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.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
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.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Mr. Strange
I'm sure most of you have your own stories of strange people living around you. The ones that behave irrationally, sound weird or just look a little off.
Today I met another one of Those People. Chinese male. Looks to be in his late forties or early fifties. Might have been a tad younger, though, just looks aged due to excessive drinking which is almost always a given. Short black hair, as usual. On a rickety bicycle. You don't call many bicycles "rickety", do you? This one was. It creaked even when it wasn't moving.
As he rolled along on his bike which had the largest wheels I have seen for some time, I noticed, to my horror, that he was also clad in a tight-fitting long-sleeved shirt. Buttoned up, including the collar and cuffs, despite not having a tie. Then I saw that said shirt was white. With blue-green polka-dots. Big ones. And he completed his outfit with a dirty pair of shorts that looked like he soils himself as a morning ritual and broken slippers. A look made all the more delightful by a tattoo of a huge grasshopper-like thing on his left thigh. Dragons and tigers and eagles and women I understand. But a bug? Not even a spider or scorpion?
As I recovered from being transfixed by the myriad of hues on his person, he started cursing and swearing in several Chinese dialects. Now, I don't speak very fluent Madarin or Hokkein, but I could tell that he was telling some imaginary spectre a few feet above his head to be a dirty mofo, to put it more eloquently.
I could only watch in amazement as he continued on his rickety bicycle and stopped again soon, only to repeat or resume his fit of swearing. A few days ago, I saw a special on Tourette's Syndrome, and if this guy is indeed sufferer, he has my sympathy. But even those victims had better colour co-ordination.
Just as I thought it couldn't get any worse, he stopped. The silence that ensued was eerie, broken only by the unexplained creak creak of the bicycle as he sat there, unmoving. Then he reached into hi back pocket, which was bulging. At first, given the state of the shorts he was weaing, I thought the worst, but he took out a phone.
Not a cell-phone. A phone. You know, one of those cordless ones you have in your living room? Yes, a cordless phone. And he proceeded to talk into it. Cursing and swearing, of course.
He rode off after a few moments, perhaps the reception was poor or he needed to relieve himself somewhere more fitting. But I was left scratching my head and wondering. WOndering to myself, asking myself one question.
"How in the hell do people like that go around in public?"
Of course, like I said before, there are so many like him, in one way or another. Everyone's a little bit crazy, some say. Remember, I'm the one that professed to having the urge to kick babies. Still, I'd wear something less garish if I do go over the edge, I'm sure.
Today I met another one of Those People. Chinese male. Looks to be in his late forties or early fifties. Might have been a tad younger, though, just looks aged due to excessive drinking which is almost always a given. Short black hair, as usual. On a rickety bicycle. You don't call many bicycles "rickety", do you? This one was. It creaked even when it wasn't moving.
As he rolled along on his bike which had the largest wheels I have seen for some time, I noticed, to my horror, that he was also clad in a tight-fitting long-sleeved shirt. Buttoned up, including the collar and cuffs, despite not having a tie. Then I saw that said shirt was white. With blue-green polka-dots. Big ones. And he completed his outfit with a dirty pair of shorts that looked like he soils himself as a morning ritual and broken slippers. A look made all the more delightful by a tattoo of a huge grasshopper-like thing on his left thigh. Dragons and tigers and eagles and women I understand. But a bug? Not even a spider or scorpion?
As I recovered from being transfixed by the myriad of hues on his person, he started cursing and swearing in several Chinese dialects. Now, I don't speak very fluent Madarin or Hokkein, but I could tell that he was telling some imaginary spectre a few feet above his head to be a dirty mofo, to put it more eloquently.
I could only watch in amazement as he continued on his rickety bicycle and stopped again soon, only to repeat or resume his fit of swearing. A few days ago, I saw a special on Tourette's Syndrome, and if this guy is indeed sufferer, he has my sympathy. But even those victims had better colour co-ordination.
Just as I thought it couldn't get any worse, he stopped. The silence that ensued was eerie, broken only by the unexplained creak creak of the bicycle as he sat there, unmoving. Then he reached into hi back pocket, which was bulging. At first, given the state of the shorts he was weaing, I thought the worst, but he took out a phone.
Not a cell-phone. A phone. You know, one of those cordless ones you have in your living room? Yes, a cordless phone. And he proceeded to talk into it. Cursing and swearing, of course.
He rode off after a few moments, perhaps the reception was poor or he needed to relieve himself somewhere more fitting. But I was left scratching my head and wondering. WOndering to myself, asking myself one question.
"How in the hell do people like that go around in public?"
Of course, like I said before, there are so many like him, in one way or another. Everyone's a little bit crazy, some say. Remember, I'm the one that professed to having the urge to kick babies. Still, I'd wear something less garish if I do go over the edge, I'm sure.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Cameras and the X-Chromosome
Just about everytime I'm out with the girlfriend, she needs to take pictures. I don't quite understand it. And I'm not alone.
The last time I went to the beach, the girls present were more concerned with who brought the camera than the lack of sunblock (much to the chagrin of my skin). Chances are, most gatherings or outings involving members of both genders fall along the same path sooner rather than later.
Nice restaurant. Ooo take a picture!
Fancy car. Picture picture!
Random friend showing up. Eh, take a picture!
New dress. Oh my god, picture!
And so on and so forth. Usually accompanied by uncontrollable giggling and fidgeting with the females in question doing their best to put up their best demure smile while talking at the same time. The guys, of course, are standing aside and looking at each other going "Eh?"
'Cept the one guy who has to play cameraman for a time.
Following which the girls in frame would grab the still-clicking camera from the stunned male and relegate him to insignificant fodder while they pore over the digital image, debating with each other on the apparent girth that the appliance has added to their waists and appendages.
The girls of course must take photos of everyone present. A group shot, couple shot, random trio shot, and more. It's as if they're going to war armed with a broomstick and a horn and the girls might just never see them again. I'd hate to break it to you, girls, but you can actually see pictures of people you know within 5 minutes of wanting to nowadays...
Ever see guys act the same way? Stumbling over each other to grab a camera?
No, not really. I've known one or two who like taking discreet shots of unsuspecting girls, especially the barely-clothed ones, but not much else. What drives girls to such ecstatic throes of picture-taking?
The first impulse, of course, would be vanity. Most would agree, I think. Girls like looking at themselves. Heck, guys like looking at girls too.
"Did you see the new photo uploaded yesterday?"
"Yes! Oh my God! Those jeans are so..."
"Exactly!"
No, you don't hear males talking like that.
Is there another reason? Insecurity on the part of the girls (or nonchalance/indifference from the guys)? Surely there is a reason for the usually reasonable females to pursue the taking of new pictures with such a passion that is almost holy.
Well, I guess it's just another part of the female psyche that us guys will never understand. Until then, I'll be making sure my Nokia still has some free memory for the inevitable new shot that's coming soon.
The last time I went to the beach, the girls present were more concerned with who brought the camera than the lack of sunblock (much to the chagrin of my skin). Chances are, most gatherings or outings involving members of both genders fall along the same path sooner rather than later.
Nice restaurant. Ooo take a picture!
Fancy car. Picture picture!
Random friend showing up. Eh, take a picture!
New dress. Oh my god, picture!
And so on and so forth. Usually accompanied by uncontrollable giggling and fidgeting with the females in question doing their best to put up their best demure smile while talking at the same time. The guys, of course, are standing aside and looking at each other going "Eh?"
'Cept the one guy who has to play cameraman for a time.
Following which the girls in frame would grab the still-clicking camera from the stunned male and relegate him to insignificant fodder while they pore over the digital image, debating with each other on the apparent girth that the appliance has added to their waists and appendages.
The girls of course must take photos of everyone present. A group shot, couple shot, random trio shot, and more. It's as if they're going to war armed with a broomstick and a horn and the girls might just never see them again. I'd hate to break it to you, girls, but you can actually see pictures of people you know within 5 minutes of wanting to nowadays...
Ever see guys act the same way? Stumbling over each other to grab a camera?
No, not really. I've known one or two who like taking discreet shots of unsuspecting girls, especially the barely-clothed ones, but not much else. What drives girls to such ecstatic throes of picture-taking?
The first impulse, of course, would be vanity. Most would agree, I think. Girls like looking at themselves. Heck, guys like looking at girls too.
"Did you see the new photo uploaded yesterday?"
"Yes! Oh my God! Those jeans are so..."
"Exactly!"
No, you don't hear males talking like that.
Is there another reason? Insecurity on the part of the girls (or nonchalance/indifference from the guys)? Surely there is a reason for the usually reasonable females to pursue the taking of new pictures with such a passion that is almost holy.
Well, I guess it's just another part of the female psyche that us guys will never understand. Until then, I'll be making sure my Nokia still has some free memory for the inevitable new shot that's coming soon.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Day in the Life
Ring, ring
Well, not the classic ringing of a telephone that really qualifies as ringing, it was more of a slightly annoying jingling. Stretching wearily, he twisted round and found that the telephone was out of reach. What use is a cordless phone when it's perpetually, well, far?
"Hello?"
(Middle-aged Chinese woman voice, the kind that tries to sound "educated") "Yes hellooooo."
"Err, yes?"
"Yes, hellloooo, someone called me?"
"No, not really."
"Yes, someone called me."
"I can assure you, you are mistaken."
"Noooooo, someone called my handphone, I have the number now 62429342."
