zen

if only it were one-in-ten.

2006-08-06T03:42:00.000+08:00

There’s never anything to show for it. Whichever event ‘it’ happens to be. Of course, in the most superficial sense, anything makes a showing. I mean, one’s participation in any activity presupposes a registration in the relevant – if not spatial, then at least temporal – frame in which said activity’s being performed. Unless of course you’re evaluating instantaneous or concurrent events. Examples of instantaneous events are few and far between, but aren’t really difficult to pinpoint, such as Chuck Norris’s roundhouse kicks and Chuck Norris’s sidekicks. Other examples include Chuck Norris’s front kick and Chuck Norris’s left jab. The examples, of course, stand in the midst of bitter debates; skeptics question the temporal dimensions of punches. It is ridiculous, they argue, that the time taken for Chuck Norris’s fist to leave his side to come into contact with one’s jaw can actually be zero. This is a preposterous suggestion! Because one’s arms must be faster than one’s feet, Chuck Norris’s punch should actually register a negative value on the temporal scale. These selfsame skeptics, of late, seem to be gaining new ground following testimonies from his previous punch-ees that they actually feel the pain before Chuck Norris has even decided to punch them.

Concurrent events, however, seem to be really problematic. This is because any event can be seen to be concurrent with any other, and there is no evidence to really show that one’s in session overlapping the other at the same time. For example, if you’re stuck on a highway rush hour jam, and you see an adult male digging his nose in his static car, you’ll think that, on top of his digging his nose, he’s actually… doing absolutely nothing else! He’s just digging his nose! Cos we all know that when men dig their noses it’s a full time commitment, unlike pffft-y jobbies such as mechanical engineering, sociology, humanitarian outreaches, and marriage (pffft). But the point here is that we could imagine the impossible and construct imagined paradoxes in the vein of existing square circles, and propose that this adult male is actually, as he’s engaged in nasal sewerage maintenance; locked in a fatal crossing of psychological swords concerning the intricacies of the metaphysical conundrums and repercussions of Bertrand Russell’s struggle with denoting phrases, with regards to application in the field of whipped-cream-atop-blackforest-sponge-cake manoeuvres, or possibly perhaps just in relation to the exciting and intricate art of nose digging itself.

Seriously though, I’m not talking about this sort of events, nor indeed of such a myopic use of the term ‘to show for it’ itself. And so went yet another, but with nothing changed to the ontology of real life as will reveal itself come the start of the grind anew. Sometimes I suppose one may get optimistic once in a while, for no reason at all, and actually go to work on something, only to realize (that one has been realizing all along as well, but this is not the important or featured realization; concurrent, maybe? Hah probably lucid) that change is impossible a la Parmenides.

And also - so, here’s to you, Lucas, to echo Padme: so this is how liberty dies... with thunderous applause. From the what, 5 of us? And I will be that one sipping coffee at the tables which seat, only hypothetically, in this current case of course; fours.

It's been 3 months. To a good measure of 'thereabouts', anyway.

be psychic and drive.

2006-05-11T12:44:00.000+08:00

I think it’s been more than scientifically proven that looks can’t really kill. Of course there’s the attempt in ’98 by one “Marcus”, who stared at his wife “Melissa” (the names have been enclosed in quotation marks to protect the actual characters of this episode, Marcus Whittaker and Melissa Shoemaker; because it will make it more of a bitch to type which should stop me from repeating the feat often) for 8 long months non-stop, after being advised to ‘try everything in your power’ by his attorney in the midst of a bitter custody suit on grounds of irreconcilable differences, most important of all being her ‘refusing to keep the toilet seat up’.

And of course there was “Cyclops-to-himself,-fucking-half-wit-git-to-others” “Morrison”, who convinced himself (and perhaps his imaginary friend “Moosie”, though this latter was ultimately non-committal in his exclusive exposé conducted afterwards) that he was instrumental in the deaths of the hundreds of individuals who passed his office portal and his supposed ‘phased-plasma rifle in the forty watt range’-equivalent bionic peepers. When it was pointed out to him that he worked in a fucking morgue, and so people who were rolled into his parlour were already dead before they passed his eyes, he protested to his straitjacket-bearing custodians that they were being myopic and irrelevant. Why were they, he mused, concerned with what happened before they encountered him? What’s important is that them victims were terminally knackered after he’d laid his eyes on them.

However, these examples aside, what looks can do, in our sophisticated time and age with our breakthroughs in the fields of science, technology and pastry decoration, is to stop automobiles. Just the other day I was witness to such a phenomenon. And so here was a matron sitting next to me in this bus shelter, and along comes a bus which she was presumably waiting for, for she muttered to herself and unfolded to her full height at the vehicle’s advance. Then, with the sheer force of her willpower and megawatt squint alone, brought to bear on the poor semi-visible driver who surely would’ve been admonished following the resulting complaint letter had he been less alert, the fate suffered by many others before him thus far; she brought the bus to a shrieking halt. She then sashays up the pin-point-accurately-stopped automobile as if precision braking was owed her, and indignantly waltzed to a seat without paying the fare, pinching the bus driver’s butt for the token sexual harassment to heighten his discomfort in his seat, his job, his mortgage of doom, his oppressive wife, all in all, his miserable life; along the way.

I suppose sticking a hand out for public transport is considered passé these days. In fact, taxi drivers nowadays operate by intuition alone, instinct telling them that people who DON’T establish eye contact with them are the ones who need their services the most. I mean, they find you the best when you're skulking and/or making out in an alleyway, than if you were right out on the curb dislocating your shoulder flailing your hand every way about. I can just see it now: the day will come when public transport service providers will feel slighted and refuse to stop for people who wave earnestly at them, and you’ll have to pointedly ignore them in order for you to get them to stop. It’ll be a prerequisite for bus and taxi drivers to possess psychic abilities, and the public transport dance will see them drivers forcibly dragging screaming, protesting, flailing, but satisfied; passengers into their respective vehicles.

happy birthday to you.

2006-03-21T00:10:00.000+08:00

In an unprecedented move, I’ve decided not to talk about sex today. Ok perhaps not really unprecedented in the strictest sense, but I do remember writing about sex for my last 2 postings and I can’t really remember anything before that (except perhaps more sex) and I’m not bothered enough to check if it’s a serious tendency problem. I’m not sure I should be, considering how my brother tells me men think about sex for a third of their waking hours. Howls of chagrin and indignation ensue of course – ‘How can this be true when we also, as an empirical fact, think about soccer/basketball/cricket/the art of tutu manufacture for three quarters of our lives?’ and ‘This is impossible! We think of sex more than half the time!’ – but, fuck! I’m not gonna talk about sex. So there.

What’s in a date? Why do people find it necessary to attach importance to what seems to me to be a purely arbitrary system of ordering our lives? For that matter why do we let that order our lives in the first place? And I don’t mean ‘date’ as in that which is a prelude to sex, because I’m not gonna talk about it. I mean ‘date’ as in that of the ‘today’s Universal Lose Your Virginity Day, otherwise known as Valentine’s Day’ variety. As far as I can see, and as far as anyone should but don’t see for the obvious reason that no one in the right mind ever does think of, and should ever think of; dates under such a critical light as if it’s a nail-biting conclusion to some cliffhanger of an Armageddon-inducing make-or-break all-or-nothing ice-cream (well this constitutes the first contact with a hyphen for me, so) dilemma faced by the masses a la questions such as ‘is blue the new pink this season?’

No, really, I’m making a point. I think. What’re dates but certain configurations of the earth and the moon and/or the sun (depending on whether you’re a poster boy for the lunar and/or solar calendar)? Or, of course, some may argue they’re actually demarcations between the blinkings of a divine eye or something. Me, I can’t ever get with this notion of dates for sure. I mean, how romantic is it when you exclaim to your girlfriend, ‘Hey honey-bunny (I’m sorry Tarantino occupies a place in my heart), happy 2400493024^th blink of Great A’Tuin’s (I’m sorry for the Pratchett reference here as well) right peeper!’ In any case, even the more conventional calendars fail to tell me why it is that the positions of the sun and/or moon can confer magical powers such as sexual tension on this thing they call ‘days’. I mean, why’re numbers like 365.25 (the absurdity, as you can see, multiplies once you take technicalities to their logical conclusion) more important than any other number, so much so that we go out of our way to make fools of ourselves by pretending to be social and civil when we’re never gonna achieve sufficient merit for both; every such period? How’re numbers or, if you wanna stretch it the astrological way, magnetic fields; relevant to this tomfoolery?

Perhaps celebrations should just be that – celebrations. With the relevant factors being those which are being celebrated of course. And it does no good to just say ‘my day’. It’s just fallaciously question-begging. Relevance here will therefore be milestones confined to that individual who’s on the receiving end (I prefer to use the term ‘victim’) of attention and fawning over. Or, as it happens on a more frequent basis, that of wedgies and unfastened bra clasps depending on your gender and/or undergarment preferences. Milestones in this case will mean, of course, expected things which creep up on you when they happen, such as the Instance of Growing My First Whisker and the First Occurrence of the Pimple; as well as totally unexpected events such as What in Fuck’s Name Just Happened THERE?! and Why the Fuck am I Bleeding Here?!!

