table, glimmering slightly from the thin, stretched plastic covering that pointed to a mother too busy to wipe off the furniture.
Rocking back and forth like a children's toy head that bobs, back and forth, he was staring at the single sheet of paper as I saw him through the portal of the cell he called a home. I wanted to announce my presence, it was the decent thing to do, but I couldn't, so mesmerised was I with the laconic flurry of twitching that supposedly added up to a boy. It was impossible. Not much more than a heap of murmuring and muttering. snickering and shrugging. That was what it was. But a boy, nonetheless. I sighed.
And stepped into the cell.
Almost immediately, I was accosted by two squealing little dervishes, twirling around my legs. Treading carefully, for I would want to refrain from allowing the larger of the two a swift and painful examination of my bag, I smiled bleakly and waited for them to let me pass. The larger of the two returned that macabre facial expression with a gap-toothed one of her own, chin and nose barely reaching my hip which seemed so able to simply, crunch.
The boy had not turned to look at me, acknowledge my presence. It is a special instance to be ignored by one who is unable to comprehend that ice is indeed colder than water, but I let it pass. File that away with all the other imbecilic brush-offs that my life has been punctuated by.
So it began.
Wordlessly handing me the sheet of paper that had appeared so tantalisingly distracting from the outside world, he went back into the semi-comatose state as I was left to interpret what I held in my hands. An angry red mark caught my attention. A single angry red mark. One stroke, one joint. Synapses fired, and it was a seven, I belatedly realised. Hot on the heels of that pleasant thought, my eyes wandered down a bit and found that the angry red seven was imprinted, by hand, over another digit, in ink.
No, digits.
Seven, from thirty. That's almost 25 percent, I gleefully told myself. An improvement.
At this point, let me take you somewhere else. Imagine yourself trapped in a crumbling building, alone, hungry, bleeding, unarmed, tired, scared and broke. You can even not have an eye or any other appendage. And you look out a crack in the plaster (with your one good eye) and see about seven zombies marching towards you. These things can be large, snarling, razor-clawed and be retro-fitted with rockets, but deep down, you know they are going to eat your brains. Slowly.
Then you sigh, look away, and tell yourself, at least it's seven. Not worse.
Back to the fallout of present-day Naz, that's how I was consoling myself. And at the same time, I felt my brains were being slowly chewed out while I could only wait.
Exasperation or irritation or aggravation would only be as accurate in describing my state of mind as saying "The sky is a little big."
For some reason, I recalled the term n that was widely used in mathematics, where that single character signified an unknown number, usually in a long repition or pattern. Here is where I stood. A lonely road-sign on the endless highway to nowhere.
David Eddings once used the phrase "... a look totally devoid of anything remotely resembling intelligence" and it was at that moment where I shared a special bond with the author. Survivors of war and catastrophes have their own little support groups and reunions. Right then I had joined the select council for Those Who Had Faced Down Blinding Stupidity And Lived To Talk About It.
Roughly an hour and a half after stepping into the chamber, I stood wearily, mumbling something about returning the next time. Thoughts whirred through my mind like hamsters in pudding as I had to stop to think of an appropriate time for the next session, hoping that it would not precede the end of all things.
I walked out, under my own power, a fact that I am strangely proud of. You try sitting through ninety minutes of such mind-numbing tedium. Watching two old women slap each other would have made me a better person than what I went through that day. Even the elevator seemed to be a throwback to days where lead and asbestos were reliable building materials. I punched "1" and the door closed, slowly, every so slowly. And did not even attempt to reopen to accomodate a desperately-sprinting woman who looked for all the world like she was escaping a rapist, but in reality was probably just wanting to buy 4-D.
The descent was painfully slow, just like everything else in the vicinity. Another sigh, another day gone by. Bye-bye brain cells.
Rocking back and forth like a children's toy head that bobs, back and forth, he was staring at the single sheet of paper as I saw him through the portal of the cell he called a home. I wanted to announce my presence, it was the decent thing to do, but I couldn't, so mesmerised was I with the laconic flurry of twitching that supposedly added up to a boy. It was impossible. Not much more than a heap of murmuring and muttering. snickering and shrugging. That was what it was. But a boy, nonetheless. I sighed.
And stepped into the cell.
Almost immediately, I was accosted by two squealing little dervishes, twirling around my legs. Treading carefully, for I would want to refrain from allowing the larger of the two a swift and painful examination of my bag, I smiled bleakly and waited for them to let me pass. The larger of the two returned that macabre facial expression with a gap-toothed one of her own, chin and nose barely reaching my hip which seemed so able to simply, crunch.
The boy had not turned to look at me, acknowledge my presence. It is a special instance to be ignored by one who is unable to comprehend that ice is indeed colder than water, but I let it pass. File that away with all the other imbecilic brush-offs that my life has been punctuated by.
So it began.
Wordlessly handing me the sheet of paper that had appeared so tantalisingly distracting from the outside world, he went back into the semi-comatose state as I was left to interpret what I held in my hands. An angry red mark caught my attention. A single angry red mark. One stroke, one joint. Synapses fired, and it was a seven, I belatedly realised. Hot on the heels of that pleasant thought, my eyes wandered down a bit and found that the angry red seven was imprinted, by hand, over another digit, in ink.
No, digits.
Seven, from thirty. That's almost 25 percent, I gleefully told myself. An improvement.
At this point, let me take you somewhere else. Imagine yourself trapped in a crumbling building, alone, hungry, bleeding, unarmed, tired, scared and broke. You can even not have an eye or any other appendage. And you look out a crack in the plaster (with your one good eye) and see about seven zombies marching towards you. These things can be large, snarling, razor-clawed and be retro-fitted with rockets, but deep down, you know they are going to eat your brains. Slowly.
Then you sigh, look away, and tell yourself, at least it's seven. Not worse.
Back to the fallout of present-day Naz, that's how I was consoling myself. And at the same time, I felt my brains were being slowly chewed out while I could only wait.
Exasperation or irritation or aggravation would only be as accurate in describing my state of mind as saying "The sky is a little big."
For some reason, I recalled the term n that was widely used in mathematics, where that single character signified an unknown number, usually in a long repition or pattern. Here is where I stood. A lonely road-sign on the endless highway to nowhere.
David Eddings once used the phrase "... a look totally devoid of anything remotely resembling intelligence" and it was at that moment where I shared a special bond with the author. Survivors of war and catastrophes have their own little support groups and reunions. Right then I had joined the select council for Those Who Had Faced Down Blinding Stupidity And Lived To Talk About It.
Roughly an hour and a half after stepping into the chamber, I stood wearily, mumbling something about returning the next time. Thoughts whirred through my mind like hamsters in pudding as I had to stop to think of an appropriate time for the next session, hoping that it would not precede the end of all things.
I walked out, under my own power, a fact that I am strangely proud of. You try sitting through ninety minutes of such mind-numbing tedium. Watching two old women slap each other would have made me a better person than what I went through that day. Even the elevator seemed to be a throwback to days where lead and asbestos were reliable building materials. I punched "1" and the door closed, slowly, every so slowly. And did not even attempt to reopen to accomodate a desperately-sprinting woman who looked for all the world like she was escaping a rapist, but in reality was probably just wanting to buy 4-D.
The descent was painfully slow, just like everything else in the vicinity. Another sigh, another day gone by. Bye-bye brain cells.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Heavy-Lidded
A phone call can do wonders to one's perspective on the world. Today I found that in addition to the very obvious and blatant fact that irritants often clump together like some sticky fungus, life takes a particularly cruel pleasure in taking apart the best laid plans.
To put it simply, the game of life is rigged.
To break down.
On you.
Everyday.
It's like playing blackjack with Superman. Like playing tag with Spiderman. You can't win. Not now, not ever. You'd have better luck nailing jelly to the ceiling. With a plastic fork.
Murphy's Law hit pretty close to home, I'd gather. Murphy was probably a genious centuries ahead of his time. Eons in the future, when the world is but a burnt and crispy husk, devoid of all life, higher beings, maybe crystal intelligences or Spartans, will come across the planet formerly known as Earth and say "Hrm."
"Hrm, this Murhpy was brilliant" or maybe "This... is... BRILLIANT!!!"
Forget Einstein, Newton, Mozart, Ford, Chaplin, Hitchcock, Tolkkein, Gates, Washington, Bell or any other would-be pretender to the throne of He-Who-Got-It-Right.
Murphy was right.
Life sucks.
Still, we deal with it. Life is what we do. It's the longest thing we do. It's the only thing we do, to the jackassed morons who preach that "Life is short". As much as anyone hates life, there is nothing we can do to change this fundamental sucktitude of what we call an existence, except for ending it.
No, I'm not advocating suicide or mass homocidal genocide. I am merely stating the obvious, something I have been told I do eloquently, fluently and frequently. I hate sushi, Harry Potter, nuts and crowds. I abhore durians, Justin Timberlake, shoes with too many holes in them and the absence of any semblance of common sense. I cannot stand Macy Gray, whiners, carrots and Fox News. Bill O' Reilly should be up there with Saddam Hussein and Hitler. Miso soup needs to be banned by the UN. Aged aunties who act like queens of the world need to be put down.