"Well, this isn't that number, it's 624-"
And the bitch hung up. He stared down at the plastic appliance in his palm, wondering how people get like that. If her number wasn't hidden, he'd call her back, tell her what he was actually thinking while negotiating with someone who was, in all likelyhood, a delusional fake-accented spinster. The kind whose fingers seem to have been dipped in jade.
"Hellooooo, is this the woman who called me earlier?"
"Yes?"
"Fuck off."
That's what he felt like doing, but nein. So he continued flipping through the channels, trying to figure out if the sexual impotency of snails was more interesting than reruns of Falcon Beach or Sienfeld, which he's always hated anyway. He settled on the snails, out of morbid curiosity more than anything else. Really. Apparently prozac leads to hermaphrodite snails switching to their less feminine side, but the enlargement of their genitalia leads to the snail equivalent of a vasectomy.
Later in the day, he was dealing with a kind who he's been paid to tutor. The kid's nice enough, and going to his home brings back fond memories of times where school bags were laquered to the ground and brooms were used as makeshift javelins during class.
Only problem he faced was a rather delicate one; how do you tutor a ten-year-old when he struggles to comprehend the meaning of fence. And not even the sport. He takes a week to understand the fundamental difference between freezing and evaporation, even after sticking his head in the fridge to show him that yes, ice is cold.
Getting paid is always a nice feeling, though, and he leaves the place with a sense of acheivement and money in his wallet. The kind that folds, not clinks. He boards the bus, noting the crowd, as usual, includes a bunch of belligerent teenagers dealing with puberty the only way they know how; talking loudly about sexual acts that they can hardly spell, yet alone fathom. The bus would not be complete, of course, without a few elderly folk. Elderly folk who believe that their groceries are more deserving of a seat than a pregnant lady. In their defense, she's just gone out shopping anyway, so screw chivalry, he thinks.
Smelly guy takes the seat next to his. He just has to. The combination of body odour and alcohol gives rise to a particularly pungent trip home, and as usual Smelly Guy is also yapping away on his stone-age Motorola, which looks like it could anchor a battleship.
Getting home, he's in a rush. Has to dress up for a party of sorts. It's a "surprise" birthday party, in that, well, I'm not sure. It turned out well enough. Italian food and candles, wine and Aldo bags being exchanged in between over-excited tittering and the ripping of wrapping paper (newspaper).
Off to The Balcony, it's his first time there. He spots the jacuzzi, and the girls settle down to plan future bashes while the guys sit back to talk about weird naked people in the army. He passes when offered a drink, alcohol has never been his thing, consumed or inhaled.
Finally, back home. For good. Well, he isn't alone, so he's got to walk her home later. Didn't even need one of those cheesy pick-up lines. Something like "Baby, you're like a dictionary, you add meaning to my life." But of course, he's never needed one. No, he isn't some dashingly handsome heart-throb, but he's been with the girl for close to six years now, and not a day goes by where his heart doesn't pound against his chest, thinking of what in the hell to get her as an anniversary present.
He walks her home after some quiet time, especially quiet. Then walks home alone in the empty streets of his neighbourhood. No-one's awake at 2AM there anyway when there isn't a big 7-1 drubbing to catch of ESPN. So he walks home alone, the stray cats keeping him company with their strangled mewling as he realises the next day's already begun.
Well, not the classic ringing of a telephone that really qualifies as ringing, it was more of a slightly annoying jingling. Stretching wearily, he twisted round and found that the telephone was out of reach. What use is a cordless phone when it's perpetually, well, far?
"Hello?"
(Middle-aged Chinese woman voice, the kind that tries to sound "educated") "Yes hellooooo."
"Err, yes?"
"Yes, hellloooo, someone called me?"
"No, not really."
"Yes, someone called me."
"I can assure you, you are mistaken."
"Noooooo, someone called my handphone, I have the number now 62429342."
"Well, this isn't that number, it's 624-"
And the bitch hung up. He stared down at the plastic appliance in his palm, wondering how people get like that. If her number wasn't hidden, he'd call her back, tell her what he was actually thinking while negotiating with someone who was, in all likelyhood, a delusional fake-accented spinster. The kind whose fingers seem to have been dipped in jade.
"Hellooooo, is this the woman who called me earlier?"
"Yes?"
"Fuck off."
That's what he felt like doing, but nein. So he continued flipping through the channels, trying to figure out if the sexual impotency of snails was more interesting than reruns of Falcon Beach or Sienfeld, which he's always hated anyway. He settled on the snails, out of morbid curiosity more than anything else. Really. Apparently prozac leads to hermaphrodite snails switching to their less feminine side, but the enlargement of their genitalia leads to the snail equivalent of a vasectomy.
Later in the day, he was dealing with a kind who he's been paid to tutor. The kid's nice enough, and going to his home brings back fond memories of times where school bags were laquered to the ground and brooms were used as makeshift javelins during class.
Only problem he faced was a rather delicate one; how do you tutor a ten-year-old when he struggles to comprehend the meaning of fence. And not even the sport. He takes a week to understand the fundamental difference between freezing and evaporation, even after sticking his head in the fridge to show him that yes, ice is cold.
Getting paid is always a nice feeling, though, and he leaves the place with a sense of acheivement and money in his wallet. The kind that folds, not clinks. He boards the bus, noting the crowd, as usual, includes a bunch of belligerent teenagers dealing with puberty the only way they know how; talking loudly about sexual acts that they can hardly spell, yet alone fathom. The bus would not be complete, of course, without a few elderly folk. Elderly folk who believe that their groceries are more deserving of a seat than a pregnant lady. In their defense, she's just gone out shopping anyway, so screw chivalry, he thinks.
Smelly guy takes the seat next to his. He just has to. The combination of body odour and alcohol gives rise to a particularly pungent trip home, and as usual Smelly Guy is also yapping away on his stone-age Motorola, which looks like it could anchor a battleship.
Getting home, he's in a rush. Has to dress up for a party of sorts. It's a "surprise" birthday party, in that, well, I'm not sure. It turned out well enough. Italian food and candles, wine and Aldo bags being exchanged in between over-excited tittering and the ripping of wrapping paper (newspaper).
Off to The Balcony, it's his first time there. He spots the jacuzzi, and the girls settle down to plan future bashes while the guys sit back to talk about weird naked people in the army. He passes when offered a drink, alcohol has never been his thing, consumed or inhaled.
Finally, back home. For good. Well, he isn't alone, so he's got to walk her home later. Didn't even need one of those cheesy pick-up lines. Something like "Baby, you're like a dictionary, you add meaning to my life." But of course, he's never needed one. No, he isn't some dashingly handsome heart-throb, but he's been with the girl for close to six years now, and not a day goes by where his heart doesn't pound against his chest, thinking of what in the hell to get her as an anniversary present.
He walks her home after some quiet time, especially quiet. Then walks home alone in the empty streets of his neighbourhood. No-one's awake at 2AM there anyway when there isn't a big 7-1 drubbing to catch of ESPN. So he walks home alone, the stray cats keeping him company with their strangled mewling as he realises the next day's already begun.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Where There's Smoke...
I know many people who indulge themselves in a ciggy from time to time. Members of my immediate and extended family, close friends and schoolmates. Some people just have that "smoker" look or vibe, you know? Others, when you see them light up, you go "Oh really?"The image on the right here isn't exactly a glamourous shot of someone, and I apologise if I've spoilt your appetite or mood, but if you live in Singapore (and the majority of readers at this point of time do), you've seen it before anyway.
For the rest, let me fill you in. The Singapore government runs, from time to time, various "anti-smoking" campaigns. Of course, they also encourage youngsters to marry and copulate safely to enhance our declining birth rates, not to say lah and that chewing gum is evil, but I digress.
This isn't the first time that "shock treatment" has been used by the Ministry of Health to "coax" our citizens to give up the habit. In 1999, similar tactics were employed, with a number of television segments showing scence from what appears to be an autopsy, whereby the surgeon/patholigst removes a random organ from a (presumably-dead) body, and shows us why it's, well, screwed. Brain, lung, artery. Clot, tar, blockage.
Personally, I don't have anything against the whole thing. True, it might be an eyesore, and some parents have actually voiced their concerns that such scenes may be traumatising to younger minds, but I actually think that it works, to an extent.
I don't smoke, myself. Never have, never will. There are cooler ways to die, as some might say. A recent episode of My Name is Earl eventually touched on the fact that smoking lietrally takes minutes to years of your life, a fact that nearly everyone knows already.
A few people have asked me why I don't smoke. I mean, I have a readily available stash of Marlboro Reds just metres from my room, and it's not like either of my parents would object, seeing as how I go and buy cigs for them anyway. Same goes for drinking. Nearly everyone I know who drinks has asked me why I don't. Religion aside, I lump the argument under the same one I've used for that of smoking. I don't quite see the point. And besides, I hate the smell of alcohol. There we go again, digressing.
So where am I? Oh yes. I don't smoke, don't drink. Don't take drugs either, if you're wondering. Just caffeine I guess. Like I said, I don't quite see the point. I get that some get a "high" from vodka martinis and others use nicotine as a way to relieve tension, but doesn't the addiction have a strain on your wallets? I'm no expert on the finances of vices, but even the cheapest smokes cost something. And you run out of them pretty soon when your posse moves in a hazy nimbus too. Don't get me started on pricey drinks at bars, clubs or pubs. A damn Coke costs about as much as a cab home, so I'll just sit and inhale your fumes, thank you very much.