Fuck dates. Ok ok perhaps only thrice a year. And I’m still not talking about sex, whether you amorously gravitate towards fellow human beings or a type of fruit.

the metaphysics of spandex.

2006-03-07T03:20:00.000+08:00

An age-old puzzle/paradox/conundrum/[insert your choice of technical term with which to coax sociologists into bed (with you of course, though some will prefer watching them sociologists having at each other and keeping both and either at safe distances such as buried 20,000 leagues under the sea together with George Foreman in berserk mode with an endless supply of oxygen and a steady diet of asparagus designed to sustain said mode; but I can’t see how anything you say will ever be sufficient for anyone to fuck another person other than you – as it is it’s difficult enough getting yourself shags with only your mouth sans that classified as unnatural to the law and goddamned heavenly to the majority of the human population) here] has been plaguing the definitive personifications of the epitome of knowledge, the extreme gurus of the marriage between epistemology and ontology, the sultans of swing, the piper at the gates of dawn, the master blaster of the plaster duster, etc.:

What’s the metaphysical constitution of reality as we know it and what’re some of the implications of any of the attempted answers to this question with regards to existentialism?

Ok my apologies to current victims of eyeball-rolling and escapement of bodily fluids in foam form from the orifice due to overexposure to, as it is, my day-to-day dealings of shit like that. What the REAL puzzle is:

Why do men look fucked up in spandex and sand together?

I mean, you do gawk (and of course you do more than gawk if you’re camped with the ‘Testosterone ‘R Us’ club) when women don (barely a technically-correct term, considering what little there is, ontologically, on the part of the don-nee) their bathing suits and strut around in the sand, but you do, at the same time, find something inherently wrong with someone stripped down to something the size and shape of panties similarly stepping about on the beach. Is it the legs? The asses? The incredibly long hair sheathing them legs affording a year-round impregnable fortress against ultra-violet rays?

So we can imagine women with said hair, and clean-shaved men (this latter image is more unsettling and will probably fail probability tests and refer to a null set, but for the sake of the argument let’s all be fair and assume its plausibility by imagining it as some sort of a thought experiment), but the problem still exists. The obvious candidate at this point will be the bulge. But what if you’ve got someone who’s victim to a freak accident involving 2 grapes and a half-nibbled banana and the part of the anatomy frequently referred to as 'where the sun doesn’t shine'; who’s also otherwise America’s Next Top Model? Ok bad example about the model; I mean, have you seen the competitors that one’s churning out? But you know what I mean. I conclude by copping out as usual: non-natural properties. That’s as close to a ‘I-have-no-idea-whatsoever-and-I-don’t-really-give-a-flying-fuck’ line of answer if there ever was one. And if only Desmond read this. Hah. He’ll be turning over his proverbial grave, if he even had one in the first place. As it is he won’t forgive me and my smugness for Nagarjuna for years yet, I’ll imagine.

On a totally unrelated note, it seems like shit is approaching critical mass again. And so the cycle starts anew, right on cue, as if operating on clockwork.

I hope I miss the ringing and oversleep.

if there's a poisoned fear, a wasted year, a man must learn to cope; if his obsession's real, the suppression that he feels must turn to hope.

2006-02-21T00:33:00.000+08:00

I have arrived. Petrucci and his hair in the flesh. Myung’s calculated tapping to what I suspected was a blatant inclusion of that part from Metropolis. Rudess’s fingers whenever they do that 4-man-in-unison thingy. Portnoy banging the sides of his head with his hands in time to his abuse of the skins and crashes. And uh Labrie throwing his larger-than-life ass about whilst prancing around the stage in leather pants which have seen better days serving a somewhat more robust derriere. Okay I’ll admit I don’t really agree with the group’s direction in the frontman department but hey you’ve gotta admit that it works. ‘You’ meaning all the die-hard fans out there of course. And how fucked up they must have felt. ‘They’ referring to the band members. After years upon years of flirting with the ‘you’s, what with cancelled concerts and igniting petitions and all that, ‘they’’d have thought that the online signatories should’ve amounted to more with regards to the piteous state of ticket sales which ‘they’ described modestly as ‘They’re selling well’. Uh. ‘They’ in the immediately above case referring to them tickets. Shit it’s gonna go fucked up really soon if I keep this up.

That aside, there’s something innately weird when you consider the fact that you’ve got maestros doing their thing both on and off stage, and that as a result of that, the people you have downstage should be maestro-wannabes; and the parallel fact that instead of aspiring shredders and double-pedal-ers you get psycho-motor-deficiency-sufferers jerking spasmodically to perfect Portnoy beats. Okay perhaps a possible dodgy mitigation is that that’s their take on moshing techniques, but there’s no excuse when you get to the obligatory waving-in-supposed-unison numbers. I mean, there Labrie is (still in his ridiculous excuse for pants), showing everyone how it’s done with exaggerated clapping motions; and here my neighbours are, suggesting to me that they’re just as surprised as I am concerning the orientation of their arms with respect to the rest of their bodily organs, and the music (read: none whatsoever). And there again you get people seemingly nodding to the music, but on closer scrutiny you realize that they’re only there in the physical sense; their souls have ascended and they’re really nodding to the secret beat of the Tabezo drums of the metaphysical rock group by the name of Epiphenomenal Qualia playing the intricate melody of the Gulugulu Heavenly Tribe.

But they played Pull Me Under. I mean ‘they’, not Epiphenomenal Qualia or the Gulugulu Heavenly Tribe. To the delight of the dude behind me who kept up an hour-long nasal whine/scream/yelp/battle cry/orgasmic yodel which probably traversed the length of the concert hall and resonated with the perpetual feedback and drove Labrie insane enough. That and perhaps the uncomfortable hunk of leather which kept on riding up his impossible butt crack. I mean his annoyance. Ok bad running joke, bad pun on the song name. At least I’m writing?

Alright probably no mitigation.

crouching tiger, hidden spudmeister.

2006-01-24T01:15:00.000+08:00

I think my fellow countrymen are worthy of praise and adjectives of the glowing variety, such as ‘industrious’, ‘efficient’ and ‘homosexual’. Ok perhaps the last one is a blatant case of equivocation, but that doesn’t mean it’s not false. Alright and maybe I’m being a bit too hard on that son of a bitch doing the classic false appeal to authority shit in class. You know, the kind who will go ‘Ma’am, can you give a short discourse regarding the dynamic undertow of the philosophical tensions belying the subject-object anti-pseudo transperambulatory materialism behind “Standing Tiger/Crouching Dragon”, which I read about in a book?’ in film class, to the consternation and burning interest of the spinster stuffy matriarch of a lecturer who spends her weekends with heated bananas and who has a thing with larger shower heads. Uh. In case you didn’t know “Standing Tiger/Crouching Dragon” is the name of an oft-neglected, yet effective orgasm (sexual, just in case some other flaming homosexual’ll like to describe his movie-going experiences in language best left to copulators) generator as detailed in the newest version of the Kama Sutra complete with new, snazzy (or so they think; I mean, “Randy Recliner”?) names for positions and what they call a Carnal Rating column which, following a layman translation, rates the amount of bones both parties will snap in attempting to derive pleasure.

Anyway, on to the industrial and efficient bit, which, disappointingly to anyone, or possible anyones, reading this; has got fuck-all to do with sex. Well. Then again I don’t suppose it’s over and above anyone thinking about sex with whatever material he has to work with: words, washing machines, curtains, what have you. I mean, not obviously, in the mundane sense of the word. My concession for off-track thinking has gained new ground I see. Anyway, so there was this boy (fuck you paedophiles who’re already starting now) who was attempting to sleep and drink at the same time on a bus ride. And what does he do but fail miserably in all 3. When the bus jolted, bringing his cranium into terminal contact with the part of the anatomy most highlighted in “Wanton Wheelbarrow” of his neighbour, at the same time generously dispensing his Slurpee down the breast pocket of said beneficiary of this event, had the latter been in the mindset most suited for “Surreptitious Slurpin’ ‘n Spankin’ Spudmeister ”, which, in this case, he was not. Which was a right shame.

And so I’ve covered man’s basic needs in this short passage: food, drink, sex and shelter. Of course, we have the glaring omissions which are regretted for now but which will be covered in latter tendencies to jerk back into digital life, such as sex, football, sex, sex and advanced corsetry techniques. And I think they should ban all them motherfucking sociologists in analytic classes. No offence to said motherfuckers, of course.

the return of the hair-apparent.

2005-11-15T00:38:00.000+08:00

My emphatic response is – NO!! Well not quite as emphatic. And neither quite as upper-case-y nor as exclamation-mark-y.

I was reading my own postings in this long-left-for-The-Grateful-Dead thing and was compelled to think up responses for some of the things I falsely said. It’s one of the failings of reading the things I normally read cos I’m forever compelled to reply to THOSE, and then sometimes, when there’re real people around to hear those replies, they’re treated to schizophrenic responses to said replies delivered with fervent gusto as though the “I” that I was 2 minutes ago was some raving lunatic with no semblance of human understanding and logic whatsoever, and had done a disgustingly gross misreading of the whatever-fuck-it-was (it don’t matter no more cos that’s besides the point – the point here… I’ll tell later. If I remember within the space of this post to interject between my wrestling with my own self). And so this verbal ping-pong (or just plain tennis if you swing that way. “That way” being whichever way Maria Sharapova’s legs are showing up on the screen) will endure, until finally I can’t, not out-reason, but out-shout; myself anymore, and I slide into a physically quietist position, all sides of me within still clamouring for their pieces to be heard but with the engine promising to deliver them having blown a carburetor (to stretch that metaphor for all its worth).