Put down a flight of stairs.
Alas, my audience is probably wondering to themselves why this writer has joined the emo bandwagon. I hate emo kids. I have also found that I have developed a particular distaste for those who impose their bigoted, narrow-minded opinions on those of broader perspectives.
Add to the list those who speak for the sake of speaking, argue for the sake of arguing. Those sad spastic retards who can just shiver in ejaculatory glee from the sound of their voice, with comments like "I used to be an actress" or "Coaxial cables are actually..." and those who believe, with a passion that is almost holy, that "I don't believe you" is a valid counter-argument in a scientific debate.
The list is long, and by writing thise I've discovered a strangely cathartic effect of putting your hates in writing, immortalising them in blog-form. Of course, I expect this effect to be as short-lived as the time it takes me to click "Publish" and re-read it for typos. Which I also hate.
Life is a bitch, so we bitch about life.
To put it simply, the game of life is rigged.
To break down.
On you.
Everyday.
It's like playing blackjack with Superman. Like playing tag with Spiderman. You can't win. Not now, not ever. You'd have better luck nailing jelly to the ceiling. With a plastic fork.
Murphy's Law hit pretty close to home, I'd gather. Murphy was probably a genious centuries ahead of his time. Eons in the future, when the world is but a burnt and crispy husk, devoid of all life, higher beings, maybe crystal intelligences or Spartans, will come across the planet formerly known as Earth and say "Hrm."
"Hrm, this Murhpy was brilliant" or maybe "This... is... BRILLIANT!!!"
Forget Einstein, Newton, Mozart, Ford, Chaplin, Hitchcock, Tolkkein, Gates, Washington, Bell or any other would-be pretender to the throne of He-Who-Got-It-Right.
Murphy was right.
Life sucks.
Still, we deal with it. Life is what we do. It's the longest thing we do. It's the only thing we do, to the jackassed morons who preach that "Life is short". As much as anyone hates life, there is nothing we can do to change this fundamental sucktitude of what we call an existence, except for ending it.
No, I'm not advocating suicide or mass homocidal genocide. I am merely stating the obvious, something I have been told I do eloquently, fluently and frequently. I hate sushi, Harry Potter, nuts and crowds. I abhore durians, Justin Timberlake, shoes with too many holes in them and the absence of any semblance of common sense. I cannot stand Macy Gray, whiners, carrots and Fox News. Bill O' Reilly should be up there with Saddam Hussein and Hitler. Miso soup needs to be banned by the UN. Aged aunties who act like queens of the world need to be put down.
Put down a flight of stairs.
Alas, my audience is probably wondering to themselves why this writer has joined the emo bandwagon. I hate emo kids. I have also found that I have developed a particular distaste for those who impose their bigoted, narrow-minded opinions on those of broader perspectives.
Add to the list those who speak for the sake of speaking, argue for the sake of arguing. Those sad spastic retards who can just shiver in ejaculatory glee from the sound of their voice, with comments like "I used to be an actress" or "Coaxial cables are actually..." and those who believe, with a passion that is almost holy, that "I don't believe you" is a valid counter-argument in a scientific debate.
The list is long, and by writing thise I've discovered a strangely cathartic effect of putting your hates in writing, immortalising them in blog-form. Of course, I expect this effect to be as short-lived as the time it takes me to click "Publish" and re-read it for typos. Which I also hate.
Life is a bitch, so we bitch about life.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Quotable Quotes
Since there really isn't anything to write about except how busy, broke and buggered I am, I'll share some interesting snippets of conversation I've had recently. For the sake of mystery, the initials used may or may not be accurate...
Naz: And relax, draft due monday, not tmrw.
G: OMG YAY! Thank God I asked!
Naz: You're welcome.
H: Look, my shoes are SO FUCKING SOAKED!
Naz: You know what the moral of the story is?
J: Huh?
Naz: Don't put all your eggs in one basket.
J: What?!?
Naz: ...Or the chicks will all drown.
J: How do you know? Have you tried?
Naz: Yes.
J: ... Point taken.
S: X and Y are soooooo problematic!
Naz: I've found that whenever I come online and she doesn't say hello first, they're having a few issues. She hasn't said hello the entire week.
O: I should be studying. Roar.
Naz: Meowr.
I used to be an actress.
Naz: Hey babe, what time are you going to be done?
Naz: err... oops.
F: HAHAHA! It's ok! Babe's right, but not for you.
Doctor, doctor, my belly button got hole!
Japanese officials say the 1.6m litres of radioactive waste that leaked into the ocean will not cause any harm to the environment.
N: You're a murderer.
Naz: Me? Why? I haven't done anything.
N: Not yet.
S: You are a sociopath.
Naz: Beats being called a murderer.
W: K, it's ok. Everyone else might think you are some perverted, no-life, retarded loser, but to us, you're our hero.
K: Thanks ah.
KT: CAN YOU STOP SAYING I HAVE SEVEN CARS?!?!?
Naz: But you do.
KT: NO I DO NOT!!!
Naz: ...OK, five?
KT: (mumbles something incoherant)
Naz: Right.
C: So these companies can make more money.
H: But they are already making alot of money, you know.
Naz: Then they can make more alot of money.
G: OMG YAY! Thank God I asked!
Naz: You're welcome.
H: Look, my shoes are SO FUCKING SOAKED!
Naz: You know what the moral of the story is?
J: Huh?
Naz: Don't put all your eggs in one basket.
J: What?!?
Naz: ...Or the chicks will all drown.
J: How do you know? Have you tried?
Naz: Yes.
J: ... Point taken.
S: X and Y are soooooo problematic!
Naz: I've found that whenever I come online and she doesn't say hello first, they're having a few issues. She hasn't said hello the entire week.
O: I should be studying. Roar.
Naz: Meowr.
I used to be an actress.
Naz: Hey babe, what time are you going to be done?
Naz: err... oops.
F: HAHAHA! It's ok! Babe's right, but not for you.
Doctor, doctor, my belly button got hole!
Japanese officials say the 1.6m litres of radioactive waste that leaked into the ocean will not cause any harm to the environment.
N: You're a murderer.
Naz: Me? Why? I haven't done anything.
N: Not yet.
S: You are a sociopath.
Naz: Beats being called a murderer.
W: K, it's ok. Everyone else might think you are some perverted, no-life, retarded loser, but to us, you're our hero.
K: Thanks ah.
KT: CAN YOU STOP SAYING I HAVE SEVEN CARS?!?!?
Naz: But you do.
KT: NO I DO NOT!!!
Naz: ...OK, five?
KT: (mumbles something incoherant)
Naz: Right.
C: So these companies can make more money.
H: But they are already making alot of money, you know.
Naz: Then they can make more alot of money.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Mars & Venus
Many of us have seen how a peacock struts around during mating season, or how frogs croak and hippos attempt to gore each other with oversized mandibles. We all know what they are aiming for; a mate. Are we any different? Some people might think humans are above such predictable behaviour, but on closer inspection, one might be able to see why modern Man has always been classed as an animal. There are several different beliefs that both the male and female human employ, although there are a few ideals and scripts common between the two sides.
Nearly every relationship starts off with a first date. It is the primary concern of a multitude of adolescents and young adults all around the world. A simple meeting of two individuals for a meal or movie can turn out to be the most stressful event in a youngster’s hormone-charged life. The first date can quite often be the first instance where the contrast between male and females is observed. Females quite often spend hours fretting over every miniscule detail of their appearance, from the fall of their hair to the hue of their shoulders in any particular light before their first official “date” with a boy they like. Men, on the other hand, are quite often nonchalant, perhaps buying flowers on the way to picking the girl up from her place of residence. Prior to the event, it is also widely expected for the male to be the one initiating the date, with many fawning damsels being left heartbroken due to the ignorance of this “simple law” that so many males apparently fail to comprehend.
As a relationship progresses, more examples of the differences in how males and females are supposed to act appear. One has known many males who avoid any serious commitments for fear of burning a hole in their wallet. Similarly, several female acquaintances are more than happy to be part of a relationship for the financial arrangements that society expects out of the typical boy-girl relationship. Like a male bowerbird, the boys and men in most relationships are expected to bestow their significant others with gifts and presents, though twigs and berries rarely impress the average lady in this day and age. The afore-mentioned “law” that the male should be the one deciding what to do, where to do it and when to do it is also carried over to the latter stages of a relationship, and many females in this day and age who still subscribe to this school of thought find themselves feeling rather chagrined when the males (again) fail to live up to these expectations.
These differences in beliefs and the seemingly universal acceptance of these practices have been challenged in recent times, however. An increasing number of females have begun “taking charge” of relationships. Be it making the “first move” on a guy or deciding to watch Music & Lyrics over Spiderman, the traditional perception of a passive female in the process of human courtship is being, if it has not already been, overturned. Conversely, many men in this day and age are more than willing to accept a partner that takes charge of a relationship, without feeling that their masculinity is being challenged in any way. Even when the female half of a relationship does not appear to starting to “take over”, many relationships see the norms of old being absolved; couples regularly “go Dutch” instead of having the male collect the bill, or compromise being the common outcome in many situations that may have been decided by the males in years gone by.