Still, I guess it's a business, and a lucrative one. Jessica Alba promoted Tiger Beer, and she always gets a thumbs-up from Naz. Calsberg usually has not-too-stupid TV ads, so no real complaints there. Malboro has their name emblazoned in bar-code on the Ferrari F1 racing team cars.
What does all of this lead to? Just a question from me really. Even though I do kinda expect the same old answers anyway.
To the smokers (and drinkers) out there, I ask you Why?
Most everyone knows it's bad for you. Cancer, tumors, liver and kidney failure. Bad breath and puking. Still, it goes on. No offence, but it's called intoxicated for a reason. A wise man once told me "You don't smoke a cigarette, it smokes you. You're just the sucker on the end of it."
Then he went to light his third in 5 minutes while taking a swig of Tiger.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Emo Heroes
Singaporean Jessica Lim wrote to our local papers yesterday, talking about how "Emo Heroes" are being popularised in this day and age. In it, she suggested that our acceptance of such "antiheroes" is a mirror to our society today. I'm sure you all have had your own experiences with "emo" kids, either first-hand or otherwise. Here's my take on it.
After reading Jessica Lim's take on the character Michael Scofield from the hit TV show Prison Break, I do have a few rebuttals of my own.
Firstly, him "giving up his future" to save his brother would, of course, be unthinkable to all but the most romanticised of individuals; and indeed the character's behaviour was questioned time and time again during the course of the first season of the show. "Pope", the prison warden, confronted him with the fact, and it was also mentioned how the Scofield character actually suffers from a sort of clinical psychological disorder which implores him to help others (hence his marrying the "hooker" to let her stay in the country, albeit it was part og his "master plan").
Jessica's next point, on the relative short-sightedness of his tattooing the prison blueprints on his back instead of his thighs, also made me raise an eyebrow or two. The high-security prison that he was sent to (and that he helped design) was always portrayed as a state-of-the-art facility, as efficient as it is sprawlingly huge. The human back is perhaps the largest expanse of skin available to a person, and since the whole facility is so big (and remember, he bothered to include detailed blueprints, with power cables, pipes, etc), it would not be exactly feasible to have it printed on his thighs.
Another point to consider about Jessica's suggestion of having the blueprints tattooed on his thighs would be the simple fact that he would have to remove his pants to take a look at them. Now, I'm no expert on the socio-relations and culture within prisons, but I would imagine that while walking around shirtless is accepted, or even common, sitting and staring at your lap when you don't have your pants on would attracts some unwanted attention.
Anti-heroes have always existed. Batman, the "Dark Knight", has never been protrayed as the typical hero. Some even call him the flipside of Superman. Marvel's Wolverine, of X-Men fame, has also been the posterboy for the company for many, many years. While the X-Men movies may not be totally accurate when compared to the original comics, the "anti-hero" portrayal of Wolverine is still there to be seen. Others which fit into this mould would include Blade, Punisher and Todd McFarlane's Spawn.
So while it is indeed a little evident that the "emo" lifestyle seems to be growing more popular (something which is a sort of paradox in itself), "emo heroes" as Jessica Lim branded them, have existed for a while. At the very least, Michael Scofield has kindred spirits in Heros' Isaac Mendez (drug addict), Lost's Sawyer (swindler), Vic Mackey (vigilante cop) from The Shield and even Horatio Crane from CSI:Miami.
Do this "emo heroes" actually influence and promote the "emo" culture today? Television, and other forms of mass media, have always been attributed to the development of culture within a society. In this day and age, where near everyone has the ability to watch anything they want to, be it Barney the Dinosaur or Will and Grace, the argument seems more valid than it might have been in the past. Satellite and cable television, the Internet, simple imports of DVD's and VCD's (pirated or not) allow anyone the freedom to view whatever they please.
The audience however, is not exactly "passive". I seriously doubt anyone in their right mind (remember, Scofield hasa psychological disorder) would commit a poorly conceived crime just to get into prison to break out his wrongfully convicted brother. The same goes for those who argue that "violent" television shows (and video games) promote similarly violent behaviour in teens. The "Dodo bird experiment" (where a group of toddlers are allowed to watch cartoons for a time before being left with a stuffed toy) would suggest that younger children are more impressionable, but that is only natural. They don't know any better; they believe in Santa and the Tooth Fairy. They think Barney is an actual dinosaur and that sponges with pants live underwater.
Lastly, Jessica Lim posed the question, "Can't a hero be cute, brainy, kind - and smart?". I believe it's rather redundant, seeing as how the one she antagonised the most fits the bill perfectly. For three of the four categories anyway, my female friends tell me he's cute, I don't quite know. Of course, the definition of "smart" differs, but you get my point.
After reading Jessica Lim's take on the character Michael Scofield from the hit TV show Prison Break, I do have a few rebuttals of my own.
Firstly, him "giving up his future" to save his brother would, of course, be unthinkable to all but the most romanticised of individuals; and indeed the character's behaviour was questioned time and time again during the course of the first season of the show. "Pope", the prison warden, confronted him with the fact, and it was also mentioned how the Scofield character actually suffers from a sort of clinical psychological disorder which implores him to help others (hence his marrying the "hooker" to let her stay in the country, albeit it was part og his "master plan").
Jessica's next point, on the relative short-sightedness of his tattooing the prison blueprints on his back instead of his thighs, also made me raise an eyebrow or two. The high-security prison that he was sent to (and that he helped design) was always portrayed as a state-of-the-art facility, as efficient as it is sprawlingly huge. The human back is perhaps the largest expanse of skin available to a person, and since the whole facility is so big (and remember, he bothered to include detailed blueprints, with power cables, pipes, etc), it would not be exactly feasible to have it printed on his thighs.
Another point to consider about Jessica's suggestion of having the blueprints tattooed on his thighs would be the simple fact that he would have to remove his pants to take a look at them. Now, I'm no expert on the socio-relations and culture within prisons, but I would imagine that while walking around shirtless is accepted, or even common, sitting and staring at your lap when you don't have your pants on would attracts some unwanted attention.
Anti-heroes have always existed. Batman, the "Dark Knight", has never been protrayed as the typical hero. Some even call him the flipside of Superman. Marvel's Wolverine, of X-Men fame, has also been the posterboy for the company for many, many years. While the X-Men movies may not be totally accurate when compared to the original comics, the "anti-hero" portrayal of Wolverine is still there to be seen. Others which fit into this mould would include Blade, Punisher and Todd McFarlane's Spawn.
So while it is indeed a little evident that the "emo" lifestyle seems to be growing more popular (something which is a sort of paradox in itself), "emo heroes" as Jessica Lim branded them, have existed for a while. At the very least, Michael Scofield has kindred spirits in Heros' Isaac Mendez (drug addict), Lost's Sawyer (swindler), Vic Mackey (vigilante cop) from The Shield and even Horatio Crane from CSI:Miami.
Do this "emo heroes" actually influence and promote the "emo" culture today? Television, and other forms of mass media, have always been attributed to the development of culture within a society. In this day and age, where near everyone has the ability to watch anything they want to, be it Barney the Dinosaur or Will and Grace, the argument seems more valid than it might have been in the past. Satellite and cable television, the Internet, simple imports of DVD's and VCD's (pirated or not) allow anyone the freedom to view whatever they please.
The audience however, is not exactly "passive". I seriously doubt anyone in their right mind (remember, Scofield hasa psychological disorder) would commit a poorly conceived crime just to get into prison to break out his wrongfully convicted brother. The same goes for those who argue that "violent" television shows (and video games) promote similarly violent behaviour in teens. The "Dodo bird experiment" (where a group of toddlers are allowed to watch cartoons for a time before being left with a stuffed toy) would suggest that younger children are more impressionable, but that is only natural. They don't know any better; they believe in Santa and the Tooth Fairy. They think Barney is an actual dinosaur and that sponges with pants live underwater.
Lastly, Jessica Lim posed the question, "Can't a hero be cute, brainy, kind - and smart?". I believe it's rather redundant, seeing as how the one she antagonised the most fits the bill perfectly. For three of the four categories anyway, my female friends tell me he's cute, I don't quite know. Of course, the definition of "smart" differs, but you get my point.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Wow!
I dyed my hair today. Yeah. Someone convinced me to do it, after I cut it in a way I've never worn it before. So yes, highlights. Wonder how everyone will react. I've never dyed my hair before, though some of my friends have peered at my pseudo-goatee and asked if I have. For some strange reason, some of my facial hair sprouts in colours other than black, lending me the visage of one of those people who look like they drool bleach.
It was a big decision, of course, but you might blame it on the adrenaline I was high on after I found a dropped wallet with 200 bucks in it and no identificaton. Everyone was just walking over it, so I picked it up. Smooth leather, crocodile, I think. Lying there, calling to me with the allure of sweet mysterious money. The wallet itself wasn't particularly impressive, save that it was made of leather. Didn't smell. I pondered going to the "Lost and Found" department, or the police. And say what?
"Hello, I found a wallet with two hundred bucks and no name..."
"Err... right. Give it here. We'll... take care of it."
"OK!"
No, not really. I'll keep this money, thank you very much. I'm broke anyway.
It was a wonder I saw it to begin with, to be honest. I was without my glasses today, trying out these coloured contacts. Now, alot of you may or may not know, but I'm very very squeamish about my eyes. About eyes in general. When I see someone else inserting their contacts, I feel like there's a bug under my eyelid. So it was not without great hesitation that I undertook such a leap. Not like the red lenses that an old friend of mine wanted, of course. I'm neither a Dracula nor Silas from The Da Vinci Code, and I didn't think red would bring out my, err, eyes. So subtle shade of grey-brown.