Anyway I was saying I was false. Well not really so much of the time, but just that I did leave it in the plural form to deny myself the benefit of the doubt (the “me” now, and “now” as in during and before the posting of this, you see). But that’s still besides the point. The point is the post in which I said the goon watching the traffic in the different direction from the direction of traffic was wrong. It just dawned upon me, some hours ago, that he could’ve been trying to look out for incoming cars from the reflection off the rears of the cars passing his line of sight. You see, I figured if you can see a vehicle behind passing vehicles this way, chances are you’ll get proper-fucked if you attempted to follow the chicken there and then, cos the vehicles’ll be close enough. Though it probably isn’t the most intuitive method of death-by-reductio-ad-roadkill prevention, it is a rather brilliant way out, huh, if I may de-socket myself by patting my (the “my” now, who just thought of this) –self on the back. And I think I’m so brilliant the world’s plotting to de-seat me as the Thinker of Marvelous Ideas, starting from my hairdressers who’re plotting to surreptitiously crown me with what was previously voted the World’s Worst Haircut. They think they’re so clever and they think I don’t know. Hah! So there!

The point was my incessant need to argue with anybody and everybody, first and foremost with myself; all the fucking time. Ok perhaps not ALL the time, cos I did get out of the conundrum to remember this. And then some, cos this constitutes another instance of my not being free from said conundrum. Erm cos I’m arguing with myself again, for those who didn’t catch that. I think I’m becoming more disjointed and incomprehensible. Perhaps this return’s for the worse. Hah. But, like a professor’ll say – nyah nyah nyah. There’s the academic life for you, I guess.

p/s: On a totally unrelated note: when you couple the exciting Fringe with the exciting Tail, you don’t get the EXCITING conjunction ending in a stylistic coup the follicle ticklers will swoon over; you get the fucking mullet.

i want to go to paris and bagged-dad.

2005-08-10T19:58:00.000+08:00

And stowaway bags. Those harbouring stashes of groceries, electronics, meals, books, life-sized sex toys in the likeness of Paris Hilton, etc. So much there is in observing the placements of these. You’ve them buggers who unabashedly ‘fall asleep’ IMMEDIATELY after having deposited them in the adjacent seat(s). And those who keep them carefully and thoughtfully arranged on the floor just so that only every single person will trip over them every time they attempt any known form of physical movement.

There’s an art to Adjacent Seat Bag Placement, you know. First you take up 2/3 of your own seat. Then on the adjacent seat on the side where more of you reside, you place the relevant article, taking up the magical fraction of a seat again: 2/3 (remember this golden number well). This means you’ll now have your article sitting near, next to you, with the two remaining 1/3 of the seats flanking you and your baggage. The advantages of this arrangement are plenty. Firstly, you have an impregnable (upon pain of discomfort experienced in parking one’s ass in such a position as to have the raised partition separating seats nestled between one’s butt cheeks) force-field of 1/3 seats on either side of you that’ll effectively foil hand bitches’/bastards’ schemes and thus gives you leeway for undisturbed slumber. Secondly, in case you get woken up, you’ve then given yourself the heavily clichéd choice between fighting and buggering off. Cos if the disturbance has come from a spectacle-wearing, tutu-donning, Backstreet Boys-listening, mother-fucking whoreson of a bleeding effete; then you’re politically correct (where they practice politics in my world anyway) in taking up the rest of the space on your wings and appearing justifiably indignant. However, if you’ve been gently cooed awake by the most courteous, civil-minded, polite, etc. gentleman of all gentlemen; then you can hasten to acknowledge his silent chiding and make way for him drawing everything into your unoccupied 1/3s. And his 7-foot, 500-pound frame. And his facial calisthenics that will rival that of Mike Tyson’s should the latter find himself confronted by a dinner with horse manure as garnishing. The normal course of action in this case is of course best accompanied by the contortion of one’s body into the foetal position whilst emitting suitably apt whimpering moans of apology in strategic, sporadic bursts.

Somehow this has gotten to become somewhat a monthly thing. Whatever. No time, no want. Oh well, whatever, nevermind.

the filipino s.w.a.t. team.

2005-07-13T12:13:00.000+08:00

Let me tell you about my costume. Imagine what I say in the remaining of this paragraph just so that you can visualize it all. You know the beautiful costumes that dancers you see wear? You know, those you see on the television when you’ve got fuck all to do with your time/life. In particular, I’m sure you’ve seen them sleek, hip, uppity-up ding dong-ing spiffy black numbers that allows for both freedom of one’s limbs in their totality and are pretty much the epitome of design and chic worthy of compensating for global fashion disasters such that the fashion police becomes extinct for the next 3 centuries.

Got that all in your head? Well our costume is not like this. At fucking all. So whatever you have in your head now, take note not to include even a passing suggestion of it in trying to conjure up an image of our costume in your mind.

The garment, when viewed under pure, undulating white light, finds its place, with regards to hue classification on the 4096 colour wheel preferred by graphic designers the world over; under the nomenclature “Fugly”. And its woeful fuck-up in the size department. Hell knows what manner of demographics were consulted – what, trolls with 1-foot torsos, 5-foot legs, size 20 chests and size 36 waists? Or a close enough measure of ‘thereabouts’, anyway.

But excitement mounts in Sashayville as the respective ‘everyone’ anxiously prepares, in all anxiety (sorry I don’t know anymore forms of ‘anxious’), to parade the distinct poverty in the cloth department with regards to that which stands as each and every individual’s Helm’s Deep to modesty. Of course this isn’t done without some measure of subterfuge. There’s the usual bitching directed at them poor tailors who’ve already been condemned to burn in hell by the grand-sugar-daddy of words, the Bard himself; but you’ll need light-sensitive shades (preferably those with cardboard for lenses) in order for you to miss the multitudinous glints of gratitude in them peepers in response to yet another chance outside of only their everyday fashion escapades to flaunt what they don’t have but are under multiple layers of realistic, life-like illusions that they possess in excess.

And so, what do you have but a group that looks as disjointed as Houdini should every time he does that frightful thing with the box and the water and the semi-clad nymphet from Arabia in the toilet 2 doors down Sunset Strip. I mean, we look like crack members of the S.W.A.T. team who’s invaded a troop of Filipino maids and in the midst of the confusion, due to the theory in accordance with the Transambulation of Pseudo-Cosmic Anti-Matter, has resulted in the whole bunch of us (I mean the crack troops and the servants) performing miraculously coordinated spasmodic twitching to bad music, a poor audience and an even worse organization.

my forehand sucks.

2005-07-06T11:27:00.000+08:00

Kept away once again, this time out of necessity as frolicking and façade-painting comes into the foreground in the exciting world of Beng Chang’s Neurosis. And so another one is past, with nothing to show for it except the multiple layers of sun burnt skin and the inane need to bury my head in my chest when school reopens soon enough. Not to mention the characteristic immense low as the effort taken to shake off the desire to talk to people who don’t even exist in your once again echo-inducing empty world gets a tad obvious and overwhelming. But of course it’s a self-remedying thing, this. As opposed to once again the strange phenomenon that is that people just can’t stand hearing that I’m single or something hah.

You can see why rednecks’ll rather engage in tennis than badminton. The former calls for none of the sissy finesse that the latter requires, instead banking on the satisfying outlet of brute unbridled force. And of course there’s the sun factor. It just doesn’t feel like proper masculine sport when you perspire and it’s not due to the sun. I mean, I think it falls in the same category as sleeping without the fan on, chess in a poorly ventilated room, reading with my still @$#$#%$ windless fan, and fencing. Of course, the above list is to be severely criticized for being totally unfair to one of the activities. I mean, hey, chess is an Olympic sport! Or is it some other similarly huge motherfucking time and money leeching event. I know it’s a registered sport cos I read about it in one of them Bookworm Digests once.

So we played tennis today. Or, rather, made a valiant effort at doing so. Then again valiance counts for fuck all at the end of the day. The knight can be miles away from saving the damsel in fuckloads of distress when his horse steps on his toe and decides to call it quits, or he can very well be a knot shy of undoing the woman’s bonds when he gets mowed down from behind courtesy of a mixture of bad breath and spittle as emitted by the dragon (I can’t ever go with the fairy tale notion of fire-spouting creatures); what matters is the result otherwise known as ‘failure’ – effort counts for naught at all.

So yes, we had our racquets and balls (they do so resemble parts of the Grinch’s anatomy don’t you think), and appropriately togged out in our shorts, foolish smiles and the permits which we don’t have cos it’s just fucking dumb to go spend even a sliver of effort booking the courts when the percentage of the world’s population playing tennis on a bright sunny holiday weekday morning in school is zero. Ok not really zero. Cos our morning was spent losing balls and hitting purposeful ones to adjacent courts where proper players went at each other just so that we can annoy them and steal their balls when they’re not looking.