It can also be said that males and females usually go into relationships with contrasting long-term goals and expectations. Male animals usually aim to copulate with as many females as possible, and this may correlate to the general consensus that many men go into relationships with almost no plans for long-term commitment. Females, on the other hand, habitually look to find the best mate possible and sticking to him, hence the general trend of women wanting to settle down with a man, something that so profoundly terrifies a male’s understanding of courtship. One remembers an instance whereby a male friend had been seeing a girl for a number of weeks before being introduced to her close friends. Upon this meeting, the first question presented to the astounded youth was “When are you going to marry her?” Such tales are not all that rare, and simply provide poignant examples of the differences in the expectations that males and females have going into relationships, even at a young age. An often-repeated tale of two friends meeting outside a fancy restaurant goes something like this; the first man asks his friend who he has brought to the expensive eatery. The answer he is given astounds him, and he asks his friend, flabbergasted, “Haven’t you already shagged her?” and when an affirmation of that query is voiced, he then asks a third question, “Then why are you still spending money on her?”
Courtship rituals and beliefs do indeed vary between the male and female members of our species, influenced heavily by society and culture. Still, many similarities and differences are indeed evident and prevalent throughout the world in this respect. Girls all over the world scheme against each other to charm the popular hunk, and boys snicker amongst themselves at tales of their exploits and escapades with those very same girls. As apt as the analogies of alpha males and antler-wrestling are, the same can be said with increasing frequency of female spiders killing their inferior mates and queen bees being the absolute centre of a hive. While it can be said that Man has come a long way from their club-a-cavewoman-over-the-head roots, so much is still “standardized”, including their similarities and differences.
Nearly every relationship starts off with a first date. It is the primary concern of a multitude of adolescents and young adults all around the world. A simple meeting of two individuals for a meal or movie can turn out to be the most stressful event in a youngster’s hormone-charged life. The first date can quite often be the first instance where the contrast between male and females is observed. Females quite often spend hours fretting over every miniscule detail of their appearance, from the fall of their hair to the hue of their shoulders in any particular light before their first official “date” with a boy they like. Men, on the other hand, are quite often nonchalant, perhaps buying flowers on the way to picking the girl up from her place of residence. Prior to the event, it is also widely expected for the male to be the one initiating the date, with many fawning damsels being left heartbroken due to the ignorance of this “simple law” that so many males apparently fail to comprehend.
As a relationship progresses, more examples of the differences in how males and females are supposed to act appear. One has known many males who avoid any serious commitments for fear of burning a hole in their wallet. Similarly, several female acquaintances are more than happy to be part of a relationship for the financial arrangements that society expects out of the typical boy-girl relationship. Like a male bowerbird, the boys and men in most relationships are expected to bestow their significant others with gifts and presents, though twigs and berries rarely impress the average lady in this day and age. The afore-mentioned “law” that the male should be the one deciding what to do, where to do it and when to do it is also carried over to the latter stages of a relationship, and many females in this day and age who still subscribe to this school of thought find themselves feeling rather chagrined when the males (again) fail to live up to these expectations.
These differences in beliefs and the seemingly universal acceptance of these practices have been challenged in recent times, however. An increasing number of females have begun “taking charge” of relationships. Be it making the “first move” on a guy or deciding to watch Music & Lyrics over Spiderman, the traditional perception of a passive female in the process of human courtship is being, if it has not already been, overturned. Conversely, many men in this day and age are more than willing to accept a partner that takes charge of a relationship, without feeling that their masculinity is being challenged in any way. Even when the female half of a relationship does not appear to starting to “take over”, many relationships see the norms of old being absolved; couples regularly “go Dutch” instead of having the male collect the bill, or compromise being the common outcome in many situations that may have been decided by the males in years gone by.
It can also be said that males and females usually go into relationships with contrasting long-term goals and expectations. Male animals usually aim to copulate with as many females as possible, and this may correlate to the general consensus that many men go into relationships with almost no plans for long-term commitment. Females, on the other hand, habitually look to find the best mate possible and sticking to him, hence the general trend of women wanting to settle down with a man, something that so profoundly terrifies a male’s understanding of courtship. One remembers an instance whereby a male friend had been seeing a girl for a number of weeks before being introduced to her close friends. Upon this meeting, the first question presented to the astounded youth was “When are you going to marry her?” Such tales are not all that rare, and simply provide poignant examples of the differences in the expectations that males and females have going into relationships, even at a young age. An often-repeated tale of two friends meeting outside a fancy restaurant goes something like this; the first man asks his friend who he has brought to the expensive eatery. The answer he is given astounds him, and he asks his friend, flabbergasted, “Haven’t you already shagged her?” and when an affirmation of that query is voiced, he then asks a third question, “Then why are you still spending money on her?”
Courtship rituals and beliefs do indeed vary between the male and female members of our species, influenced heavily by society and culture. Still, many similarities and differences are indeed evident and prevalent throughout the world in this respect. Girls all over the world scheme against each other to charm the popular hunk, and boys snicker amongst themselves at tales of their exploits and escapades with those very same girls. As apt as the analogies of alpha males and antler-wrestling are, the same can be said with increasing frequency of female spiders killing their inferior mates and queen bees being the absolute centre of a hive. While it can be said that Man has come a long way from their club-a-cavewoman-over-the-head roots, so much is still “standardized”, including their similarities and differences.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Hard To Say
It's hard to say that I was wrong.
It's hard to say I miss you.
Since you've been gone it's not the same.
I love that song, and sometimes music has a way of reminding you about what's going on outside the radio. Or iPod. Or WinAmp. Whatever.
We all do things we regret eventually. We all say things we don't really mean. We all hide our innermost feelings from ourselves, even if they're plain to see to others. Some call it ego, others might just say that people tend to be deluded. Maybe it's a little of both.
Sometimes you never know what you have till it's gone, as the saying goes. I hate cliches by principle, but I guess sometimes they do the job, for lack of a better way to put things in perspective.
Why do people say things they don't mean, and why is it so hard to take it back? If only I could turn back time, or something. Well, I can't (yet) and so I'm left feeling chagrined, tired, aching and annoyed. Not much else could go wrong.
Well, many things could still go wrong, but I feel craptastic as it is.
I'll just stop now. Staring at my single blue wall like it's supposed to mean something. Does it? I don't know.
What I do know is that it is really hard to say some things sometimes.
But sometimes you gut it out, or at least try to.
I'm sorry.
It's hard to say I miss you.
Since you've been gone it's not the same.
I love that song, and sometimes music has a way of reminding you about what's going on outside the radio. Or iPod. Or WinAmp. Whatever.
We all do things we regret eventually. We all say things we don't really mean. We all hide our innermost feelings from ourselves, even if they're plain to see to others. Some call it ego, others might just say that people tend to be deluded. Maybe it's a little of both.
Sometimes you never know what you have till it's gone, as the saying goes. I hate cliches by principle, but I guess sometimes they do the job, for lack of a better way to put things in perspective.
Why do people say things they don't mean, and why is it so hard to take it back? If only I could turn back time, or something. Well, I can't (yet) and so I'm left feeling chagrined, tired, aching and annoyed. Not much else could go wrong.
Well, many things could still go wrong, but I feel craptastic as it is.
I'll just stop now. Staring at my single blue wall like it's supposed to mean something. Does it? I don't know.
What I do know is that it is really hard to say some things sometimes.
But sometimes you gut it out, or at least try to.
I'm sorry.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Sardines
There are few things more mortifying than being scrunched up against a door by a stranger who emitting the distinctly moudly odour of a rain-soaked dog. Really.
Especially when one is attempting to enjoy the Sandman novels that I was so graciously gifted (yay!) for my birthday.
Still, not much else of note has happened in recent weeks, so I will apologise profusely to all my loyal fans and readers for the lack of excitement.
Do, however, check out the greatness that is Absolute Facts.
Especially when one is attempting to enjoy the Sandman novels that I was so graciously gifted (yay!) for my birthday.
Still, not much else of note has happened in recent weeks, so I will apologise profusely to all my loyal fans and readers for the lack of excitement.
Do, however, check out the greatness that is Absolute Facts.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
What a Drag...
"How many Indians does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 21. One to hold the bulb and twenty to get drunk and wait for the room to spin."
"You know why everyone who get dengue is Malay and Chinese? Because if the mosquito suck Indian blood it get drunk and die."
There is nothing quite like enjoying stand-up from someone dressed in a leopard-print robe with pink feathers.
Really.
I was at Hard Rock Cafe last night, though it must be said that it was largely against my own wishes. I was, however, finally convinced to don one of my only three decent shirts to appear to be the only one overdressed at the joint.
I vividly recall the last time I was there, though I won't embarass a certain someone with tales of her culinary confusion, and will instead focus on things much less humiliating...