On the way home from my haircut, fiddling with my new-found fortune and making sure my retinas don't fall out, I saw him. My cat. My Zig! He ran away a while back, and I've always seen him lurking about, dashing away from me at times. It's always made me more than a little confused. For what could lead a cat, who enjoys the life of a king, to run away from the one that pampers him to no end? But this time, this time it was different. He saw me, as I saw him. He walked up to me slowly, sniffing my fingers and followed me home!
It's also time for Wrestlemania 23. A while back, I wrote a little something about my obsession for pro-wrestling. I don't need to repeat myself, do I? I like watching it, give me a break. But it's Wrestlemania. The yearly event, the big one. This year's one might not be as spectacular. And I get to watch it live! Sometimes its great to have American contacts who get illegal cable and stream video over the Web. I'm so happy.
So yeah, cat, hair, contacts, wrestling and new cash. Not much more one could ask for, eh?
But lo and behold! What do I see today in the daily tabloids? Why, if it isn't a nicely written article about the idiocy of the selection process within the English football team! The very one I wrote not that long back! And an E-Mail from that paper, informing me about openings at their sports desk! Now, I like writing, if you haven't already guessed. I particularly like writing about sports and football when I'm in the mood, and I really abhore certain "journalists" that are employed in Singapore this day. They couldn't tell Maradona from Madonna sometimes.
Today's turning out to be one of the best days of my life.
Too bad it's April Fool's.
It was a big decision, of course, but you might blame it on the adrenaline I was high on after I found a dropped wallet with 200 bucks in it and no identificaton. Everyone was just walking over it, so I picked it up. Smooth leather, crocodile, I think. Lying there, calling to me with the allure of sweet mysterious money. The wallet itself wasn't particularly impressive, save that it was made of leather. Didn't smell. I pondered going to the "Lost and Found" department, or the police. And say what?
"Hello, I found a wallet with two hundred bucks and no name..."
"Err... right. Give it here. We'll... take care of it."
"OK!"
No, not really. I'll keep this money, thank you very much. I'm broke anyway.
It was a wonder I saw it to begin with, to be honest. I was without my glasses today, trying out these coloured contacts. Now, alot of you may or may not know, but I'm very very squeamish about my eyes. About eyes in general. When I see someone else inserting their contacts, I feel like there's a bug under my eyelid. So it was not without great hesitation that I undertook such a leap. Not like the red lenses that an old friend of mine wanted, of course. I'm neither a Dracula nor Silas from The Da Vinci Code, and I didn't think red would bring out my, err, eyes. So subtle shade of grey-brown.
On the way home from my haircut, fiddling with my new-found fortune and making sure my retinas don't fall out, I saw him. My cat. My Zig! He ran away a while back, and I've always seen him lurking about, dashing away from me at times. It's always made me more than a little confused. For what could lead a cat, who enjoys the life of a king, to run away from the one that pampers him to no end? But this time, this time it was different. He saw me, as I saw him. He walked up to me slowly, sniffing my fingers and followed me home!
It's also time for Wrestlemania 23. A while back, I wrote a little something about my obsession for pro-wrestling. I don't need to repeat myself, do I? I like watching it, give me a break. But it's Wrestlemania. The yearly event, the big one. This year's one might not be as spectacular. And I get to watch it live! Sometimes its great to have American contacts who get illegal cable and stream video over the Web. I'm so happy.
So yeah, cat, hair, contacts, wrestling and new cash. Not much more one could ask for, eh?
But lo and behold! What do I see today in the daily tabloids? Why, if it isn't a nicely written article about the idiocy of the selection process within the English football team! The very one I wrote not that long back! And an E-Mail from that paper, informing me about openings at their sports desk! Now, I like writing, if you haven't already guessed. I particularly like writing about sports and football when I'm in the mood, and I really abhore certain "journalists" that are employed in Singapore this day. They couldn't tell Maradona from Madonna sometimes.
Today's turning out to be one of the best days of my life.
Too bad it's April Fool's.
Hard To Say Goodbye
You know that really drawn out balland by Andrea Bocelli, usually performed as a duet with someone else? Yeah, this isn't about that.
We all say goodbye sometime or other. Sometimes the "goodbye" is more of a "see you later" and a "nice knowing you". Sometimes its sudden, sometimes its been put off for too long. Sometimes you do so with more than a tinge of sadness, and other times it's with relief and the underlying sentiment of "good riddance".
I'll be saying adios to my Playstation 2 in the near future, if I can find a suitable buyer. It's in good working condition, with two working PS2 controllers and a memory card. But damn, we've been through alot. This set was the one that showed me the glory that was Winning Eleven, and gave me the best video-game wrestling match (Benoit vs Angle, ultimate submission) that I've ever had. This was the set that saw me and a good buddy of mine fight back from 4-0 down to win a match 7-4, leading to half of the losing team, well, losing it and jumping up and down on my bed screaming "What the f*%#!!!". This was the console that gave me and my brother so many NOS-powered great races through the midnight streets of a virtual city. That saw so many epic battles of a boy against a giant, of mutants and superheroes, Jedi, jet-skis, motorbikes, crazy murderers, ice hockey and dragons.
It's a far cry from the humble beginnings of the old Sega Megadrive that I had when I was little. Back then, we marvelled at 2-D Sonic the Hedgehog and Street Fighter. We gasped and sputtered when Sub-Zero super-uppercutted Sonya into the ceiling in Mortal Kombat. We cheered and danced in the livingroom when we brought Italy a last-gasp winner in the final of the FIFA International tournament. Pit Fighter and Streets of Rage seemed to be the pinnacle of action videogames.
Still, I guess someone else might be happier with good ol' PS2. It's sitting on my room floor, a little dusty but still working great, for when me and my brother popped in Marvel: Ultimate Alliance for a bit of fun, we still got our asses handed to us by gigantic flying fireballs. It was the first time we ever failed a mission in the series. We took it as a sign. Laying down the controllers gingerly and watching Captain America and Spiderman flail about after Blade and Thor had already fallen, we turned to each other before coming to the same conclusion: End of an era.
A few of my friends begged me not to sell it. They so love to come over for a game or two when citcumstances permit. But I'll have to disappoint them, the PS2 would be leaving the building, if al goes well. I need the cash anyway.
So, any buyers?
Sony Playstation 2, Modified *hint hint*
2 working PS 2 Controllers, Memory Card
Wide selection of games which include:
Every WWE Smackdown! Except Just Bring It
Prince of Persia: The Two Thrones
Fahrenheit
Winning Eleven 10
Pro Evolution 5
Marvel: Ultimate Alliance
X-Men: Legends
X-Men: Legends 2
Gran Tourismo 3
Need For Speed: Underground
FIFA Street 2
Shadow of the Colossus
Gameshark 2v3
And others!
We all say goodbye sometime or other. Sometimes the "goodbye" is more of a "see you later" and a "nice knowing you". Sometimes its sudden, sometimes its been put off for too long. Sometimes you do so with more than a tinge of sadness, and other times it's with relief and the underlying sentiment of "good riddance".
I'll be saying adios to my Playstation 2 in the near future, if I can find a suitable buyer. It's in good working condition, with two working PS2 controllers and a memory card. But damn, we've been through alot. This set was the one that showed me the glory that was Winning Eleven, and gave me the best video-game wrestling match (Benoit vs Angle, ultimate submission) that I've ever had. This was the set that saw me and a good buddy of mine fight back from 4-0 down to win a match 7-4, leading to half of the losing team, well, losing it and jumping up and down on my bed screaming "What the f*%#!!!". This was the console that gave me and my brother so many NOS-powered great races through the midnight streets of a virtual city. That saw so many epic battles of a boy against a giant, of mutants and superheroes, Jedi, jet-skis, motorbikes, crazy murderers, ice hockey and dragons.
It's a far cry from the humble beginnings of the old Sega Megadrive that I had when I was little. Back then, we marvelled at 2-D Sonic the Hedgehog and Street Fighter. We gasped and sputtered when Sub-Zero super-uppercutted Sonya into the ceiling in Mortal Kombat. We cheered and danced in the livingroom when we brought Italy a last-gasp winner in the final of the FIFA International tournament. Pit Fighter and Streets of Rage seemed to be the pinnacle of action videogames.
Still, I guess someone else might be happier with good ol' PS2. It's sitting on my room floor, a little dusty but still working great, for when me and my brother popped in Marvel: Ultimate Alliance for a bit of fun, we still got our asses handed to us by gigantic flying fireballs. It was the first time we ever failed a mission in the series. We took it as a sign. Laying down the controllers gingerly and watching Captain America and Spiderman flail about after Blade and Thor had already fallen, we turned to each other before coming to the same conclusion: End of an era.
A few of my friends begged me not to sell it. They so love to come over for a game or two when citcumstances permit. But I'll have to disappoint them, the PS2 would be leaving the building, if al goes well. I need the cash anyway.
So, any buyers?
Sony Playstation 2, Modified *hint hint*
2 working PS 2 Controllers, Memory Card
Wide selection of games which include:
Every WWE Smackdown! Except Just Bring It
Prince of Persia: The Two Thrones
Fahrenheit
Winning Eleven 10
Pro Evolution 5
Marvel: Ultimate Alliance
X-Men: Legends
X-Men: Legends 2
Gran Tourismo 3
Need For Speed: Underground
FIFA Street 2
Shadow of the Colossus
Gameshark 2v3
And others!