If you haven't already noticed I've let this read better in accordance to Leonard's suggestion regarding punctuation. Then again it may count for nothing as well cos perhaps no one reads this anymore. Oh well. As always, for everything with me, for the sake of, then.

verbal masturbation.

2005-06-19T01:52:00.000+08:00

kept away to maintain the complexion of this here hole. cos i'm just too fucking lazy to think at all, much less think up things that i've thought throughout the course of [insert period of inactivity here]. and cos i'm also too fucking tired every single day of the bloody week after spending more than full halves of the days either hurrying or frolicking or prancing around. and also it'll be too much of a depressing affair looking at recent occurrences hitting roughly about 8.756 on Beng Chang's Scale of Fucked Up-ness and Bloody Mess-ness and Generally All Things Fucked Up Yes. so much so that it'll be in the predictable pattern of mourn-mourn-bloody-mourn-uh-mourn-mourn ad infinitum.

is it just a biological consequence or is it that the prejudice (mostly on the side of the alpha males and females) concerning male dancing people is justified? i mean, red mules on top of, or should i say, below, an all white ensemble? and the latter over jet-black underpants, no less. and pink umbrella. and funky-looking tattoos if you know what i mean. complete the look with a pastry (i defer to the cream puff but sometimes egg tarts are nice as well) hairdo and walah - you get decades upon decades of derogatory stereotypical adjectives thrown at you. ok perhaps it's just this one person, but the added funk to his steps really screams 'motherfucker of a flaming homosexual no fucking doubt oh yes oh damn!'. i mean, nothing in hip hop says anything even remotely close to hip gyrations the only polite description of which is 'motherfucker', nor are raised buttocks well past comfortable levels (normally at the buttocks level) a pre-requisite to being a male dancer of any sort.

the idea was mistaken, after all. i really do only have a fixed amount of words to be said, like, per year or something. i mean, all the social activities and facades that take so many words out of me in the public sector has taken its toll on my private doings. so much so that i am becoming more reticent than ever (if that's even possible in the first place. of course 3 words per night to 1 per night is fully comprehensible in the mathematical sense but there's little to be done with the latter ration with regards to making actual communicative sense). then again. perhaps it's a good thing for people in both sectors, since public people take more to public sounding people and people in my public circle probably have had just about enough of my verbal idiosyncracies. or that perhaps it's just a consequence of my dumbing down due to my stark refusal to believe that lack of sleep can cause this. dumbing down, i mean.

let's chase the dragons instead.

2005-06-10T00:54:00.000+08:00

isn't it strange, given all the wealth of experience you have, you still never catch the flying shit hurtling towards you at breakneck speed in your rear view mirror until the very last moment when however much you swerve will matter no more cos it'll still be 100% contact with said shit, the only difference being the angle at which it makes that contact, which will only mean the degree of mess it'll make on the adjacent people cos of the ensuing deflecting splatter? i suppose deep down, however much of a my-glass-is-half-fucking-empty-you-cliched-piece-of-crud person you are, to be a functioning, or, generally speaking, alive, human being; you'll have to be optimistic in some way or other, that you always hope things will turn out well in the end however much you claim or act otherwise.

it's also an exponential increase when it comes to maintaining the facade of normalcy. it's like herion: in the beginning, you take hits to achieve the high that acts like an escape from your sorry-ass semblance of a real life; as you go on, you find yourself needing more and more of it to sustain the same degree of high and at the same time you begin to discover the bitter, to say the least, aftertaste that is withdrawal brought about by increasing dependence on more hits per unit time; and finally, you spiral out of control cos it gets to the point whereby it becomes ridiculous and impossible to sustain the level of your indulgence/dependence. cos the facade is just so appealing and sexy and beckoning and sugar and spice and i can't tie a proper splice and everything nice.

but you will still have to go on, you and your fucked up self-righteous shit which you yourself don't believe in in principle but which you follow blindly, cos that's the blinding guiding ideal light that no one really aspires towards because of the sheer impossibility of it all; cos it's just the best thing you have now, which means it's a 'best' on the relative scale but counts for peanuts on the absolute scale, if there be a latter in the first place, that is.

i think it's right on time for the mandatory perennial fuck-up. how predictable again, and how the cue is given and missed even as you are looking hard and expecting it all along. shit comes in many colours and makes, but that makes for a poor excuse of fucking course.

sick, tired and sleepless; with no one else to shine for.

2005-06-04T15:01:00.000+08:00

somehow, when you're in the presence hundreds of people dealing in products with seemingly ridiculous values of around 500 bucks per gram or something, cumulating in a total of maybe 2309304940609 dollars wallowing in the space equivalent of a football pitch; it doesn't strike you that you're in the presence of hundreds of people dealing in products with seemingly ridiculous values of around 500 bucks per gram or something, cumulating in a total of maybe 2309304840609 dollars wallowing in the space equivalent of a football pitch.

and advertising gimmickry for gadgetry somehow just doesn't make as much sense, however far, or lack thereof in the distance category, the point is stretched in the first place; as that for automobiles. i mean, for the latter, there is at least a somewhat coherent logical link between the objects used to push the products, namely, scantily-clad women with a penchant for too much make-up and a skirt length limitation of at least 3 inches above the knees; and the products themselves: "uh uh uh you have the money to buy a 300-grand car and so you will have the money to fuck me uh uh uh." but electronics? "uh uh uh you have the money to buy a... wha - 300-dollar mp3 player? fuck!" then again. perhaps the rationale is there as well: "uh uh uh you have the sense of mind to buy a 300-dollar mp3 player instead of a car the majority of the functions you don't half understand and the other half you can't legally utilise which means you're stuck with an overpriced bundle of 4 seats and a steering wheel and therefore you will have the 299,970 bucks to fuck me uh uh uh."

so things worked pretty well for me and the fair. things i wanted to get were not on sale and, at the same time, i didn't have the money to buy those things anyway even if there were up for grabs. the power thus grows stronger in me. however much the scale of its recording is in pittance-units. fried to a crisp and nothing to show for it. damn. and it's a record as i've smashed my head right into the space-bar in particular and the keyboard in general for the 4th consecutive night. if fatigue is a disease then i'm struck with an epidemic in its terminal stage. and for my faithful multitude, kudos to you if you spotted the difference. what a fun thing my blog is, games and all.

execute order 66.

2005-05-30T00:02:00.000+08:00

the month of the divine messaging system in overdrive continues and looks set to carry itself over to the next. it happens so much that it's seriously uncanny and no longer amusing. maybe if it happened to a lesser man or one who's not so accustomed to it (ok perhaps more of the latter than the former; i don't think i'm much of a 'more[or more-er cos less-lesser] man') the pumped-up fluids inside his brain will begin to push through his eyes cos of the pressure in his skull and lombardo will play the respective solo that's earned him his top 50 spot.

for example, and so i met this lady from a not-too-peachy past twice in a single week, at the same fucking place. ok so the recurrence of the venue takes 3 ticks off the uncanny meter, but it still is strange, considering - well just considering. the first time she did the nonchalant-looking-right-through-you-like-you're-constructed-wholly-from-perspex thing pretty well, considering (now, yes) how i had my staring-deep-into-your-eyes-like-you-owe-me-a-quarter-of-a-million-pounds thing going on, but she was caught with her pants down during the second time as we turned right into each other in our seats about 0.04 millimetres apart. i think i did that bemused half-smile to perfection but the poor dear couldn't take it as a gamut of emotions seized control in accordance with order 66 of her and her amazing brows which knitted half a sweater every this and other way cumulating at long last in a sort of a half smile as she struggled to regain control of her dallas maverick facial hair. and promptly fled to another table with her mate in record time. and demanded for her food to be served in record time. and wolfed down her meal in record time. and raised talismans all around her vicinity in record time. all the while with that smile frozen on her face of course, testament to the degree of shock hence experienced.

perhaps one will be moved now to think just what bovine turd i'm cooking up again, now, cos it ain't all that surprising to be faced with a flimsy coincidence. but it was the company i was in i guess. in particular, the nature of the species. and the means of interaction. i suppose i'm too established within the boundaries of my perceived stereotype that any deviation from it will be met with reactions of this sort.

and this is but one instance of reappearing apparitions of lives past. i wonder what the powers that be are trying to say this time. perhaps that i'll do well to bet on the heat to win after all cos i'd bumped into 3 men and 2 women over this period making up 5 and that's the number of playing players; and one of them i'd met eating shark's fin and the chinese commentators dub shaq 'shark'; and another i'd ran into queuing up at a betting centre and that's where you go when you uh want to place bets; and another had worn black that's the colour of the heat's home strip; and another was called stan and that's the name of the more successful van gundy; and this i met looked like she was in heat.

yoda banana earlobe.