I've heard of the Kumar show. For those of you who don't know who Kumar is, look him up. Or her. It. Whatever.
But the show was fantastic. Like I've said before, I'm regular practicioner of rascist jokes when done tastefully, but the sight of a tall slim Indian cracking the lewdest jokes I've ever heard was simply too much. I'm glad the kitchen was closed by the time we got there, because the humour was gut-bustingly good, and I'd have hated to have puked it on the nice wooden floor.
Humour is humour, of course, and everyone, regardless of the hue of their skin or the angle of their eyes was close to making ROFL a reality.
Plus I didn't want to be ridiculed, though I almost was.
If you guys and girls had actually gotten their attention and made me do a frickin' lap dance to another guy I would have never spoken to any of you ever again. Eeeeeeever again.
I'll leave you with one of my favourites from the show.
"We should stop making fun of the Chinese people. Sure, they can be blur at times, but they don't have any book to follow. Muslims have Qur-an, Christians have Bible, Chinese have what? Yellow Pages?"
"You know why everyone who get dengue is Malay and Chinese? Because if the mosquito suck Indian blood it get drunk and die."
There is nothing quite like enjoying stand-up from someone dressed in a leopard-print robe with pink feathers.
Really.
I was at Hard Rock Cafe last night, though it must be said that it was largely against my own wishes. I was, however, finally convinced to don one of my only three decent shirts to appear to be the only one overdressed at the joint.
I vividly recall the last time I was there, though I won't embarass a certain someone with tales of her culinary confusion, and will instead focus on things much less humiliating...
I've heard of the Kumar show. For those of you who don't know who Kumar is, look him up. Or her. It. Whatever.
But the show was fantastic. Like I've said before, I'm regular practicioner of rascist jokes when done tastefully, but the sight of a tall slim Indian cracking the lewdest jokes I've ever heard was simply too much. I'm glad the kitchen was closed by the time we got there, because the humour was gut-bustingly good, and I'd have hated to have puked it on the nice wooden floor.
Humour is humour, of course, and everyone, regardless of the hue of their skin or the angle of their eyes was close to making ROFL a reality.
Plus I didn't want to be ridiculed, though I almost was.
If you guys and girls had actually gotten their attention and made me do a frickin' lap dance to another guy I would have never spoken to any of you ever again. Eeeeeeever again.
I'll leave you with one of my favourites from the show.
"We should stop making fun of the Chinese people. Sure, they can be blur at times, but they don't have any book to follow. Muslims have Qur-an, Christians have Bible, Chinese have what? Yellow Pages?"
Friday, June 29, 2007
A Twist
I'm sure many of you have heard of the tragedy that has befallen the Benoit family, and if you haven't, you really need to pick up a newspaper or something. Like RVD has said on his personal website, it's really rare for a baby-killer to have so many people talking about how great a guy he is, and certain recent events have been quite strange.
A few people have discovered that the Wikipedia entry on Chris Benoit was edited about 14 hours before the discovery of the bodies of him and his family. This edit stated that Benoit no-showed a particular WWE event due to the tragic death of his wife, Nancy.
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but Hiro, Cable and Marty don't really exist.
Together with Fox News trying to link the apparent murder-suicide to Sherri Martel's demise, it's quite a sickening media circus. But we all know about Fox, don't we? Paragons of fairness and journalistic excellence.
OK, jokes aside, I just hope this gets cleraed up pretty soon. Chris Benoit has never impacted my life profoundly, he's never known I've existed, but he's still a legend in my eyes, and I need to get back to the essay I've supposed to have finished a while ago.
A few people have discovered that the Wikipedia entry on Chris Benoit was edited about 14 hours before the discovery of the bodies of him and his family. This edit stated that Benoit no-showed a particular WWE event due to the tragic death of his wife, Nancy.
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but Hiro, Cable and Marty don't really exist.
Together with Fox News trying to link the apparent murder-suicide to Sherri Martel's demise, it's quite a sickening media circus. But we all know about Fox, don't we? Paragons of fairness and journalistic excellence.
OK, jokes aside, I just hope this gets cleraed up pretty soon. Chris Benoit has never impacted my life profoundly, he's never known I've existed, but he's still a legend in my eyes, and I need to get back to the essay I've supposed to have finished a while ago.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
More Than Meets The Eye
"It's just you and me, Megatron."
"No, it will only be me."
"One shall stand, one shall fall."
I'm a Transformers fanboy. I admit it. And when I heard that in the 2007 movie, I almost wet myself. Classic quotes. For. The. Win.
After the disappointments of Pirates of the Carribean, X-Men 3 and Spiderman 3 and the less than fantastic Rise of the Silver Surfer, I had braced myself for a repeat of Alien vs Predator. Well, maybe not so. Nothing could have matched the crapfest that was AVP.
About 150 minutes after walking into the theatre, though, I exited with a smile. And not because it was over. Oh no. It's just that it's been such a long time since I watched a movie that had got me buzzing so much. Totally the best movie this year other than 300.
Only one complaint, of course. The weird fact that the Autobots and Decepticons both used a variety of ballistic and projectile weapons, not the traditional lasers that so many of us are more familar with (and make more sense, if you think about it).
I'm so hoping for a sequal, though I won't discuss what I hope is in it (yet) for fear of spoilers.
Still, the movie could have only been better if they had included but one more quote, from Megatron to Optimus.
"I'll rip out your optics!!!"
PS: No, I didn't watch it for Megan Fox. Prime was waaaaaaaay hotter than her anyway.
"No, it will only be me."
"One shall stand, one shall fall."
I'm a Transformers fanboy. I admit it. And when I heard that in the 2007 movie, I almost wet myself. Classic quotes. For. The. Win.
After the disappointments of Pirates of the Carribean, X-Men 3 and Spiderman 3 and the less than fantastic Rise of the Silver Surfer, I had braced myself for a repeat of Alien vs Predator. Well, maybe not so. Nothing could have matched the crapfest that was AVP.
About 150 minutes after walking into the theatre, though, I exited with a smile. And not because it was over. Oh no. It's just that it's been such a long time since I watched a movie that had got me buzzing so much. Totally the best movie this year other than 300.
Only one complaint, of course. The weird fact that the Autobots and Decepticons both used a variety of ballistic and projectile weapons, not the traditional lasers that so many of us are more familar with (and make more sense, if you think about it).
I'm so hoping for a sequal, though I won't discuss what I hope is in it (yet) for fear of spoilers.
Still, the movie could have only been better if they had included but one more quote, from Megatron to Optimus.
"I'll rip out your optics!!!"
PS: No, I didn't watch it for Megan Fox. Prime was waaaaaaaay hotter than her anyway.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Eh...
Well, I usually don't have too much sympathy for those who've murdered their loved ones, but he was still one of my favourites.
I considered taking down my last post, but it'll stay up for now.
I considered taking down my last post, but it'll stay up for now.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
The Wolverine
I got home today, and went to check out what's been going on in the make-believe world of the WWE. And saw something truly shocking.
Benoit is gone.
It seemed only recent that Eddie Guerrero passed on, and now another one of my favourites has heard his final bell.
I remember the first time I saw Chris Benoit on TV on the (now-defunct) WCW. He was up against Dean Malenko, and it was a brilliant mat-based style wrestling-match. After years of growing bored watching repetitive kicks and punches and the occasional zombie, this match reminded me of Bret Hart, and how I used to love watching him counter the baddies like Diesel and Shawn Michaels.
Till this day, I'll credit Benoit for really introducing me to the technical side of wrestling, which has in turn led to my intrest in MMA and UFC. Of course, there will be those among you who will merely say "Naz, it was wrestling. It's fake." And to those people, I'll repeat what I said before: That's not the point.
Not much more I can say about him really; I was never fortunate enough to meet the man, and with him gone and Kennedy moved to Raw, CM Punk is my only motivation for even briefly considering shelling out some cash for the Summerslam tour coming up.
Rest in peace, Chris Benoit.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Same Crap, Different Name
Yeah, I changed the name of this place. I never really liked what it as called in the first place, and this one seems off too. Open for any suggestions.
Go.
Go.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Video Games
Video games have come a long way since their humble beginnings of Pac-Man and Mario. In this day and age, it is not uncommon for video games to possess special effects rivaling even Hollywood cinema. As such, there has been a rising level of “realism” that more and more games have come to embrace, and that the audience has come to expect. In correlation, some have argued that this level of realism in violent games such as Grand Theft Auto, Mortal Kombat and Doom is a direct and major contributing factor in the rise of societal violence, criminal or otherwise; a notion that is, quite frankly, absurd.
Many are quick to point out the violent lifestyles that certain games seem to condone and encourage in its players. Take, for example, the immensely popular Grand Theft Auto series by Rockstar games. In these games, players assume the role of several characters, usually portrayed as a typical “thug” made familiar by Western media. The goals of the game(s) usually centre on stealing cars and killing all who stand in your way. While this might seem anti-social at best, the argument here is similar to the “Silver Bullet” or “Hypodermic Needle” theories whereby any message transmitted by a source is received and absorbed by its audience without question. There is, however, a rather large assumption made for this theory to be accurate; namely that the audience is passive and interpret the information or message in a uniform way.