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Sleepless in Kembangan
It's 8:45 AM now as I'm sitting here in front of my Vaio. Just got out of the shower, heavy-lidded and slightly damp. I've been away for about five hours now.
I didn't wake up before four in the morning to study, or to catch something on TV. I just woke up. After sleeping for all of two hours after failing to get to sleep the night before.
While I'm writing this, I'm trying to sign in on MSN, maybe some other poor soul is around, equally bored. Heck, I might even agree to a game of Minesweeper Flags! But no, error after error means that I won't be appearing Busy on MSN today, in the hope that it might deter some pesky individuals who chitter on and on about how long they haven't seen me.
Ah, backache. Nothing quite like the exquisite soreness that mysteriously materialises one fine day. It's like a long-lost and unwanted relative, come visiting from somewhere far and away. You don't really know how it got there, and as long as it's there, you suffer. And you don't quite know how to get rid of it either.
When I opened my eyes at 3:45 this morning, I thought it was maybe about seven in the morning. The dull hazy light seeping through my curtains attested to that. Of course, I didn't realise, in the groggy state that I was, that that light was probably the excessive lamps lining the apartment blocks nearby that are lit during the less naturally-bright hours.
So I switched my TV on. Flatscreen, you see. And was treated to some random documentary about Elephants, I think it was. Maybe asteroids. Anyway, flipping through the channels, I managed to catch a glimpse of Vince McMahon being pushed over by Donald Trump, and lacking any suitable sports programming at the time, I turned to HBO. Because Star Movies was broadcasting Creep and there is only so many times you can watch a deformed psychopathic killer with cores and boils plunge a large serrated cutting utensil into a helpless woman's privates. But back to HBO.
The Legend of Zorro. Aha! That should be entertaining, right? I mean, it's Antonio Banderas and Catherine Zeta Jones. Can't go wrong with the man that starred in Desperado and Original Sin. Then I realised that those two movies were fun for the guns and Angelina Jolie, respectively. And that Entrapment was really sucky.
Only then I fumbled for my Nokia and saw, to my amazement, it wasn't actually seven, but four. It brings back memories of a young Naz, waking up by himself and thinking he'll be late for school. Rushing to shower, pack his things and head for school. Only his father, his ride, was still snoring happily away. So young Naz nudges him awake.
"Baba, wake up. I need to go to school..."
"Huh? What? School? *&^% It's only 3 O'clock!"
Yeah. Not so fun. So I sat in bed for about two-and-a-half hours waiting for the minutes to pass, since I didn't want to wrinkle my uniform. And back then all I had to entertain me was a Sega Megadrive. And you can only play FIFA International so many times before it gets dreary, even for a kid.
Well, it's light now. Maybe I'll go grab breakfast. But if memory serves me correctly, there isn't much save for some bread and cheese. A simple breakfast then. No croissants and juice today. I just need to remember not to step on the dead lizard plastered on the floor of facing my brother's room. It's already been a long day.
I didn't wake up before four in the morning to study, or to catch something on TV. I just woke up. After sleeping for all of two hours after failing to get to sleep the night before.
While I'm writing this, I'm trying to sign in on MSN, maybe some other poor soul is around, equally bored. Heck, I might even agree to a game of Minesweeper Flags! But no, error after error means that I won't be appearing Busy on MSN today, in the hope that it might deter some pesky individuals who chitter on and on about how long they haven't seen me.
Ah, backache. Nothing quite like the exquisite soreness that mysteriously materialises one fine day. It's like a long-lost and unwanted relative, come visiting from somewhere far and away. You don't really know how it got there, and as long as it's there, you suffer. And you don't quite know how to get rid of it either.
When I opened my eyes at 3:45 this morning, I thought it was maybe about seven in the morning. The dull hazy light seeping through my curtains attested to that. Of course, I didn't realise, in the groggy state that I was, that that light was probably the excessive lamps lining the apartment blocks nearby that are lit during the less naturally-bright hours.
So I switched my TV on. Flatscreen, you see. And was treated to some random documentary about Elephants, I think it was. Maybe asteroids. Anyway, flipping through the channels, I managed to catch a glimpse of Vince McMahon being pushed over by Donald Trump, and lacking any suitable sports programming at the time, I turned to HBO. Because Star Movies was broadcasting Creep and there is only so many times you can watch a deformed psychopathic killer with cores and boils plunge a large serrated cutting utensil into a helpless woman's privates. But back to HBO.
The Legend of Zorro. Aha! That should be entertaining, right? I mean, it's Antonio Banderas and Catherine Zeta Jones. Can't go wrong with the man that starred in Desperado and Original Sin. Then I realised that those two movies were fun for the guns and Angelina Jolie, respectively. And that Entrapment was really sucky.
Only then I fumbled for my Nokia and saw, to my amazement, it wasn't actually seven, but four. It brings back memories of a young Naz, waking up by himself and thinking he'll be late for school. Rushing to shower, pack his things and head for school. Only his father, his ride, was still snoring happily away. So young Naz nudges him awake.
"Baba, wake up. I need to go to school..."
"Huh? What? School? *&^% It's only 3 O'clock!"
Yeah. Not so fun. So I sat in bed for about two-and-a-half hours waiting for the minutes to pass, since I didn't want to wrinkle my uniform. And back then all I had to entertain me was a Sega Megadrive. And you can only play FIFA International so many times before it gets dreary, even for a kid.
Well, it's light now. Maybe I'll go grab breakfast. But if memory serves me correctly, there isn't much save for some bread and cheese. A simple breakfast then. No croissants and juice today. I just need to remember not to step on the dead lizard plastered on the floor of facing my brother's room. It's already been a long day.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
What Are You Smoking, Paula?
American Idol airs at least twice a week in many English-speaking countires. In Singapore, there are as many as four telecasts on the same day across the various channels if you're lucky. Now, I confess to being sort of a fan of the series, in not the most dedicated one.
I watch American Idol mostly for the auditions and the rejects and wannabe "singers" who apparently have friends with no ears. It's almost the same reason I enjoy watching Formula 1 racing, why I pay the most attention to the first lap or so, when the crashes come thick and fast. A car wreck, that's the best way to describe some "contestants" on American Idol at times. Screeching, mangled, twisted and very, very painful.
Some would argue that this season's line-up isn't quite a "talented" as those of previous seasons. Others would beg to differ, pointing at the excellent Jordin Sparks or Lakisha. I'll get to them in due time. But first, to the misses.
One of the last people cut from the show upon receiving the Golden Ticket to Hollywood was someone by the name of... Sundance Head. Now, you'd need to be a star to pull off having a name like that anywhere in the English-speaking world. Can you imagine his childhood? On the playground?
"Sundance Sundance Sundaaaaaaaaaance!!!!"
You need to be really tough to live with a name like that. And with a last name of Head, you're just begging for it. Of course, Nazreen is traditionally a girl's name. But shush.
Then there was young pretty Antonella Barba. From the get-go, I thought she wouldn't make it too far in the competition, and that her looks would far surpass her vocal talents in the votes department. Then the revelation that some ex-boyfriend of hers had secretly taken "intimate pictures" of them together and posted them on the Internet sparked huge controversy. Well, sex sells, they say. She's gone by now, and not before belting out a few not-so-spectacular tracks. Unless you count spectacular misses. I guess Playboy is always an option, eh?
The remaining contestants, at the time of writing, are a pretty diverse bunch. Like mentioned before, there are a few that you lsiten to and go "Hey, there's a hit right there". And others you'd wish would stop getting so many votes.
Sanjaya. Let's start off with him. Firstly, he's still there. He auditioned with his sister, and many originally thought he was always going to be the second best singer there anyway. Week after week, he's widely regarded as the weakest singer out there, but he pulls through and makes it to the next round. Maybe it's the Michael Jackson hair. Or the eyebrows. Or maybe the crying schoolgirl he hugged went home to beg all her equally tear-shot friends to vote for the little Indian man. Others just point out that America has many cab-drivers.
Melinda. She makes Paula cry. But so many things make Paula cry. Still, I'd guess that she's probaby the top two or three pure vocalists in the competition this season. If only she didn't look like a black Shrek. It's the neck, or lack thereof. Still, she appears genuinely nice, and can sing. I mean, really, really sing.
Gina. The resident rocker. Last season, it was Chris. This season, it's like comparing Carrick to Keane. Pardew to Curbishley (at Charlton). The original will almost always outshine the pretenders. To be fair to Gina, she isn't half bad, but she doesn't have the ability or charisma of Chris to make it nearly as far. That and so many other girls outshine her. She's got red hair, that's how many know her.
Stephanie. Latest to be voted out. I never really fancied her. OK, she's a reasonably good singer. Better than Sanjaya, people mutter. Stephen Hawking could probably sing better than Sanjaya. I said to my sister earlier tonight, when they were showing the "goodbye" footage of Stephanie Edwards...
"Stephanie is just a less ugly, less annoying version of Fantasia."
And Fantasia won. And had a movie. Is this season really that bad?
Halle. The one many expect to be out soon. Another one of those "eye candy" sorts, she's just unlucky more than anything else. Unlucky that she wasn't the best looking to begin with, and by no stretch of the best singer.
Phil. The bald sailor. I thought he was pretty good, but he's too inconsistent to go really far, I think... Was sweet what he did during the auditions, though.