2005-05-22T20:16:00.000+08:00

it's franz after all, not strokes. sorry.

they just can't seem to air anything but star wars shit nowadays. and that is literal when it comes to public transport screenings. they buy two (was gonna write "2" but it looked strange next to "20") 20-second short clips and sadly, mistakenly or otherwise, they're both star wars trailers. with the same jumbled up flashes of pivotal scenes which are powerful narrative tools that move the movie decidedly forward like darth vader saying "the" and that of yoda with his head in mid-turn while attempting to address god-knows-who cos of the operation of the 180-degree rule at that particular point in the movie; only they're put in different orders. so if you're stuck on a bus from its fucking start of its route all the way to its fucking end cos you need to do stuff that you're not even meant to do at fucking 7am on a fucking sunday morning, with an mp3 player with a battery as dead as, dead; you're stuck on a jerking mass of discomfort and having to hear "the" being repeated in the same infuriating rasp for what distinguished mathematicians the world over, after careful calculations with powerful computers, will be moved to term, 'many times'; 2 and 16 seconds apart.

i'm still undecided as to whether the awkward factor is worse when i'm meant to talk to strange new people or when i'm hit by a blast from the past that makes it inappropriate to flee but not quite enough to have anything substantial to say to to escape from setting the record for the number of akward silences per conversation minute. the tension gets so thick that you can't slice it with a knife but if you throw a banana at it it'll stick. cos i'm a peace-banana-loving awkwardness generator.

perhaps parents should think twice about sending their kids off to learn dancing just cos they satisfy the requirements as set by the dictates of the gender stereotype. this here girl was literally dragged on and offstage by her compatriots, and those were the only instances of her synchronising her movements with her troupmates, getting at least her general direction right. cos the rest of her time was spent on total concentration on her left earlobe, as she first tugged it with her left hand, then the right, then the other way around with her right, and then things got really bizarre when she progressed contact with said earlobe to her bellybutton.

well ok she didn't. but she was just standing there the whole time with a constant spooky glassy stare into the middle distance. i should've thrown a banana at her.

lord of the dance.

2005-05-20T12:56:00.000+08:00

i'm not making this up. thank you dave barry. still.

how is it that shit piles up to hit the wildly whirling fan everytime the occupation finds a reprieve? ain't the truth of the world that it's always better on holidays, so much better on holidays; that's why we only work when we need the money? but the truth about the world is that crime does pay. the guns n' roses offspring is strokes-ed. i think no one will know the first, soe, who refuses to read this, will know the second, and minghai may well know the last. then again it isn't so hard a situation to imagine. considering how little (of my) time the grinder takes up during its periods of supremacy.

what's in a dance? it may very well be graceful endeavors cumulating in the resolution of some thematic concern or other, technical manoeuvres with a mind to deliver some sort of a social critique, exercises of the physical variety acting as a complex narrative tool, and the list goes on. it can, however, sadly, also serve as an outlet to spasmodic twitchings in accordance with those struck with the combined afflictions of the pavlovian and the sufferer of the dreaded psycho-motor deficiency syndrome. the result is fearful-looking combinations of sporadic gyrations of various body parts in accordance with a secret polyrhythmic beat only grasped by masters of percussions the world over with regards to the latter, and the uncontrollable emission of bodily fluids from every conceivable gland in adherence to the former. so it is that this here hypothetical gentleman will display never known possible contortions of his body with his tongue hanging limply from the side of his maw. it is an education in the human anatomy (or perhaps just this particular man's) as one discovers the endless possibilities of the human body, including turning your knees to the left while twisting your shoulders to the right while jerking your hips to the left while throwing your right arm to the left while thrusting your left hand upwards while attempting to break your neck throwing your head forcibly forward ALL AT ONCE. it's still all hypothetical though. purely hypothetical.

oh how i love dance. and, of course, how my hypothetical gentleman must love it too. and maybe when push comes to shove i may even love him more. perhaps if he did it with better control of his jaw muscles he'll actually look the epitome of technique and proficiency and give rise to a new art form. flatley who, indeed.

when 2 become 1.

2005-05-15T21:53:00.000+08:00

... but it's to be said that the most over-rated of all and sundry has got to be electronics salespeople. you know, them self-important, pompous motherfuckers who always seem to be absorbed in the most fascinating subject of the universe: tom. if the absorb-ee happens to be called tom, that is. i mean, they're always positively swarming you when you will have nothing to do with them. while never being around to help when you really do need them, just standing behind their counters and smiling to themselves at how small their dicks are, waiting for fumbling you to fuck up and damage something in the process of examining it whilst not knowing that every single gadget in the store has a self-destruct button which happens to be the most ostentatious and sensitive one, the triggering of which by even a brush of your shirt sleeve will create a psychic boom which will be all that's needed to galvanise all uniformed personnel within a 3-mile radius into action, setting them sprinting to you and pressing that object and one of the 23,000 cards on the shelves bearing the reminder saying 'whatever you fuck up is yours, you motherfucking piece of crud' in your face. perhaps the guiding deity of the occupation is edward a. murphy.

so i bought 2 expensive mp3 players in the span of 3 days. on the first day, i'd gone to the store in hopes of getting a replacement for my md player which is all but considered a fossil by most of the human population today. and was promptly reminded of the fact that they're defunct. so i was faced with 2 choices: return home empty-handed and endure another music-less weekend, or get player of another nature there and then knowing bugger-all about anything other than the gadget equivalent of making fire with rocks. but of course, as they say, 'music soothes even the savage beast'. or should i say 'only music can soothe the savagery and stop all the carnage delivered by the psychotic beast oh please help stop him'. and as far as my savage meter is concerned it's positively reaching the extreme that screams 'fuck'. so i thought, what the hey, let's hear what this flaming homosexual of a mat has to say. so he proceeds to inform me, informatively, that what i absolutely need in my life to set it all straight and get me a good job and ensuring a thriving sex life, among other things; is a player that has 5 MEGABYTES of space. so i tried politely to correct him by speaking about 5 GIGABYTES but he corrects me. until he starts whipping out the products and reads off them acting like he's been saying GIGABYTES all his miserable fucking (literally) life.

needless to say, the one he badgered me to get was positively fucked up, after i'd gotten home and fiddled with it and done research on it on the second day. so i went back to the store on the third day and begged for an exchange. with my sob story down pat and all. so i rattled it all off to the selfsame member of the 'brotherhood of the purple underpants', starting from how my gramma'd been struck by a mysterious ailment, about how my future wife'd been struck by a mysterious ailment, about how the rest of the world'd been struck by a mysterious ailment; and that the only one thing left to do to prevent armageddon was to take the fucked up piece of scrap metal back and grant me another superior one. the man listened, got totally confused by my second word, but still had his last riposte - "but it's used," he declares triumphantly. oh no oh fuck i'd forgotten to take this into consideration. so i had to cook up some more details about how the use of that thing would interfere with the proper working of the gps systems the world over and lead to catastrophic pandemonium, and the only thing left to do was to force it off me however much we both loathed things to be thus.

he finally agreed. and asserts that he was doing me a favour mumbling on and on about how i'd used that piece of fuck. after informing me that i'd gotten 8 songs on it. i don't know what happened to the other 242 i was scrolling through on my way there. but i wasn't about to argue. i mean, hey, he's the one who's making a living knowing such things, and i was but an md player-loser-user. and cos i really didn't fancy a visit by the security guard who first eyeballed me and then flashed me a smile on my way into the store looking all ready to give me a grease down and a shiatsu.

and the crowd goes wild.

(have you ever been to) electric ladyland.

2005-05-12T21:32:00.000+08:00

paint is overrated. people make too much out of what colour can do to one's life and how it can reflect one's mood and personality and whatnot. surely another arbitrarily-determined indicator, who's to say what yellow signifies or denotes? and it's all fucking relative anyway, or does anyone not know the age-old debate regarding the my-green-your-green-fuck-you-and-your-green business. so bollocks to the colour wheel and what-have-you's; blue and orange do not clash; an over-ripe daffodil doesn't look wrong on water.

on the other hand, it still does constitute a mortal sin if you wear a red jacket over a green shirt, and backed up by orange pants and blue mules. with white socks. those that show cos the trousers aren't long enough for the leggings to reach the tops of the wearer's shoes.

technology is overrated. everyone keeps thinking to keep up with the times in the chase to be 'the king of electronic gadgets'. or, failing that, then at least 'the baron of tiny flashing blue lights'. hence the constant yearning for larger storage capacity in one's music playing machine.

albert: i've got the latest mp3 player! it has 8gb of free space! i just got it 3 minutes ago!

bob: big fucking deal. i got the one they released 3.96 nanoseconds after you left the shop. mine has 8.012gb.

albert (hangs his head in shame): you are the king; i bow down to your superiority, and will presently hurl my obsolete, primitive dingdong into the dustbin.

(bob is not listening cos he's busy paying homage to his new king as well, losing all bowel control and reduced to a slobbering dribbler of saliva as charlie sashays past, the superior size of his balls for all to see, what with his new-fangled paper clip-sized machine proudly - for all it's 3-second-novelty life span's worth - adorning what's known in the appropriate circles as a "gadget-corset".)

to all ye fucking sahibs.

2005-05-09T23:42:00.000+08:00

yeah the preceding entry looks fucked up and is confusing, to say the least. well i lifted it straight off my last friendster entry, that's why. for old times' sake. and cos i wasn't bothered enough for 2 separate postings. but then again this will count as one separate one to correct that perceived confusion. no matter. so to clarify things, yes this is THE ONE. can't be closing this down now; i haven't even started! that was for friendster. as in the last paragraph of the last entry. fuck i think i've successfully confounded myself as well.