In reality, however, people are not passive and homogeneous in their interpretation and reaction to a message. Incidents of a lone Korean gunman mowing down schoolmates after playing certain games or two adolescents who drag toddlers in an imitation of Death Race are not representative of the much larger audience. They are merely isolated events, similar to how some can go their whole lives smoking ten cigars a day without succumbing to lung cancer. It is unfair to assume that because such acts were in some way or shape related to video games, those very games are the root cause of such violence. Not everyone grabs the nearest chainsaw to eviscerate their neighbour after completing Doom, not everyone attacks scientists and soldiers with a crowbar or wrench after installing Half-Life and not everyone kicks adjacent bikers into incoming traffic ala Road Rash. Most people simply put down the joystick and get on with their (non-violent) lives.
One might also view this issue by taking a step back from what is actually being reported and represented. While the relative ratio of violent to non-violent video games has been increasing in correlation to rising societal violence, one might also argue (more forcefully, it would seem) that the only reason for such a phenomenon is that video game producers are only giving the public what they want. Violence and violent video games are both on the rise, but is the former attributed to the latter? Hollywood cinema churns out blockbuster after blockbuster, and nearly every single one of them has aspects of violence brazenly displayed. In fact, fight, chase and action sequences of gory punches, high-speed crashes and loud explosions are usually the selling point of many movies in recent memory. Disney’s hugely-popular Pirates of the Caribbean franchise has countless scenes of death and fighting, many of which can be argued to be excessive, at best. Even Toy Story, also released by Disney, and targeted at a young audience, allows its main characters the use of guns and violence. In the opening half-hour of the movie, viewers can already see “Woody” dealing with the “bad guys” by using his imaginary guns. Other “kiddy” movies like Finding Nemo also have their own violent aspects. Classic Saturday-morning cartoons like Tom & Jerry or Road Runner have also been found to be at least as (if not more) violent than traditionally “violent” programs like televised professional wrestling events. Even in music, violence is condoned, if not applauded. Popular country trio The Dixie Chicks released the song Goodbye Earl, which was about a pair of women poisoning one of their husbands. Other acts such as Eminem and Story of the Year similarly address issues like vehicular homicide and strangling a loved one (in Stan and Until the Day I Die respectively). With so much violence and aggression in the air around us, how can video games be a major factor in this rise in violence in our society? If our societal climate is evolving (or degenerating) into a violent one, would it surprising at all that more and more people play violent video games?
Modern day video games are violent. This violence has existed almost as long as Pong has blipped across minds of gamers. The Jedi Knight series released by Lucas Arts, modeled after the epic Star Wars saga, allows its player to dismember enemies. In Battlefield 2 by Electronic Arts, gamers may fire round after round into hostile soldiers, watching blood spurt from their many wounds. The Mortal Kombat series released by Midway, still going strong, has allowed its fans the glory of virtual death via acid and the ability to rip the arms off unfortunate opponents. Unreal Tournament and Quake encourage their best players to take the heads from lesser warriors. Even in pixellated Wolfenstein 3D, players could kill their “German” captors in the comfort of Windows 3.1. But gamers are people and not merely passive subjects moulded by any one form of media or entertainment. In addition, many more people watch movies, cartoons and MTV which can be said to be more violent than video games by leaps and bounds. Can mere video games be a major cause of the rise of societal violence? Absurd.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Foul-Mouthed Buffoonery
"Check this out..."
"Holy shit, dude that's not a guy!"
"Bro, that man has boobs!"
Now, a few people might have found the afore-mentioned bits of conversation slightly familiar, and have since given me some food for thought. A nasty (not nazty) habit, most of us have been guilty of talkig behind someone else's back at one point or another in the course of your adolescent (or even later) lives.
A long time ago, I learnt of someone who's been badmouthing the members of my household with little regard to the validity of his claims or even his audience. Truly, when you learn that a the significant other of the colleague of the significant other of someone who lives at my address was filled in on the apparent shortcomings of the family at No. 33, it does rattle the cage somewhat, so to speak.
It's not the first time such a thing has happened, and it probably won't be the last; far from it. The particular tattle-tale, who I'll call Anansi (look it up), apparently enjoys embellishing his reports of my family being stingy, uptight and arrogaant pricks.
Now, I'm no Momma's boy, but I can say we aren't uptight. Well, most of us at least.
Back to the point, though, I guess everyone has badmouthed someone. It's an incorrigible habit, but it's something widespread. Sort of like farting. Everyone does it, you just don't know of it, but the stink gets around and you can't figure out where it started from.
Well, I'm a little less annoyed with what I was from my last entry, and I'm hoping that someone lends me some good books to read. I know I'm supposed be lending Silence of the Lambs and The Hunter's Blades to people I know, so someone please save me.
And stop talking behind my back.
"Holy shit, dude that's not a guy!"
"Bro, that man has boobs!"
Now, a few people might have found the afore-mentioned bits of conversation slightly familiar, and have since given me some food for thought. A nasty (not nazty) habit, most of us have been guilty of talkig behind someone else's back at one point or another in the course of your adolescent (or even later) lives.
A long time ago, I learnt of someone who's been badmouthing the members of my household with little regard to the validity of his claims or even his audience. Truly, when you learn that a the significant other of the colleague of the significant other of someone who lives at my address was filled in on the apparent shortcomings of the family at No. 33, it does rattle the cage somewhat, so to speak.
It's not the first time such a thing has happened, and it probably won't be the last; far from it. The particular tattle-tale, who I'll call Anansi (look it up), apparently enjoys embellishing his reports of my family being stingy, uptight and arrogaant pricks.
Now, I'm no Momma's boy, but I can say we aren't uptight. Well, most of us at least.
Back to the point, though, I guess everyone has badmouthed someone. It's an incorrigible habit, but it's something widespread. Sort of like farting. Everyone does it, you just don't know of it, but the stink gets around and you can't figure out where it started from.
Well, I'm a little less annoyed with what I was from my last entry, and I'm hoping that someone lends me some good books to read. I know I'm supposed be lending Silence of the Lambs and The Hunter's Blades to people I know, so someone please save me.
And stop talking behind my back.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Ah, Melancholy
There is a blue wall in my room. Just the one. The rest are white. I can't remember what colour they used to be before the renovations were done. Biege? Green? My memory has never been stupendous.
Boredom is a vile condition. An affliction made worse when one is broke. It's like being... well, it sucks.
Today I was faced with the somewhat unique situation of going home. Now, you might argue (somewhat accurately) that such an occurence is hardly a rarity, but today I had to take public transport.
Well, I've taken the public transport services in Singapore for close to ten years now, and it's mostly been great. Fairly efficient and decently priced. But after driving almost everywhere for a week, it tends to get demoralising lugging your books and other stuff in a train that resembles a moving can of sardines than anything else.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who insist on driving everywhere. It's just that the past week or so of driving has really been, well, a breeze. Waking up late(r) for school, getting home in under an hour, and the best part? I don't have to worry about bringing a good read to pass the time on the invariably dull train.
Sigh. Another day tomorrow, buses and trains.
Boredom is a vile condition. An affliction made worse when one is broke. It's like being... well, it sucks.
Today I was faced with the somewhat unique situation of going home. Now, you might argue (somewhat accurately) that such an occurence is hardly a rarity, but today I had to take public transport.
Well, I've taken the public transport services in Singapore for close to ten years now, and it's mostly been great. Fairly efficient and decently priced. But after driving almost everywhere for a week, it tends to get demoralising lugging your books and other stuff in a train that resembles a moving can of sardines than anything else.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who insist on driving everywhere. It's just that the past week or so of driving has really been, well, a breeze. Waking up late(r) for school, getting home in under an hour, and the best part? I don't have to worry about bringing a good read to pass the time on the invariably dull train.
Sigh. Another day tomorrow, buses and trains.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
The Shower Scene
The hero steps into the bathroom on a cold and gloomy night. The light flickers. Wet tiles feel grimy beneath his toes and the mirror shows him everything he doesn't want to see. Something flutters outside the window, or perhaps it was in. Too far into the edge of his vision, he shrugs it off while his eyes trail habitually to the cracked ceiling.
The square is still there. Logic tells him it is merely an access to the wiring or plumbing that supplies the bathroom with power and water, but something gnawing at the back of his psyche screams at him that no, there is something there. Something malignant, something that has been watching and waiting to spring for years and years and years. It is inevitable, and the square seems to have followed him throughout his life, in nearly every bathroom in nearly every home. Like a trapdoor to hell, only above and not under its victim.
The walls are tiled too. They reflect and refract the yellow light in eerie hues, a too many pairs of eyes in too many faces too distorted to call his own. A sound suddenly leaps from behind him, and it takes him a fraction of a heartbeat too long to realise it is only water dripping somewhere below, its descent echoed by the single drain opening. He jumps.
The chair is there. Sitting, quite obviously. Like some devilish contraption, growling and howling and moaning and drooling. As a child, the sound of it made his hair stand on end, and now he only raises an eyebrow at the memory, his fears conquered but not forgotten.