Lakisha. The one Randy loves. Simon usually comments on her dressing more than anything, but it's hard to ignore that she's good. Or is it? Is she really a better singer than either Melinda/Shrek or Sparkly Jordin? I don't think so. I have this wacky theory that many... plus sized singers are really overrated because of their size. It's sort of a reverse psychology thing.
"Oh hell no! You aren't anywhere near Idol standard!"
See, you can't say that. Because a part of you is telling you that you only think so because he or she is fat. Really. Think about it.
Who else did I miss? There are two Chris'es and a Blake somewhere, but we all know a girl is going to win this year. Most probably a black girl. Nothing against that, just the probability. And common sense...
You know, I think I've wasted enough of your time here. I'll leave you now with a question of my own.
Why do all female judges in Idol-type competitions always appear and act... high?
I watch American Idol mostly for the auditions and the rejects and wannabe "singers" who apparently have friends with no ears. It's almost the same reason I enjoy watching Formula 1 racing, why I pay the most attention to the first lap or so, when the crashes come thick and fast. A car wreck, that's the best way to describe some "contestants" on American Idol at times. Screeching, mangled, twisted and very, very painful.
Some would argue that this season's line-up isn't quite a "talented" as those of previous seasons. Others would beg to differ, pointing at the excellent Jordin Sparks or Lakisha. I'll get to them in due time. But first, to the misses.
One of the last people cut from the show upon receiving the Golden Ticket to Hollywood was someone by the name of... Sundance Head. Now, you'd need to be a star to pull off having a name like that anywhere in the English-speaking world. Can you imagine his childhood? On the playground?
"Sundance Sundance Sundaaaaaaaaaance!!!!"
You need to be really tough to live with a name like that. And with a last name of Head, you're just begging for it. Of course, Nazreen is traditionally a girl's name. But shush.
Then there was young pretty Antonella Barba. From the get-go, I thought she wouldn't make it too far in the competition, and that her looks would far surpass her vocal talents in the votes department. Then the revelation that some ex-boyfriend of hers had secretly taken "intimate pictures" of them together and posted them on the Internet sparked huge controversy. Well, sex sells, they say. She's gone by now, and not before belting out a few not-so-spectacular tracks. Unless you count spectacular misses. I guess Playboy is always an option, eh?
The remaining contestants, at the time of writing, are a pretty diverse bunch. Like mentioned before, there are a few that you lsiten to and go "Hey, there's a hit right there". And others you'd wish would stop getting so many votes.
Sanjaya. Let's start off with him. Firstly, he's still there. He auditioned with his sister, and many originally thought he was always going to be the second best singer there anyway. Week after week, he's widely regarded as the weakest singer out there, but he pulls through and makes it to the next round. Maybe it's the Michael Jackson hair. Or the eyebrows. Or maybe the crying schoolgirl he hugged went home to beg all her equally tear-shot friends to vote for the little Indian man. Others just point out that America has many cab-drivers.
Melinda. She makes Paula cry. But so many things make Paula cry. Still, I'd guess that she's probaby the top two or three pure vocalists in the competition this season. If only she didn't look like a black Shrek. It's the neck, or lack thereof. Still, she appears genuinely nice, and can sing. I mean, really, really sing.
Gina. The resident rocker. Last season, it was Chris. This season, it's like comparing Carrick to Keane. Pardew to Curbishley (at Charlton). The original will almost always outshine the pretenders. To be fair to Gina, she isn't half bad, but she doesn't have the ability or charisma of Chris to make it nearly as far. That and so many other girls outshine her. She's got red hair, that's how many know her.
Stephanie. Latest to be voted out. I never really fancied her. OK, she's a reasonably good singer. Better than Sanjaya, people mutter. Stephen Hawking could probably sing better than Sanjaya. I said to my sister earlier tonight, when they were showing the "goodbye" footage of Stephanie Edwards...
"Stephanie is just a less ugly, less annoying version of Fantasia."
And Fantasia won. And had a movie. Is this season really that bad?
Halle. The one many expect to be out soon. Another one of those "eye candy" sorts, she's just unlucky more than anything else. Unlucky that she wasn't the best looking to begin with, and by no stretch of the best singer.
Phil. The bald sailor. I thought he was pretty good, but he's too inconsistent to go really far, I think... Was sweet what he did during the auditions, though.
Lakisha. The one Randy loves. Simon usually comments on her dressing more than anything, but it's hard to ignore that she's good. Or is it? Is she really a better singer than either Melinda/Shrek or Sparkly Jordin? I don't think so. I have this wacky theory that many... plus sized singers are really overrated because of their size. It's sort of a reverse psychology thing.
"Oh hell no! You aren't anywhere near Idol standard!"
See, you can't say that. Because a part of you is telling you that you only think so because he or she is fat. Really. Think about it.
Who else did I miss? There are two Chris'es and a Blake somewhere, but we all know a girl is going to win this year. Most probably a black girl. Nothing against that, just the probability. And common sense...
You know, I think I've wasted enough of your time here. I'll leave you now with a question of my own.
Why do all female judges in Idol-type competitions always appear and act... high?
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The Pursuit of Happyness...by Naz
Sometimes I don't pay enough attention to the things that matter. I've been told that I spend too much time online, playing games, reading or watching soccer. That I can be dull on the phone and a little forgetful, at best. About how sometimes it seems I don't put in enough effort, that I've taken things for granted.
I look above me now, there's a picture of a happy couple. The guy looks a little out of place, seated beside this great-looking girl. The picture's mounted on a large card, done up with glitter and a (now-faded) rose. Also attached is a Valentine's Day message penned by the girl in question, ripe with typos scrawled in her strange cursive hand.
Behind me is a charcoal drawing on some sort of wax paper. It sits in a frame, and beside it is another pink frame, yes pink. Both hold pictures of the same couple. Oh, there are differences. Some drastic, others more subtle. Longer or more spiky hair. A trace of a beard, glasses. But they all show the same couple.
In my palm a small silver ring lies. It's little more than a twisted piece of metal really. On the inside are a few letters. One can still discern that they spell out the names of the couple in the photographs and drawing encircling it. Makes me remember the time I lost another similar ring, due to the stupidity of youth (which I still have... the stupidity, not the latter, it seems.). How I scoured through a grassy field for hours, looking for a shiny metal ring. Like the one on my finger now.
But all that is here, and more. Cards in a box. A cute glass thingamajig that I haven't found a practical use for. A mug. Shirts and shoes. A Nike bag and my worn our bermudas. Makes me wonder, makes me remember.
And then I look at everything again and I smile.
Most people ask me "Whoa, Naz. Six years! When are you marrying that girl?" Some aren't as optimistic about long-term relationships and ask "Don't you get bored?" Others have questioned certain instances or occurences; pointed out how a square plug can never fit into a round hole. Still, I take it all in my stride. Let the questions flow, let the comments come.
I said before that I wanted to marry her. And most of my good friend know that too. Sometimes I get frustrated with her. Every couple has their squabbles, I guess. And, before she points out shrilly, I have my own fair share of shortcomings. Some of which I already mentioned, others might be more or less obvious to the ones around me.
But despite all that, she's the one who came and sat by me as I lay in my hospital bed, feeling like Lakisha fell on me. She's the one who walked by my side and held my hand after my wisdom teeth got taken out and I looked like I had a banana in my mouth. She was the one who help me try to convince my runaway Zig to come home. She's the one who went to all those lengths to concoct and create things that deserve a special mention on Art Attack year in and year out.
I guess I don't take the time to tell her all these things sometimes. Most times. Maybe this will make up for it.
I'm happy with the girl I have, and can't imagine anyone else in her place.
All I got her was a talking bear.
I look above me now, there's a picture of a happy couple. The guy looks a little out of place, seated beside this great-looking girl. The picture's mounted on a large card, done up with glitter and a (now-faded) rose. Also attached is a Valentine's Day message penned by the girl in question, ripe with typos scrawled in her strange cursive hand.
Behind me is a charcoal drawing on some sort of wax paper. It sits in a frame, and beside it is another pink frame, yes pink. Both hold pictures of the same couple. Oh, there are differences. Some drastic, others more subtle. Longer or more spiky hair. A trace of a beard, glasses. But they all show the same couple.
In my palm a small silver ring lies. It's little more than a twisted piece of metal really. On the inside are a few letters. One can still discern that they spell out the names of the couple in the photographs and drawing encircling it. Makes me remember the time I lost another similar ring, due to the stupidity of youth (which I still have... the stupidity, not the latter, it seems.). How I scoured through a grassy field for hours, looking for a shiny metal ring. Like the one on my finger now.
But all that is here, and more. Cards in a box. A cute glass thingamajig that I haven't found a practical use for. A mug. Shirts and shoes. A Nike bag and my worn our bermudas. Makes me wonder, makes me remember.
And then I look at everything again and I smile.
Most people ask me "Whoa, Naz. Six years! When are you marrying that girl?" Some aren't as optimistic about long-term relationships and ask "Don't you get bored?" Others have questioned certain instances or occurences; pointed out how a square plug can never fit into a round hole. Still, I take it all in my stride. Let the questions flow, let the comments come.
I said before that I wanted to marry her. And most of my good friend know that too. Sometimes I get frustrated with her. Every couple has their squabbles, I guess. And, before she points out shrilly, I have my own fair share of shortcomings. Some of which I already mentioned, others might be more or less obvious to the ones around me.