5 great ways to feel fucked up:

1) watch television. any channel.
2) have rainwater splashed on you by every single vehicle that passes by a cheebye narrow road divider.
3) brave the weather just to reach your destination and witness the abatement of rain of any intensity 2.5 minutes after.
4) stand next to a bigot and have him coo the words 'why are all the electrical engineering lecturers indian? cos they need the lights hurhurhur.' right in your ear.
5) attempting to sleep in a room with a NABEI CHEEBYE FUCKING FUCK FUCK BITCH CUNT damaged hi-fi.

how many agaetis byrjuns does one man need.

2005-05-09T22:01:00.000+08:00

due to overwhelming pressure from the people who aren't my 'friends' cos they refuse to bow down to the friendster machine i've decided to transfer the whole of this thing elsewhere. cos if anyone should comment it's these people. so here you go, my motherfuckers! here's my new abode:

http://i-am-zen.blogspot.com/

to paraphrase the great rock band, 'here's to all of you who've stucked with us through all the fucking shit. and to all those opposed... hmm, well, hahaha.' now to cross my fingers and hope the friendster people don't read this and send me death threats for having defected. the new one looks inferior, though i can't believe i'm praising something like friendster for design-related stuff. a tad too bright and cheery. and i'll have to say lime green and baby blue really doesn't become of me. oh well. whatever for my motherfuckers that's how much i love you ahahaha. and to further stress the point on how much i love you, i'll have you know that it was a fucking painstaking process that i got all the posts AND comments over. had to make the comments myself giving me fake names. now the posts are no sweat but the i can't toggle the date and time setting for the comments. so as it stands blogspot received 21 comments all sent to the same suddenly immensely popular blog within an hour. but it's alright. cos i love all of you. oh how i love you. oh yes i love you. OH YES OH HOW I FUCKING LOVE ALL OF YOU MOTHERFUCKING SONS OF BITCHES.

during term time they spend their daytime hiding in grottoes and living off sewage fungi and algae. occasionally they slink out into the daylight to get at fresh rainwater dripping off the nearest drain. when night falls they creep right out and engage in the sale of useless trinklets in the red light district or the hawking of dubious-looking sausages in other similarly seedy parts of town. their name is legion and they are many.

i mean, where the fuck do people who do in-between-semesters studies escape to during normal termtime? the whole school is absolutely seething with them now that we're gone.

so i guess this is the last entry being made to this here thing. direct your attention and comments to the new place now will you. or am i only talking to julia again. hahaha (the laughter can be either mirthful or bitter depending on how things turn out).

my statue of liberty mug.

2005-05-08T20:37:00.000+08:00

delirium reaches new heights, and what's fucked up is that it's all occurring after the supposed emotional and psychological drain-machine that is the pitting of individuals against one another against a relative scale that does nothing but create unnecessary anxiety, disillusionment, farting and suicide attempts via suffocation by body odour. yes some people actually believe that once you crest the 3-day peak you become a demi-god in the realm of personal hygiene in that you transcend it and ascend to a superior plane of existence and you no longer need the vulgar touch of moisture of any sort to ever taint even an inch of your skin no more. it's uncanny and totally coincidental, but somehow the corner that don't half pong always seems to enamate from that harbouring the chink chinks.

anyways yes my delirium. oh, so it's all about me now, huh! just felt like getting that on the screen. so i was doing proper work thinking up captions for movies for cable, long past their having been shown on cable. i guess at some point, perhaps during deliberation about which is the most diplomatic point of insertion of my trademark 'motherfucking son of a mangy bitch' (but i suppose that was never gonna sit too well with sensitive parenting couch potatoes. maybe if i changed 'son' to a relatively harmless 'offspring'); something snapped and i was told the next morning that i had left my mug out on the table the entire night.

and the remote control submerged in the washbasin.

getting to understand anew why i did what i did back in the fucked up days of wearing ugly collars. or maybe it's just the sort of people that i'm getting re-acquainted with that's making me think and say all this. but i'll like to think that i really enjoyed the activity then, as i think i am now. it's a sort of a release in a really warped way, a kind of a supplement to the more direct form of reprieve i've engaged in for the past 13 years. besides, it's gonna take up substantial amounts of time so perhaps i'll have a much easier break this time round.

now everyone can't watch tv cos nobody has the suitably-trained muscular ability to switch channels manually by pressing the buttons on the little box. darwin will be heeded. maybe that's how the world will end. perhaps god will send an angel down to confiscate all exisitng remote controls and everyone will die of seizures as a result of over-exposure to cnn news. the lucky ones will die of bad vibes from soap re-runs.

inflate your scrotum today because it's fun.

2005-05-05T20:36:00.000+08:00

a moth died on my crotch today.

i don't think the poor bugger smashed its brains out plunging headlong into where the sun or moon or whatever other sort of luminescence have you don't shine, but that my and my groin's being there were merely conincidental. perhaps i just happened to be there when the end of the dragon's final flight across the waves reached fruition. cos it's not as if my nether regions harboured the rod in its flaming, undulated glowing state; i was watching basketball at that time, after all. and doesn't the object of everyone's desire in that context resemble an inflated scrotum of a member of the elephantiasis 'r' us club.

speaking of ball games. it's fucked up how the games, when pushed for their complete descriptions, simply sound anything from absurd to ludicrous. look, let's take basketball. 5 black motherfuckers toss an inflated scrotum amongst themselves. suddenly 5 other motherfuckers, this time pasty whites, get into the fray and the tossing takes place among all 10. the pasties can toss the scrotum from afar into a hole almost as small as their 'ball' with a decent degree of accuracy, but the negroes caught on the hole business and, ruminating on the sheer inefficiency of it all, decide to just shorten the tossing distance to virtually nothing by merely dropping the ball into the hole. they fall to arguing and pushing among themselves and someone wearing a ridiculous striped shirt, standing nearby, barred from the game cos of bad looks, acts like he's the king of the world and proclaims, due to bigotry, the blacks winners. of course he gets creamed but the black motherfuckers like what they hear and they successfully intimidate the whites with the superior size of their chests and by accusing them of being exploitative communists. the mediator takes the flare out of his left ear and we have basketball. expand both the hole and the number of rednecks with lots more running leading to lots more foam escaping said rednecks' mouths, double the referee's bad looks, top it off with a perverse prejudice against hands, and voila! - hockey (ok ok so it's football).

and people actually get paid for moving balls around! fuckloads, in fact! tell anyone you wanna engage in the highly technical job of a cake decorator (this actually is meant to be the ideal job for me when i took some psychology test back in uniformed school. you know, the kind that describes in detail who you are, the level of your sensitivity, what time you go to bed, your masturbation frequency, etc., all in, like, 3 questions pertaining directly to neither of the above information) and you'll get laughed out of town. but inform your parents of your uncontrollable urges to apply your boot liberally to spheroids and you'll probably get tears of pride.

i played football today.

chink chick chuck chonk.

2005-05-02T20:35:00.000+08:00

back. after 2 weeks or so of exams and their related preparations (of sorts) have prevented constructive input of any kind at the end of the days. ok it's not like what's being recorded here is anything substantial to begin with. and this isn't an apology. just an explanation. perhaps to no one. maybe nobody reads this but julia. no matter. i'm totally fine with it being an explanation by me to me, in accordance at least with aristotelian catharsis.

the library on holidays abounds with strange people with their origins rooted in an existential plane totally divorced from the weekday public's. for starters there're fathers with sons. well it's not the case that they're not to be allowed in my point of view but it gets somewhat distracting when you're a hair's breadth away (pardon the pun) from pulling out every single strand of your hair attempting to work out the calculations surrounding einstein's twin paradox while your neighbour is equally hard at work with his 7 times table.

turning the other way, we have, at the adjacent table, not a-decade-premature, aspiring entrants into the campus; but individuals who've obviously eaten perhaps 2 more barrels of the proverbial salt. by that i mean those stuck in the awkward years between those claimed by lecturers and that characteristic of those pursuing further studies. well perhaps age isn't what's most apparent about the group. i mean, they're not just middle aged, but they look very much like your run of the mill middle aged men who spend whole days either reading newspapers and drinking beers in coffeeshops of the chink variety, or reading newspapers and drinking beers in gambling dens of the illegal variety. the disconcertment heightens as they discuss complex physics equations complete with calculations filled with differentiation and integration signs ad infinitum. in hokkien.

now it's been argued by some that chink dialects constitute inferior languages on account of their lack of sophisticated terminology pertaining to chemistry and physics and what have you. today these "some"'s eat their socks and do the chicken dance and sing the fries song in hokkien. in the first place it should be clear that fixation of terminology is but arbitrary, and intonation and articulation superiority just seems an absurd supporting argument.

i end here cos i've lost my line of thought completely. i think i was on the phone for the longest time in my life. there goes my brain. i mean radiation. if that be true in the first place. then again it's already fried anyway by my use and abuse.

crosstown traffic and a baseball bat.