Only now are the clothes shed, piled like moulted snakeskin beside the sink. He moves towards to shower proper, and something pulls at his mind again. Something is still wrong.
He stops and turns a full circle, eyes darting, watching a hundred other pairs of eyes glance about wildly, wondering which pair would catch sight of the impending doom that is to befall him, finally.
Nothing.
The square is still closed, and it seems that if anything did emerge, it has all but disappeared again. Or it is behind him.
No.
One deep breath later, he steps into the shower, sliding the clear glass door closed behind him as he does, wincing as it wobbles shut angrily. The water is cold, but the chill he gets from knowing something is still so very wrong has got nothing to do with what is spewing and spurting from the shower head.
What is it?
In his mind, scenes from Psycho and Ju-On replay themselves over and over again. A silent killer with a shiny knife, or a disembodied hand, pale and grey. But there is no knife, and no hands except his own, of which are still empty, save for the shower head. Thankfully, the water has started to warm.
He looks above and behind him one final time, checking to see if for some strange reason the closed and locked window is not closed and locked anymore. Wouldn't want the neighbours to catch sight of more than what they bargained for when they signed the deed for a "house with a view".
And it hits him.
He can see.
He isn't supposed to be able to see. Not here. Not like that.
Almost too aghast to laugh, he steps out of the shower.
And removes his glasses.
The square is still there. Logic tells him it is merely an access to the wiring or plumbing that supplies the bathroom with power and water, but something gnawing at the back of his psyche screams at him that no, there is something there. Something malignant, something that has been watching and waiting to spring for years and years and years. It is inevitable, and the square seems to have followed him throughout his life, in nearly every bathroom in nearly every home. Like a trapdoor to hell, only above and not under its victim.
The walls are tiled too. They reflect and refract the yellow light in eerie hues, a too many pairs of eyes in too many faces too distorted to call his own. A sound suddenly leaps from behind him, and it takes him a fraction of a heartbeat too long to realise it is only water dripping somewhere below, its descent echoed by the single drain opening. He jumps.
The chair is there. Sitting, quite obviously. Like some devilish contraption, growling and howling and moaning and drooling. As a child, the sound of it made his hair stand on end, and now he only raises an eyebrow at the memory, his fears conquered but not forgotten.
Only now are the clothes shed, piled like moulted snakeskin beside the sink. He moves towards to shower proper, and something pulls at his mind again. Something is still wrong.
He stops and turns a full circle, eyes darting, watching a hundred other pairs of eyes glance about wildly, wondering which pair would catch sight of the impending doom that is to befall him, finally.
Nothing.
The square is still closed, and it seems that if anything did emerge, it has all but disappeared again. Or it is behind him.
No.
One deep breath later, he steps into the shower, sliding the clear glass door closed behind him as he does, wincing as it wobbles shut angrily. The water is cold, but the chill he gets from knowing something is still so very wrong has got nothing to do with what is spewing and spurting from the shower head.
What is it?
In his mind, scenes from Psycho and Ju-On replay themselves over and over again. A silent killer with a shiny knife, or a disembodied hand, pale and grey. But there is no knife, and no hands except his own, of which are still empty, save for the shower head. Thankfully, the water has started to warm.
He looks above and behind him one final time, checking to see if for some strange reason the closed and locked window is not closed and locked anymore. Wouldn't want the neighbours to catch sight of more than what they bargained for when they signed the deed for a "house with a view".
And it hits him.
He can see.
He isn't supposed to be able to see. Not here. Not like that.
Almost too aghast to laugh, he steps out of the shower.
And removes his glasses.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Head Scratch
Everyone's had their own "EH?!?" situation.
Like the time I sprayed chili on my windows.
I was recently made aware of a potentially big "EH?!?" situation by a friend of mine. Fairly new position for me, actually. I mean, I've had my share of weird and unimaginable scenarios, but this one blew me away.
Not in a good way, either.
Suffice it to say, I can't really elaborate on it here, to the undoubted dismay of the collected masses, so don't hold your breath. Just know that Naz is sitting here, scratching his head at the revelation.
Not in a good way, either.
It's weird, as you might well have deduced by now. A long time ago, I asked someone why people liked revealing so-called "secrets" to me. I thought it was just a passing trend that, opening up to Naz. But it seems to have come full-circle, and a few other "secrets" have made their way through whispering lips to my iPod-less ears.
Why? I don't quite know. It's not as if I'm in any position to exploit this information either. Not like I'm like that dude who got caught leaking the Coke recipe to Pepsi, or at least trying to. No, I'm just a fairly ordinary, if spectacularly modest and dazzlingly charming, guy. Sitting here, clicking through my news of Manchester United and WWE and Heroes.
And suddenly people come up to me (as much as someone can come up to you over MSN).
"Naz, Naz, I have to tell you something."
"Err, ok?"
"I mean, I have to tell someone this thing."
"Right."
And so on and so forth.
It's weird. Leaves me scratching my head.
I should charge some sort of retainer fee.
Like the time I sprayed chili on my windows.
I was recently made aware of a potentially big "EH?!?" situation by a friend of mine. Fairly new position for me, actually. I mean, I've had my share of weird and unimaginable scenarios, but this one blew me away.
Not in a good way, either.
Suffice it to say, I can't really elaborate on it here, to the undoubted dismay of the collected masses, so don't hold your breath. Just know that Naz is sitting here, scratching his head at the revelation.
Not in a good way, either.
It's weird, as you might well have deduced by now. A long time ago, I asked someone why people liked revealing so-called "secrets" to me. I thought it was just a passing trend that, opening up to Naz. But it seems to have come full-circle, and a few other "secrets" have made their way through whispering lips to my iPod-less ears.
Why? I don't quite know. It's not as if I'm in any position to exploit this information either. Not like I'm like that dude who got caught leaking the Coke recipe to Pepsi, or at least trying to. No, I'm just a fairly ordinary, if spectacularly modest and dazzlingly charming, guy. Sitting here, clicking through my news of Manchester United and WWE and Heroes.
And suddenly people come up to me (as much as someone can come up to you over MSN).
"Naz, Naz, I have to tell you something."
"Err, ok?"
"I mean, I have to tell someone this thing."
"Right."
And so on and so forth.
It's weird. Leaves me scratching my head.
I should charge some sort of retainer fee.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Chocolate Indulgence
Earlier on I posted something about the number 6. Some of you might not really get the significance of the simple digit, but I'll fill you in.I'm in love with someone. I have been for a little over 6 years now. She's always been there for me, and has always been the one who's been able to make me smile when I'm angry or upset, the one who can turn a bad day around.
I remember the day I hooked up with this particular person, it'll be a day I'll never forget for as long as I live. Looking back, it did seem a little dorky of me, what I did, but I'll keep telling myself it was all part of the mysterious charm of Naz.6th of May. Her birthday. And it happens to be the day we hooked up too. Now, you might think "Hey, that's spiffy. You don't have to get her two big gifts a year!"
But have you considered that I'd need to get her something monumental that one time? I hope I did the job this year...
Forgive me for being the less glamorous of the lot in the vast majority of the pictures I've brought myself to share to you guys here. I've never been exactly photogenic, and I don't think I ever will be. Still, a man's got to do what a man's got to do, and it was her party.Food was excellent, the parking a little cramped, and the puking almost non-existent, which was a minor miracle in itself. For which I am extremely thankful for!
So here's the final picture, and here's to remembering all the good times, and looking forward to many more.
To the girl I've loved for 6 years, and the woman I'll love forever more, I love you.
PS: To those extra-friendly guys reading this, the girls in the picture are all taken, especially the one in the middle.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
The Amazing Race
You are the last team to arrive.
But you're not eliminated, just discriminated. This isn't some reality show where groups of people try to get from Madagascar to Manhattan before the other teams. It's the other kind of race.
Nearly everyone has had their own experiences with the issue of racism. Some more than others. I'm technically an Indian, though I speak Malay and look fairly Chinese-y. Multiracial-man, I am. I won't begin telling you how many times some random person has babbled to me in Cantonese or Mandarin or Hokkein when I was younger and fairer.
Popular stand-up comedians Russel Peters and Carlos Mencia often speak of the various aspects of racism. Peters is much more tolerated by Mencia in general though, mainly because he doesn't have to scream and swear to get his point across. Others simply say it's becuase everyone hates the Mexican. Carlos Mencia is Honduran, of course.
When I was in my early teens, my class used to look forward to Physical Education (PE) lessons every week. Rather than boring runs and sit-ups, we usually managed to persuade our teacher to let us play soccer or basketball or even floorball.
"OK class, everyone here? Good. Today, we'll work on our running..."
(Groans and protests)
"OK, fine. Soccer then."
(Cheers)
"Right, teams. Chinese here, the rest, here. I'll play against the Chinese team.)
And the teacher was a Chinese dude. But it was all in good fun, and more often than not, the typical male Malay teenager is a better player than the average Chinese one at football. Basketball's a different matter, of course.