But despite all that, she's the one who came and sat by me as I lay in my hospital bed, feeling like Lakisha fell on me. She's the one who walked by my side and held my hand after my wisdom teeth got taken out and I looked like I had a banana in my mouth. She was the one who help me try to convince my runaway Zig to come home. She's the one who went to all those lengths to concoct and create things that deserve a special mention on Art Attack year in and year out.
I guess I don't take the time to tell her all these things sometimes. Most times. Maybe this will make up for it.
I'm happy with the girl I have, and can't imagine anyone else in her place.
All I got her was a talking bear.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
300
Yeah. I watched 300 yesterday, after waiting for it for months. I've been drooling over the brilliantly made trailers and teasers for ages, and now, I need to go watch it again. I haven't seen a movie with more awesome lines than 300. The number of awesome lines and the quality of them. To quote one Adam Copeland, it reeked of awesomeness.
Only Spartan women give birth to real men.
This will not end quickly, you will not enjoy it.
Our arrows will block out the sun - Then we will fight in the shade.
Why are you smiling? - All my life I've looked for another warrior who can give me a glorious death. Perhaps he is down there some where.
My old friend, I did bring more soldiers than you.
Well, enough of that, but if you haven't caught it yet, you must. You just have to. Skip Will Smith's Happyness or the cheesy Happily N'ever After or Hugh Grant and his tight pants in that romantic lyric-thing comedy.
The movie, of course, was classified as M18 in Singapore. Which means, incase you haven't figured it out, that you need to be 18 and over to watch it. Why? Well, boobs and blood in abundance, and a healthy dose of the lead actor's ass. A good friend of mine nearly choked and managed to gasp "Was that really neccessary?!?", while my other friend on my right gushed on and on about the sculpted abs on show. They even counted the abs. They're supposedly heterosexual. Now I'm wondering why I sat in between them.
Still, someone commented that "every scene in the movie is a work of art" and I couldn't agree more. Even without the seemingly meaningless gyrations of a girl in a sheer toga, 300 is by far the movie of the year. Let's see how Spiderman 3, TMNT and Transformers match up to this.
Only Spartan women give birth to real men.
This will not end quickly, you will not enjoy it.
Our arrows will block out the sun - Then we will fight in the shade.
Why are you smiling? - All my life I've looked for another warrior who can give me a glorious death. Perhaps he is down there some where.
My old friend, I did bring more soldiers than you.
Well, enough of that, but if you haven't caught it yet, you must. You just have to. Skip Will Smith's Happyness or the cheesy Happily N'ever After or Hugh Grant and his tight pants in that romantic lyric-thing comedy.
The movie, of course, was classified as M18 in Singapore. Which means, incase you haven't figured it out, that you need to be 18 and over to watch it. Why? Well, boobs and blood in abundance, and a healthy dose of the lead actor's ass. A good friend of mine nearly choked and managed to gasp "Was that really neccessary?!?", while my other friend on my right gushed on and on about the sculpted abs on show. They even counted the abs. They're supposedly heterosexual. Now I'm wondering why I sat in between them.
Still, someone commented that "every scene in the movie is a work of art" and I couldn't agree more. Even without the seemingly meaningless gyrations of a girl in a sheer toga, 300 is by far the movie of the year. Let's see how Spiderman 3, TMNT and Transformers match up to this.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Lost in Translation
Today, I found another thing I find obscenely annoying. Not even the inconsiderate pricks who bring their mangy dogs and let them frolic about in the water and fornicate metres away from a group of sunburnt friends waiting to spring a surprise party on an unsuspecting other friend.
Have you ever watched, listened to or read something translated in another language, and wonder if the so called interpretor was a complete and utter mental retard? Now, I don't aim to belittle these "special" people, but it's just so idiotic.
I was sitting on my arse, watching the television a few moments ago. Flipping channels. Laughing at Chelsea. Wondering what the big deal was about Flight Plan. Muttering that no-one can watch 300 with me. Realising that the episode of CSI playing then had been aired seven times this week already. Then it happened.
A three-minute or so promo about the "hit" "new" "horror" "movie" The Haunted School. It's ironic that I was just talking to someone today about all-time great horror flicks, from Ju-On to Host. But this one, well...
I won't pass judgement on the movie for now, or ever, unless something dramatic like a gunman ordering me to watch a cheesy Chinese movie happens. But let me say this:
Way to go to promote a movie, morons.
As far as movie promos go, they usually follow the generic trend of flashing "key scenes" and interviewing the cast and crew, allowing the audeince a sneak peak into how the movie was made and what we might expect from it. This movie, of course, is a Chinese one. I've seen Chinese movies before. I love the original Kung Fu Hustle. The version dubbed in English is just too stupid, for lack of a better word.
Back to The Haunted School, the promo did fall into the typical fashion of movie promos. Key scenes, interviews. In Chinese. With convenient English subtitles.
"I enjoyed filming the show. The atmosphere was very horror."
"I think it was very difficult, it was a scary place and there was terror."
"I think our audience will enjoy the show because it's a young person problem and there was horror."
Alright, I may be a little nitpicky. But this is supposed to be a promo for a new movie, and this promo was airing on an English Cable TV station during Prime Time. Other than broadcasting to the world that the producers of the show are in dire need of pre-school grammar and vocabulary lessons, I don't know what more was acheived. I don't blame the director or the cast interviewed. They probably didn't do their own subtitles. But whoever did deserves to be shot. And then shot again.
The whole thing was even stupider than a friend of mine claiming that the rising tide at the beach was directly attributed to the increasing number of swimmers that had taken it upon themselves to enter the ocean. This friend is going on to become an engineer. In the future, if you should happen upon a report about a tragic accident involving an engineer's miscalculation of tidal influences, you know, and I know, who that engineer was. He also said there was a Muppet named Hermit.
But back to the point of all this, yes. Translation can be difficult and tricky, at best. For the Malay-speaking readers, take a moment and directly translate a popular English song to Malay and then try not to laugh too hard. Films such as Mighty Joe Young and Miami Vice needed titles that were nowhere near what their English counterparts were meant to be.
Oh well, not much I can do about it really, I guess. It's not as if The Haunted School has lost a potential member of the audience. I'll leave you with this witty exchange that illustrates the trials and tribulations of the art of translation.
"I must agree, whom in the morning a very strong criterion. "
"What does that even mean?"
"You are not a wood gentleman-lower of moron the specialist of semi final. I achieve English better each day now."
"Was that an insult? I don't even know. "
"No not no I wanted to say to insult you whole! Afflicted please. I like to be here, my English will obtain each day, me better know onlybasic at this time but me learn quickly. It is good here to be ."
"Sounds like you're using google translator. That things awesome for nonsensical and quite funny insults. "
"Thank you, this goes back to me lucky and queer. I must hour to leave the tribune and to go to the base before job, but I estimate you a lot and the hopes to turn tomorrow!! "
That wasn't even from Borat.
Have you ever watched, listened to or read something translated in another language, and wonder if the so called interpretor was a complete and utter mental retard? Now, I don't aim to belittle these "special" people, but it's just so idiotic.
I was sitting on my arse, watching the television a few moments ago. Flipping channels. Laughing at Chelsea. Wondering what the big deal was about Flight Plan. Muttering that no-one can watch 300 with me. Realising that the episode of CSI playing then had been aired seven times this week already. Then it happened.
A three-minute or so promo about the "hit" "new" "horror" "movie" The Haunted School. It's ironic that I was just talking to someone today about all-time great horror flicks, from Ju-On to Host. But this one, well...
I won't pass judgement on the movie for now, or ever, unless something dramatic like a gunman ordering me to watch a cheesy Chinese movie happens. But let me say this:
Way to go to promote a movie, morons.
As far as movie promos go, they usually follow the generic trend of flashing "key scenes" and interviewing the cast and crew, allowing the audeince a sneak peak into how the movie was made and what we might expect from it. This movie, of course, is a Chinese one. I've seen Chinese movies before. I love the original Kung Fu Hustle. The version dubbed in English is just too stupid, for lack of a better word.
Back to The Haunted School, the promo did fall into the typical fashion of movie promos. Key scenes, interviews. In Chinese. With convenient English subtitles.
"I enjoyed filming the show. The atmosphere was very horror."
"I think it was very difficult, it was a scary place and there was terror."
"I think our audience will enjoy the show because it's a young person problem and there was horror."
Alright, I may be a little nitpicky. But this is supposed to be a promo for a new movie, and this promo was airing on an English Cable TV station during Prime Time. Other than broadcasting to the world that the producers of the show are in dire need of pre-school grammar and vocabulary lessons, I don't know what more was acheived. I don't blame the director or the cast interviewed. They probably didn't do their own subtitles. But whoever did deserves to be shot. And then shot again.
The whole thing was even stupider than a friend of mine claiming that the rising tide at the beach was directly attributed to the increasing number of swimmers that had taken it upon themselves to enter the ocean. This friend is going on to become an engineer. In the future, if you should happen upon a report about a tragic accident involving an engineer's miscalculation of tidal influences, you know, and I know, who that engineer was. He also said there was a Muppet named Hermit.
But back to the point of all this, yes. Translation can be difficult and tricky, at best. For the Malay-speaking readers, take a moment and directly translate a popular English song to Malay and then try not to laugh too hard. Films such as Mighty Joe Young and Miami Vice needed titles that were nowhere near what their English counterparts were meant to be.