2005-04-22T20:34:00.000+08:00

the things exam stress do to people. i swear i saw this guy staring for full 2 minutes, in the wrong direction, at the traffic during rush hour. realising it in the end, he finally looked the right way and crossed when it was all clear. but of course now he finds himself in the same predicament as he was 2 minutes ago cos he now has to negotiate the traffic in THE OTHER direction. standing on the road divider, he battles the inertia of his turned head in the wrong direction for a full 4 minutes this time (2 minutes for the turn back to the straight configuration, then 2 more to turn in the right direction - diminishing marginal returns to scale). he made it at long last.

and promptly got smashed up by the first car he encountered.

ok maybe not but he did create quite a stir.

now i remember why i don't like going to lecturers' offices to go look for them. the experience is harrowing, to say the very least. retard of the year awards were passed out as i made the foolish error of confronting one in his territory today. fuck, how stupid did i feel asking questions he poo-pooed. ok maybe he didn't. not in my face anyway, but i'm sure he dedicated much of his time performing the overdue act of rolling of eyeballs as soon as i fucked off. and special achievement awards came subsequently when i, finally released from mental rape, a safe 25000 yards away from the horrors of that room, trembling into my coffee 20 minutes later, found his explanations erroneous.

ok perhaps i should have studied more prior to going up to any teacher. but i did. or at least that's a viable mirage. i mean, i've been in school fucking early in all the mornings this week. so i've been mostly sleeping in the library which refuses to empty itself of people. but at least i deserve credit for not sleeping at home. the bringing of slumber to school at least shows a prima facie attempt at correcting my lack of reading ability.

besides, there's air-conditioning in school. which means there's a swinging-in-the-other-direction economical benefit. instead of having the fan (or whatever you'll like to call the contraption that sits in my room with the mechanical efficiency of a baseball bat) aid in my ascent into the superior state of consciousness (i see it as a transcending of consciousness as opposed to a loss of it) at home, i now fully utilise my school fees in what they account for.

underwear for the cold war.

2005-04-19T20:33:00.000+08:00

the world is divided in the hands of two parties. the 'i've-bigger-biceps-abs-pecs-balls-than-you' fuck-ups and them 'we've-tiny-balls-so-we'll-settle-for-world-peace' dirty communists. it's can also, however, be seen to be split in a different way: those who will ask 'how do you say "fuck"' when faced with a new language, and those who will ask 'how do you say "i love you"' when faced with the same. in a simpler form this split has generally taken the form of being a 'gender split' though it's a slightly fallacious translation. i was watching tv when this dutch hottie asked this chink how to say 'i love you' in chinese in an ad, is why. if her balls were bigger she would've asked for 'fuck you' i'm sure. or perhaps the camera and political correctness made her a commie. anyway they were on their way to the berlin wall so i guess it makes relevant sense. one doesn't readily confront the cold war without being in some sense a socialist.

saw a film about a communist chilean poet. and in criticism of italian democrats. strange how idealism still featured so prominently as near as 1994.

will awaken earlier on the morrow. those motherfucking kids have really lost it this semester. i mean, i haven't seen a fully housed library, period, much less one at 11 in the fucking morning. people (read: women, cos there's nothing to say about men in this context) are relegated even to them solitary confinement cells that make them look like fishtank whores. elaborate rearranging of the configuration of the sparse pieces of fabric no larger than my handkerchief they wear on the lower halves of their bodies become futile exercises in covering up any substantial bits of said halves, as they have to acquaint their asses with the carpeted floor. or is it a purposive activity with developing a montage showing in full the design ingenuity of their limited-edition victoria secret collection in mind.

fuck me.

2005-04-16T20:33:00.000+08:00

the cows just drove the tractor back home to mexico taking along the patriotic piglet who died for the liberty of the doves with the collapse of the peacock regime.

skirt-chasing and trouser-trout-playing.

2005-04-15T20:32:00.000+08:00

the classic alpha-male standoff. oh you know what it is and how it looks like. so i was at the library counter patiently waiting my turn behind some ladies who got there first. well actually they didn't get there first but alpha males are traditionally well-behaved-on-first-encounters-motherfuckers. you know how they're sweet and polite and all gentleman the first few times they meet anything even remotely female; any chance at getting into skirts! though some draw the line at courtney love. and scots.

anyway so i was there wishfully thinking skirt when trousers come bounding up from behind me and made straight for the counter probably with neither skirt nor pants in mind, but the fact that he REALLY wanted to return his tape. big fucking deal. so did i. and acting like it's really urgent, as if his gramma had gone out that morning on hot pursuit after some indian communists who've stolen her embroidery for shipping to russia and had came face-to-face with a three-tonne truck and escaped unscathed and had then returned home to read the papers and had gotten a paper cut and sent to the hospital; doesn't help. how is he to know that i don't have a grampa, after having ran errands for the a drug ring by trafficking 3kg of cocaine from mat-land without a hitch and blown up a local factory without anyone noticing and driven his van after kids after school only to have them leap out of the way and had gone home only to have had his wallet stolen; waiting in the police station for me?

anyhow so he was at the counter. i was faced with 3 alternatives. 1) stare the bugger into submission. 2) beat him into a senseless pulp. 3) apply social tolerance. and what does one do in the face of choices? he takes all 3. to put it in analogical form, to have your cake, eat it, and give it to a woman whose skirt you wanna get under. i stared at him, waited for 3 nanoseconds, then pulled him screaming into the loo, and applied my elbows and knees liberally to various parts of his anatomy such as the sternum, ribs, throat and of course the all-important groin.

and whilst all this was running through my head i was reminded of a talk i had with a lecturer some time back. he asked me what i would do if someone jumped a queue i was in. i said i would not do a thing, much like social tolerance. cos if he was doing it unknowingly then it won't be a malicious act and so will be of no consequence as pertaining to ethics on his end; and if he did it knowingly then he'll just be revelling in his fucked-up-ness and doing anything about it on my end probably won't help. in any case, i applied my master argument in the end - there is no such thing as morality and moral codes of any kind. all this is but a human construct with no more ontological import than a 5-legged unicorn with a penchant for masturbation lying languidly under my bed materializing whenever i leave my room.

i stared at him.

so the neighbours can dance in the gestapo disco lights.

2005-04-12T20:30:00.000+08:00

the motherfuckers they allow onto campus. they should set up some roadblocks giving the school a mile-wide-radius protection and bring back the good ol' methods of exclusion not unlike those employed by the gestapo. they should set up electric fences. but that'll just mean an utilities explosion cos the fools will be hurling themselves at them over and over again, amid mutterings of 'em-cee-squared-pie-ar-squared-charlie-come-ere'n-poke-my-bowels' (the last bit is due to poor diction of bbc presenters reporting on the royal wedding), with time allowed in between leaps for unconsciousness. and i mean registered students. fucking thick-headed morons probably can't find the ends of a stick even if you shoved one up their faces. an end, i mean.

it was a sunny and idyllic tuesday afternoon. flowers were growing well, the garderners were enjoying a bit of time off, pupils were going to class. all this also means escaped drones disguised as the student body, determined to see through the 'stop and smell the flowers' saying were shoving their noses into freshly-manured pots whilst them pot-minders were having a bit of a laugh on the side. it is also with a sinking heart that i find myself cornered in a drone chamber armed with nothing but a full bladder against some of the motherfuckers from the first paragraph. the lecturer, who was succumbing even with superior control of the sphincter, had sat us through a couple of uninspiring speeches. perhaps with 'just one more' in mind, she fatally introduces the next group of presenters to say their piece.

someone should've seen the "1/63 slides" warning. someone should've noted the distinct lack of intellect in their eyes. someone should've paid heed to the tell-tale tongue-hanging-limply-from-the-corner-of-the-mouth, or at least, the drool-dripping-from-the-other-corner; signs. yet no one seemed to have. not with their own tongues sticking out of course. and so this bugger proceeds to speed-read off every single word on his slides. maybe the lecturer made the error of telling them to hurry up, but the result was lines like 'physicalconundrumarisingfrommediatedsourcesgiveexampleshere'. to top it off, his compatriot standing by, probably the example-giver, was shushed into silence by him cos of his need to adhere to the divine truth flashed out in front of him in the form of the literal words on the slides.

i clapped at the end of the presentation.

muhammad "i'm hard" bruce lee.

2005-04-11T20:30:00.000+08:00

the things that happen on public transport. makes you wonder why they need tv mobile in the first place. so there was this man sleeping on the bus. big fucking deal, you might say. well but this here man is tired. i mean, the motherfucker is TIRED. he takes seat and throws his bag across 2 other seats. now that can either be construed as an act of sheer inconfuckingsideration or an indication of his need for space. a lady walks up, belligerent, mutters something to another passenger, but sits down on the other side of him; the un-bagged side. he starts dozing off as the journey kicks off. now all would've been a peaceful spectacle but for the fact that he's underestimated the jolt backwards by having placed his bag in front. with his comatose state affording only pittance in the way of defiance towards the laws of physics, his head finds solace in the woman's bosom.

this has the effect of light dealing belligerence a heavy blow to send it reeling. the latter's manager, complaint, is forced to throw in the towel and both in the green corner flee the scene in tears, leaving discomfort and embarrassment standing proud in the middle of the ring. the woman departs for another seat, but brings fatigue with it, dragging it along all the way to the floor. literally. the man finds himself, surprisingly conscious, and sprawled on all fours, facing layer upon layer of dust. perturbed, he proceeds to gather up his coins that'd fallen out of his breast pocket, and resumes his wait perhaps not knowing what had just transpired. cos he starts dozing off again as soon as he resumes his seat. this time, he gives full consideration for the afore-mentioned jolt by slanting his head forwards, but commits the error of OVERestimation. thus the cabin watches with bated breath as his head dips ever lower towards his bag. and with consternation as a sliver of drool escapes his loose jaws to fall just short of the bag and onto the empty seat between him and said bag.

he awakens once again perhaps due to gravity acting against his neck joint. and discovers the emittance of mouth juice perhaps, cos he proceeds to surreptitiously attempt to cover it up, if not wipe it off, by drawing his bag to his side. the cabin is now treated to an exercise in valiance and willpower as he combats slumber with the admirable but well-known-to-be-completely-useless activity of - leg-shaking.

and so the ball passes to and fro over the net. reminds me of another occurrence some time back, when there was this guy who would not awaken however much i jabbed and spoke to him. then again perhaps that guy was dead.

two-headed boy with the communist's daughter.