Alot of us are also familiar with the term manjan. For those who aren't, the term is kind of slang for Chinese folk. Some go as far as to extend its reach to encompass Koreans and Japanese too. Loosely translated, it can be interpreted as "yellow-skin", so you might understand how that goes.
Ah, the follies of youth. Where we had manjan vs non-manjan football games with regularity. Where curses of "You stupid manjan!" were as common as "Good afternoon, Sir."
Probably more common, come to think of it.
But I have my fair share of manj - err, I mean, Chinese friends, I think. I actually only know one other Malay guy in school actually. And yes, in case you protest, I'm Indian, but that's besides the point.
Why do people put so much emphasis on race? It's an interesting question. My father once asked me about the demographics of my class in Junior College, and when I revealed to him that there were only three "Malay" students (myself included), he promptly said "Good. You can study better."
Eh?
My dear late grandfather gave me a few words of wisdom as I was to be enlisted into the Army in 2004:
"Be careful in the army. Watch out for all the bad Chinese gangsters."
Right...
Most of us can take the odd racist joke or two. I've called a few people "damn yanks" or "bloody Aussies" and a few others. We all know racist jokes. Let's face it, racist jokes are usually the funniest kind. Besides sexually explicit ones.
Q: How do you stop a (insert random nationality here, eg Indian) from drowning?
A: Shoot him before he hits the water.
Q: How do you stop a Pakistani tank?
A: Shoot the people pushing it.
But enough of that. Most of us also have our own personal perceptions and stereotypes when dealing with members of different (or even the same) race. Only recently I was complaining to a group of friends (mostly Chinese) about the tendencies of Chinese youths to blast techno-crap from their neon Nokias, apparently basking in their ignorance of headphones. Many people in Singapore avoid certain areas at certain times because of the make-up of the crowd and the ensuing aromas that accompany it.
A friend of mine was asked a question a few days ago, and when he got it right he was to be awarded a prize. He got to choose between a cute teddy bear and a cap, and to the dismay of the females chittering amongst themselves, he chose the bear. Would you blame him, when he wears a turban? Another one of my Sikh friends once got called up in school for having long hair.
Even movies and other facets of the entertainment industry have had their own take on racism. Some more light-hearted than others, of course. If you can, catch Undercover Brother. It's better than Austin Powers. Russia has banned every single James Bond movie that I'm aware of. The Malaysian public was outraged by the portrayal of their homeland in Entrapment. Pocahontas. Harold and Kumar. The whole hip-hop genre.
I also remember the days of me being a regular patron of Yahoo pool. I had quite a run of form, and I only stopped because of a few aggravating experiences.
"ASL?"
"Oh, 16 M"
"Cool, 17 M NC"
"OK."
(After the game)
"GG man."
"Yeah, you too. Another one?"
"Sure, what's your name?"
"Naz."
"Naz?"
"Yerp, Nazreen."
"That doesn't sound very Christian."
"Well, it isn't."
"Jew?"
"No... I'm actually Muslim, Singaporean."
At which point the conversation either drifts to "Singapore? That's somewhere in Hong Kong right?" Or the alternative, which is even worse.
"Muslim? Fuck you, you fucking terrorist, burn in hell you asshole."
Stupid yanks. (Sorry!)
Are you a racist? It's an interesting question. I might feel that deep down, most of us are, to a certain extent. It's only natural, in a way. Birds of a feather, you know?
Of course, I've not really addressed the issue of racism, merely babbled again, as usual.
I'm out. And I'm Indian.
But you're not eliminated, just discriminated. This isn't some reality show where groups of people try to get from Madagascar to Manhattan before the other teams. It's the other kind of race.
Nearly everyone has had their own experiences with the issue of racism. Some more than others. I'm technically an Indian, though I speak Malay and look fairly Chinese-y. Multiracial-man, I am. I won't begin telling you how many times some random person has babbled to me in Cantonese or Mandarin or Hokkein when I was younger and fairer.
Popular stand-up comedians Russel Peters and Carlos Mencia often speak of the various aspects of racism. Peters is much more tolerated by Mencia in general though, mainly because he doesn't have to scream and swear to get his point across. Others simply say it's becuase everyone hates the Mexican. Carlos Mencia is Honduran, of course.
When I was in my early teens, my class used to look forward to Physical Education (PE) lessons every week. Rather than boring runs and sit-ups, we usually managed to persuade our teacher to let us play soccer or basketball or even floorball.
"OK class, everyone here? Good. Today, we'll work on our running..."
(Groans and protests)
"OK, fine. Soccer then."
(Cheers)
"Right, teams. Chinese here, the rest, here. I'll play against the Chinese team.)
And the teacher was a Chinese dude. But it was all in good fun, and more often than not, the typical male Malay teenager is a better player than the average Chinese one at football. Basketball's a different matter, of course.
Alot of us are also familiar with the term manjan. For those who aren't, the term is kind of slang for Chinese folk. Some go as far as to extend its reach to encompass Koreans and Japanese too. Loosely translated, it can be interpreted as "yellow-skin", so you might understand how that goes.
Ah, the follies of youth. Where we had manjan vs non-manjan football games with regularity. Where curses of "You stupid manjan!" were as common as "Good afternoon, Sir."
Probably more common, come to think of it.
But I have my fair share of manj - err, I mean, Chinese friends, I think. I actually only know one other Malay guy in school actually. And yes, in case you protest, I'm Indian, but that's besides the point.
Why do people put so much emphasis on race? It's an interesting question. My father once asked me about the demographics of my class in Junior College, and when I revealed to him that there were only three "Malay" students (myself included), he promptly said "Good. You can study better."
Eh?
My dear late grandfather gave me a few words of wisdom as I was to be enlisted into the Army in 2004:
"Be careful in the army. Watch out for all the bad Chinese gangsters."
Right...
Most of us can take the odd racist joke or two. I've called a few people "damn yanks" or "bloody Aussies" and a few others. We all know racist jokes. Let's face it, racist jokes are usually the funniest kind. Besides sexually explicit ones.
Q: How do you stop a (insert random nationality here, eg Indian) from drowning?
A: Shoot him before he hits the water.
Q: How do you stop a Pakistani tank?
A: Shoot the people pushing it.
But enough of that. Most of us also have our own personal perceptions and stereotypes when dealing with members of different (or even the same) race. Only recently I was complaining to a group of friends (mostly Chinese) about the tendencies of Chinese youths to blast techno-crap from their neon Nokias, apparently basking in their ignorance of headphones. Many people in Singapore avoid certain areas at certain times because of the make-up of the crowd and the ensuing aromas that accompany it.
A friend of mine was asked a question a few days ago, and when he got it right he was to be awarded a prize. He got to choose between a cute teddy bear and a cap, and to the dismay of the females chittering amongst themselves, he chose the bear. Would you blame him, when he wears a turban? Another one of my Sikh friends once got called up in school for having long hair.
Even movies and other facets of the entertainment industry have had their own take on racism. Some more light-hearted than others, of course. If you can, catch Undercover Brother. It's better than Austin Powers. Russia has banned every single James Bond movie that I'm aware of. The Malaysian public was outraged by the portrayal of their homeland in Entrapment. Pocahontas. Harold and Kumar. The whole hip-hop genre.
I also remember the days of me being a regular patron of Yahoo pool. I had quite a run of form, and I only stopped because of a few aggravating experiences.
"ASL?"
"Oh, 16 M"
"Cool, 17 M NC"
"OK."
(After the game)
"GG man."
"Yeah, you too. Another one?"
"Sure, what's your name?"
"Naz."
"Naz?"
"Yerp, Nazreen."
"That doesn't sound very Christian."
"Well, it isn't."
"Jew?"
"No... I'm actually Muslim, Singaporean."
At which point the conversation either drifts to "Singapore? That's somewhere in Hong Kong right?" Or the alternative, which is even worse.
"Muslim? Fuck you, you fucking terrorist, burn in hell you asshole."
Stupid yanks. (Sorry!)
Are you a racist? It's an interesting question. I might feel that deep down, most of us are, to a certain extent. It's only natural, in a way. Birds of a feather, you know?
Of course, I've not really addressed the issue of racism, merely babbled again, as usual.
I'm out. And I'm Indian.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Walk The Walk
A recent study has shown that Singaporeans are one of, if not the, world's fastest walkers.
Do you walk fast?
A part of me wasn't really surprised at the announcement, which of course made for a fairly interesting read when I did catch it enbedded between the half-page ads of slimming gadgets and hair implants.
Singaporeans, if anything, are kiasu. Wikipedia defines kiasu as "the fear of losing", which is pretty accurate I guess. Menopausal housewives with jade-covered fingers can be more daunting than The Undertaker when they want to grab that last free gift. Seriously.
So is it really shocking that we are a nation of power-walkers?
Everyone here is so obsessed with coming out on top, or at least keeping up. Kids barely into their puberty are lectured by their parents when they score a measly B grade on a class test, because the kid from the Wong family next door got a B+. Hordes of students and working adults crush everyone else on our public transport systems, defying the law of displacement when they squeeze into already-crowded buses and trains. Human sardine cans.