Oh well, not much I can do about it really, I guess. It's not as if The Haunted School has lost a potential member of the audience. I'll leave you with this witty exchange that illustrates the trials and tribulations of the art of translation.
"I must agree, whom in the morning a very strong criterion. "
"What does that even mean?"
"You are not a wood gentleman-lower of moron the specialist of semi final. I achieve English better each day now."
"Was that an insult? I don't even know. "
"No not no I wanted to say to insult you whole! Afflicted please. I like to be here, my English will obtain each day, me better know onlybasic at this time but me learn quickly. It is good here to be ."
"Sounds like you're using google translator. That things awesome for nonsensical and quite funny insults. "
"Thank you, this goes back to me lucky and queer. I must hour to leave the tribune and to go to the base before job, but I estimate you a lot and the hopes to turn tomorrow!! "
That wasn't even from Borat.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Preggers!!!
Some things you don't rush into. Buying a car. Accepting a job. Getting married. Choosing a school. Lending someone cash. Converting religions. This is usually considered "normal" behaviour. Another thing that most people would add to the list is getting pregnant.
Pregnancy is a strange thing, sometimes. The joy of life, parenthood and all that is often harped upon; almost as much as the dangers and consequences that the youths of today are bombarded with even before they get hit with the era of puberty. Little kids who believe that Dora the Explorer is an actual person can name you the various anatomical differences between guys and gals.
Most of us wouldn't be here if pregnancy hadn't occured, of course. Life is a sexually-transmitted disease, as the saying goes, and pregnancy is its first symptom. This condition is usually brought about after the exchange of certain bodily fluids in heterosexual relations, in most cases. Theoretically, it would be possible for two people of the same gender to "conceive" a child, though I don't think it's ever been done. Not that it's never been tried before...
For many (unmarried, unemployed) people, pregnant is something they don't want to be. Active or not, it's something gnawing at the back of their minds. It's the perennial "What if..." that may or may not cause them momentary hesitation or periods of grief and stress as they await the arrival of something they usually abhore.
For some others, however, it seems that being pregnant is a dream. Of course, you would sympathise with the family who've had three miscarriages already. Or the aging couples who just want a little one to smile at and laugh with. But what about 15-year old Victoria?
Clicky
Now, the above begs the question, "What's gotten into her"? And before the smart-mouths out there say "Oh, three guys..." I already thought it first, so don't congratulate yourselves too much.
Seems like the rather ghetto teenager simply has to get pregnant. Not so much the desire for sex, but rather she wants a baby. Her crying mother looks on as she describes her brilliant and well thought-out plan of taking care of the baby, at 15, by prostituting herself and with the "ton of baby clothes" and "three extra pacifiers". Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but that's one of the stupidest things I've heard since Mutant-X.
Don't even get me started on the question on how she's going to prostitute herself after giving birth.
Of course, more than a few people would say the whole thing is fake, or staged. Same people who hoot triumphantly whenever they state the same over similar "talk shows" like Jerry Springer. Personally, I have an inkling towards this idea as well, if only because that damn girl just sounds too... too... too black. Listen to her. She sounds blacker than anything. Now, this isn't in any way racsist or discriminatory, but it's just plain fact. Like how only large-boned African-American women can sing like Aretha Franklin.
Still, it makes you wonder. If that story is true, what the hell is going on inside the head of that girl? A few people would jump at the chance to.. well, jump her. Others would be disgusted. She wants to be pregnant. At 15. Wrong? Natural? Immoral?
Pregnancy is a strange thing, sometimes. The joy of life, parenthood and all that is often harped upon; almost as much as the dangers and consequences that the youths of today are bombarded with even before they get hit with the era of puberty. Little kids who believe that Dora the Explorer is an actual person can name you the various anatomical differences between guys and gals.
Most of us wouldn't be here if pregnancy hadn't occured, of course. Life is a sexually-transmitted disease, as the saying goes, and pregnancy is its first symptom. This condition is usually brought about after the exchange of certain bodily fluids in heterosexual relations, in most cases. Theoretically, it would be possible for two people of the same gender to "conceive" a child, though I don't think it's ever been done. Not that it's never been tried before...
For many (unmarried, unemployed) people, pregnant is something they don't want to be. Active or not, it's something gnawing at the back of their minds. It's the perennial "What if..." that may or may not cause them momentary hesitation or periods of grief and stress as they await the arrival of something they usually abhore.
For some others, however, it seems that being pregnant is a dream. Of course, you would sympathise with the family who've had three miscarriages already. Or the aging couples who just want a little one to smile at and laugh with. But what about 15-year old Victoria?
Clicky
Now, the above begs the question, "What's gotten into her"? And before the smart-mouths out there say "Oh, three guys..." I already thought it first, so don't congratulate yourselves too much.
Seems like the rather ghetto teenager simply has to get pregnant. Not so much the desire for sex, but rather she wants a baby. Her crying mother looks on as she describes her brilliant and well thought-out plan of taking care of the baby, at 15, by prostituting herself and with the "ton of baby clothes" and "three extra pacifiers". Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but that's one of the stupidest things I've heard since Mutant-X.
Don't even get me started on the question on how she's going to prostitute herself after giving birth.
Of course, more than a few people would say the whole thing is fake, or staged. Same people who hoot triumphantly whenever they state the same over similar "talk shows" like Jerry Springer. Personally, I have an inkling towards this idea as well, if only because that damn girl just sounds too... too... too black. Listen to her. She sounds blacker than anything. Now, this isn't in any way racsist or discriminatory, but it's just plain fact. Like how only large-boned African-American women can sing like Aretha Franklin.
Still, it makes you wonder. If that story is true, what the hell is going on inside the head of that girl? A few people would jump at the chance to.. well, jump her. Others would be disgusted. She wants to be pregnant. At 15. Wrong? Natural? Immoral?
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Twenty-One
I just got back. It went well, more than well. Was good, more than good I guess.
Sul's 22nd birthday "celebration" today, and of course it was another SURPRISE one. Not a party though, no, not really. 10 people doesn't really constitute a party methinks, but it was rather a nice informal gathering. With cake.
Of course, someone was branded a liar for misleading the lost birthday girl, and we quiestly snuck into her home while she was in her jammies. I realise this is starting to sound like some perverted story about urban interlopers, but bear with me here.
Then there was the "Oh-my-God-I-haven't-seen-you-in-so-long-I-thought-you-fell-off-the-face-of-the-Earth" stuff and the usual jokes about a certain someone's vertical limit and someone else's singing ability (or lack thereof). Spoiling Heroes for a couple of people...
So there was cake, lots of food, lots of laughing, surveys and the finding out of something no-one knew until I asked rather carelessly in front of everyone. Good job Naz! But I won't go into that.
So why is this brilliant piece of writing entitled Twenty-One? Did I forget her real age (I did, but that's besides the point)?
When the dust cleared and we were tired of watching Will Smith on TV all of us made our way back home. Some hitched a ride from others, others waited with some as they waited for rides from family. In the end, I took a bus with an old friend of mine. We took Service No. 21.
It's been a really long time since I took that bus. I used to sit in it almost everyday, on the way home from school for two years. And on the way home from school even after I finished with school, due to my "Significant Other" commitments. Lots of good times and our share of bad ones. Silent rides, laughing rides. Smiling rides and smelly rides.
It's a wonder sometimes, time. You can remember the days when you thought you didn't have a care in the world except of how to copy your homework quick enough before the lesson begins. Then suddenly most of your friends can watch adult films in the theatre without sneaking in, and some of them are even on honeymoons.
Well, other birthdays are coming, and birthdays have a habit of doing that, no matter how hard you try. The years roll by, as the buses do, even if you're not on them.
Sul's 22nd birthday "celebration" today, and of course it was another SURPRISE one. Not a party though, no, not really. 10 people doesn't really constitute a party methinks, but it was rather a nice informal gathering. With cake.
Of course, someone was branded a liar for misleading the lost birthday girl, and we quiestly snuck into her home while she was in her jammies. I realise this is starting to sound like some perverted story about urban interlopers, but bear with me here.
Then there was the "Oh-my-God-I-haven't-seen-you-in-so-long-I-thought-you-fell-off-the-face-of-the-Earth" stuff and the usual jokes about a certain someone's vertical limit and someone else's singing ability (or lack thereof). Spoiling Heroes for a couple of people...
So there was cake, lots of food, lots of laughing, surveys and the finding out of something no-one knew until I asked rather carelessly in front of everyone. Good job Naz! But I won't go into that.
So why is this brilliant piece of writing entitled Twenty-One? Did I forget her real age (I did, but that's besides the point)?
When the dust cleared and we were tired of watching Will Smith on TV all of us made our way back home. Some hitched a ride from others, others waited with some as they waited for rides from family. In the end, I took a bus with an old friend of mine. We took Service No. 21.
It's been a really long time since I took that bus. I used to sit in it almost everyday, on the way home from school for two years. And on the way home from school even after I finished with school, due to my "Significant Other" commitments. Lots of good times and our share of bad ones. Silent rides, laughing rides. Smiling rides and smelly rides.
It's a wonder sometimes, time. You can remember the days when you thought you didn't have a care in the world except of how to copy your homework quick enough before the lesson begins. Then suddenly most of your friends can watch adult films in the theatre without sneaking in, and some of them are even on honeymoons.
Well, other birthdays are coming, and birthdays have a habit of doing that, no matter how hard you try. The years roll by, as the buses do, even if you're not on them.
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