2005-04-07T20:29:00.000+08:00

it's strange how misconstructed i can be in other people's eyes. if folks at the 'looking fuck all like what you actually are' club are ever looking for a poster boy then i'll be right there at the head of the queue just after dog-boy and dracula with a sudden case of hematophobia and locked in a virtual tie with michael jackson, but i'll have advantage over the latter cos his hair at least hasn't changed. i mean, i'm posited as a happy, confident, smart, small little boy. ok perhaps i still am a small little boy, but happy? if i'm happy then the rest of the world needs fucking sedation. confuckingfident (a tribute to the superior 'confuckingspicuous' as uttered by brick-top in snatch. which wins hands down cos of the genius in '-spicuous' following '-ing')? i won't even start talking about smart.

i keep sounding like i know what i'm talking about. i don't. if the gibberish generator churned out something it'll sound like the sort of thing i'll say. we must proactively engage in subjective paradigmatic remedial revisions keeping in mind the universally objective bubble postulated in a paradoxical theorem. ok part of that sounded like it came straight out of dilbert and that's shameless plagiarization of style on my part but you do get the picture. and of course bearing in mind the metaphysical conundrum cumulating in metameric transitions of the soul that knocks hard on homer simpson's door in the middle of the night whilst we go visit the queen in myanmar. people still actually give a shit about the queen!

all these people drinking lover's spit. and fingering lover's chest, mouth, hands, crotch, whatever, in the bus. and i don't know how come they stare fixedly at me while they're at it. makes for a pretty disconcerting experience i must say. i can only take so much love. hahaha. so what do i do. i look down and drum my fingers to the beat of jimi hendrix. a suave and cool way out of that predicament i must say. hendrix solves all problems. but perhaps that head nodding and the bass drum simulation was just a tad over the top. and maybe i should've gone easy on the 'ka-ching!'s in tandem to the crash. but hey i think i do a pretty good impression of it with my human voice. the sabian 14" dark crash. perhaps that's what astounded said couple into immobility and the lady in the adjacent seat to fidget. sabian has that sort of effect i must say. the ping just blows you away. but then of course zildjian is still the king.

mary and her little lamb.

2005-04-06T20:27:00.000+08:00

how nice! now i'm losing sleep! as if losing my appetite isn't enough! and i get to enjoy the full benefits of caffeine! now i have more hours in the day to do more things! and i can keep going about the world at large as if exclamation marks are appropriate! and my friend wants to be the first black pope! or was there already one i'm not so well-versed in pope history.

mary was a lonely child. she likes red apple skin. mary has no friends. she is happy. she lives in a house on top of the hill overlooking the town. when mary has got enough of hiding from monsters in her shoe cabinet and looking for leprechauns in her wardrobe she will walk down and pretend to be invisible. the boys are noisy. they like playing with matches and old leather balls. they also like booger-eating and mange-scratching. mary goes among the boys and the boys don't notice her because she is invisible. mary goes to mr. thomson the grocer but he can't see her because she is invisible. mary walks over to ben the german shepard but he runs off because she is invisible. mary is happy again. mary is so happy. she eats her red apple skin. she eats the booger. she eats the mange. little miss muffet sat on a tuffet eating her bowl of turds.

i used to write broken up stories like this. was just reminded of that fact. but they were more disturbing back then. if possible. or perhaps you just don't get what this one says. maybe it means something. maybe it doesn't. maybe mary's an acronym for My Ass was Ravaged Yesterday.

people learn languages from other cultures not cos of acceptance or even tolerance of said culture, i think. they do that just so that they can look down on these people in their own terms, and perhaps learn a few choice swear words just so that they can finally insult these people and have them understand what it is they're saying and to what reference they're saying what they're saying. yelping after someone who thinks you're just saying an elaborate 'good morning' to them is just not as gratifying as getting them to understand the exact anatomical part and the particular pedigree of whatever species of whatever gender it is from which they were begotten.

clouds in my coffee.

2005-04-05T20:26:00.000+08:00

damnation is the sentiment of the day. just when guilt-ridden thoughts of the soul are replaced by concrete corrective action the body takes yet another hit and seems out for the count. perhaps the readings for the dog is true for this year of the whatever after all. and the appetite. the wracked temple suffers all the more as a result of the lack of desire for nourishment of any kind. something is obviously wrong when every swallow is followed by a private celebration. and when i try to inflict mortal wounds upon myself while attempting to pat myself on the back with every cleared plate. and it will not budge. a trade off. a vicious cycle. when i'm sick i don't drink coffee. when i don't drink coffee my stomach suffers not. when my stomach suffers not i get well. when i get well i drink coffee. when i drink coffee i lose appetite. when i lose appetite i get sick. the cycle has to be broken! everything points to one obvious weak link in the cycle. there is only one thing left to do.

i should get used to being sick.

everyone is suddenly talking to everyone else. mounting anxiety perhaps. or increasing levels of loneliness. or something. if only she'll talk to me it'll solve all the anxiety on my end. and the cows will drive the tractor back home to mexico taking along the patriotic piglet who died for the liberty of the doves with the collapse of the peacock regime. actually the increased volume of social activity only serves to raise anxiety levels. fuck me can't i see beyond my worries that it's a mirage. some people are genuinely nice. i think. and perhaps one day i'll meet some.

lots of hume cropping up in classes of every kind. ok perhaps just one class. but the memories. i believe i've solved all the problems in the world of metaphysical dispute by pronouncing myself irrational. amazing just how it all becomes clear when you do that. stands to reason as well, if you think it through, logically, hard enough.

chronicles of chronic despair.

2005-04-03T20:19:00.000+08:00

somedays you don't feel like getting up the entire day. somedays you don't feel like switching off the hi-fi and getting into the shower. somedays you wish your cup of tea lasted forever and your favourite track playing in the background was stuck on repeat. somedays you loathe getting out and facing the rest of the world, including other human beings, some of whom may even act like they know you. somedays you don't like barking orders at others. somedays you are non-confrontational, to say the least. somedays you just wish the whole world would shut up and you had just a nanosecond of peace and quiet to yourself. somedays you just wish to nap in eternity. somedays you wish the rain would get it right and actually come when you're staying in and go when you're resolved to step out.

somedays you wish you didn't procrastinate so much and start your regime anew after a 2-week hiatus. somedays you wish you had something even remotely resembling a social life. somedays you don't like watching the televison at all but what the fuck else is there to do?! somedays, staring at your extended contact list on IM, you wish someone would actually say something to you so that you can have some social contact with another person you actually like, seeing as you have nothing notable you want to say in the first place cos you're so goddamned fucked up in the head.

somedays you wish you had the fucking balls to put your foot down and promise you'll speak to her and not just mope around for days on end cos you don't and have been living with that lack for close to 2 years, and cos these days are counting down to THE day when it'll almost be certain you won't have to live with that struggle no more cos she's going away.

somedays you wish you're not so miserable.

agaetis byrjun. again. or perhaps the end has no end.

2005-04-03T11:58:00.000+08:00

another one. the last one fucked up. perhaps i was too eager a pioneer. perhaps friendster hates me. perhaps all that shit i've been hearing about determinism in class this semester is true after all. perhaps the defence minister of ethiopia wears pink underpants. why the fuck does all this matter. just like what shakespeare said about poor player on a stage and all that. we are candles with piss-poor excuses for flames looking ridiculous in the path of helen or whatever-name-they-always-give-hurricanes. or to that effect anyway.

dhany and harold look so proper. maybe it's against social norms to wear t-shirts at my age. perhaps i should start looking my age and tog myself out in shirts. perhaps i should act my age by engaging in wholesome, constructive activities. perhaps i should feel my age by losing my virginity.

maybe i should start writing again as well. just when i've stopped. but in another context of course. the week-long affair that just passed was just an exercise in desperation cumulating in nothing but despair and the increasing belief in my warped ideas being not-understandable for the fact that they're incoherent. and the idea creeping up on me that i just can't write well enough to convey my thoughts into words. perhaps i should go delve into familiar territory again. perhaps i should go insult some motherfucker in a thousand words. but inertia weighs heavily upon me.

2005-04-01T20:05:00.000+08:00

someone put shit in my pants.