Myself, I usually walk fairly quickly too. Some might say that I don't have the best sense of direction, so the speed of me moving can be rather confusing. I try not to listen to the doubters, I just hate being inefficient. Same goes for eating. Why spend an hour munching on fries when I can finish the fries, burger and Coke in under three minutes?
There's a flip-side, of course.
I refuse to believe that the study ranks Singapore as THE fastest walking nation. I mean, sure, alot of people here are indeed kiasu and I wouldn't bat an eyelid if I see an elderly wheelchair-bound lady whoosh past just to save a few seconds on waiting time for the next train.
But there are so many people who just don't seem to get the concept of other people.
You know what I'm talking about. The ones that take their time walking. The ones that stroll along while you're fuming behind them. The ones you glare at from behind their backs, maybe clucking your tongue every now and then in the hope that that simple act will suddenly propel them to Brunei.
Of course, I get that sometimes you walk slowly. You don't sprint through an art gallery. You don't dash through the zoo. You don't bust a gut in the library.
But neither do you imitate a sloth at the foot of an escalator. Or start shuffling instead of striding when you see something sparkly in a shop-window, leaving the unfortunate souls behind you with a rather uncomfortable close-up of your rump.
It's just weird, and another one of my pet peeves, I guess. I told you guys before (and many times since) that I abhore crowds. Shopping, parades, clubs, whatever. Crowds. Anathema.
Especially when you're trying to get somewhere fast.
Do you walk fast?
A part of me wasn't really surprised at the announcement, which of course made for a fairly interesting read when I did catch it enbedded between the half-page ads of slimming gadgets and hair implants.
Singaporeans, if anything, are kiasu. Wikipedia defines kiasu as "the fear of losing", which is pretty accurate I guess. Menopausal housewives with jade-covered fingers can be more daunting than The Undertaker when they want to grab that last free gift. Seriously.
So is it really shocking that we are a nation of power-walkers?
Everyone here is so obsessed with coming out on top, or at least keeping up. Kids barely into their puberty are lectured by their parents when they score a measly B grade on a class test, because the kid from the Wong family next door got a B+. Hordes of students and working adults crush everyone else on our public transport systems, defying the law of displacement when they squeeze into already-crowded buses and trains. Human sardine cans.
Myself, I usually walk fairly quickly too. Some might say that I don't have the best sense of direction, so the speed of me moving can be rather confusing. I try not to listen to the doubters, I just hate being inefficient. Same goes for eating. Why spend an hour munching on fries when I can finish the fries, burger and Coke in under three minutes?
There's a flip-side, of course.
I refuse to believe that the study ranks Singapore as THE fastest walking nation. I mean, sure, alot of people here are indeed kiasu and I wouldn't bat an eyelid if I see an elderly wheelchair-bound lady whoosh past just to save a few seconds on waiting time for the next train.
But there are so many people who just don't seem to get the concept of other people.
You know what I'm talking about. The ones that take their time walking. The ones that stroll along while you're fuming behind them. The ones you glare at from behind their backs, maybe clucking your tongue every now and then in the hope that that simple act will suddenly propel them to Brunei.
Of course, I get that sometimes you walk slowly. You don't sprint through an art gallery. You don't dash through the zoo. You don't bust a gut in the library.
But neither do you imitate a sloth at the foot of an escalator. Or start shuffling instead of striding when you see something sparkly in a shop-window, leaving the unfortunate souls behind you with a rather uncomfortable close-up of your rump.
It's just weird, and another one of my pet peeves, I guess. I told you guys before (and many times since) that I abhore crowds. Shopping, parades, clubs, whatever. Crowds. Anathema.
Especially when you're trying to get somewhere fast.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
6
The number of the day.
It's said that almost everyone is connected to almost everyone else by "six degrees of separation"; the meaning being that if someone you know personally is one "step" away from you, and everyone that person knows is then two "steps", practically the whole world is connected by no more than six steps, in almost every case.
Six flags is one of, if not the, world's largest chain of amusement/theme parks. I've been to Magic Mountain when I was a kid. I remember taking the Ninja and not realising there was a loop. Yeah, it was over pretty quick. Quicker than a particular meeting between two people I know, something I overheard as I was praying that someone wouldn't puke.
This year's Rocky Balboa was the sixth installment of the popular Rocky series, arguably the platform which launched Sylvester Stallone's career. Let's face it, Demolition Man wasn't anything special.
Italian soccer club AC Milan (woo!) retired the number 6 from their playing squad a number of years ago in recognition of the years of service that legendary defender Franco Baresi gave the club, and the number is still unused to this day.
In Singapore, children are required to attend primary school. In most cases, this lasts six years and usually shapes the future of the child. I've seen my share of young geniuses and juvenile delinquents to safely say that such a statement isn't overly exaggerated.
Hannibal Lecter, named the most memorable villian in film history some time ago, suffered from a condition called polydactyly; his left hand had six fingers. The character, of course, was made famous by Anthony Hopkins in such movies as Silence of the Lambs. I highly recommend reading the book.
In cricket, "six" may refer to a kind of shot that's kinda like a home run in baseball. That's all I know about it. The most I've ever read about cricket was a section in The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy where Arthur is learning about the SEP field.
In mathematics, the number 6 is called a "perfect number". This is due to the sum of its proper divisions (1,2,3) equate to the number itself. The next one is 28, in case you're wondering.
In Chemistry, the element Carbon has an ato,mic mass of six. Carbon of course, is one of the most common elements in the galaxy. Living things all contain carbon.
Not to brag, but the 6 series is still parked in my house. I want to drive it very badly.
In any case, I'm glad to know that I don't need six degrees of separation to reach the girl I love.
And I don't need a roller-coaster to feel thrilled and excited. Just the right company.
Sometimes a relationship is like a tough boxer. Gets what looks like too many body-blows, but you can never count it out, it always comes back stronger.
Milan is called the fashion capital of the world. I have my own fashionista, my own diva.
There's almost nothing quite as warm as watching the one you love fall asleep in your arms. On your way to school.
Of course, some people (one girl in particular) doesn't need extra fingers to go around pinching and squeezing bits that weren't designed to be pinched and squeezed.
I prefer hockey over cricket anyway.
And I know another perfect figure that's living nearby.
Plus we do have our own chemistry.
And she's finally stopped nagging about wanting to be driven around.
Happy Birthday, baby.
It's said that almost everyone is connected to almost everyone else by "six degrees of separation"; the meaning being that if someone you know personally is one "step" away from you, and everyone that person knows is then two "steps", practically the whole world is connected by no more than six steps, in almost every case.
Six flags is one of, if not the, world's largest chain of amusement/theme parks. I've been to Magic Mountain when I was a kid. I remember taking the Ninja and not realising there was a loop. Yeah, it was over pretty quick. Quicker than a particular meeting between two people I know, something I overheard as I was praying that someone wouldn't puke.
This year's Rocky Balboa was the sixth installment of the popular Rocky series, arguably the platform which launched Sylvester Stallone's career. Let's face it, Demolition Man wasn't anything special.
Italian soccer club AC Milan (woo!) retired the number 6 from their playing squad a number of years ago in recognition of the years of service that legendary defender Franco Baresi gave the club, and the number is still unused to this day.
In Singapore, children are required to attend primary school. In most cases, this lasts six years and usually shapes the future of the child. I've seen my share of young geniuses and juvenile delinquents to safely say that such a statement isn't overly exaggerated.
Hannibal Lecter, named the most memorable villian in film history some time ago, suffered from a condition called polydactyly; his left hand had six fingers. The character, of course, was made famous by Anthony Hopkins in such movies as Silence of the Lambs. I highly recommend reading the book.
In cricket, "six" may refer to a kind of shot that's kinda like a home run in baseball. That's all I know about it. The most I've ever read about cricket was a section in The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy where Arthur is learning about the SEP field.
In mathematics, the number 6 is called a "perfect number". This is due to the sum of its proper divisions (1,2,3) equate to the number itself. The next one is 28, in case you're wondering.
In Chemistry, the element Carbon has an ato,mic mass of six. Carbon of course, is one of the most common elements in the galaxy. Living things all contain carbon.
Not to brag, but the 6 series is still parked in my house. I want to drive it very badly.
In any case, I'm glad to know that I don't need six degrees of separation to reach the girl I love.
And I don't need a roller-coaster to feel thrilled and excited. Just the right company.
Sometimes a relationship is like a tough boxer. Gets what looks like too many body-blows, but you can never count it out, it always comes back stronger.
Milan is called the fashion capital of the world. I have my own fashionista, my own diva.
There's almost nothing quite as warm as watching the one you love fall asleep in your arms. On your way to school.
Of course, some people (one girl in particular) doesn't need extra fingers to go around pinching and squeezing bits that weren't designed to be pinched and squeezed.
I prefer hockey over cricket anyway.
And I know another perfect figure that's living nearby.
Plus we do have our own chemistry.
And she's finally stopped nagging about wanting to be driven around.
Happy Birthday, baby.
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