Monday, April 30, 2007

Spiked but steady.

The doctors told my father that there was some damage done to his heart itself, and that it's operating at about 40% of its funcionality; it might sound bad, but he certainly doesn't show it. There're only letting him walk on Wednesday, but on the bright side, he's out of intensive care and into a normal cardio ward.

From the bottom of my...um...heart...I'd like to thank you for the well-wishes and for bearing with the ranting.

I suppose I've found a month-long supply of ready puns. The best way to gauge my father's spirits is to crack a joke. I basically told him that he could now boast to his friends that he had almost literally died of a broken heart. He cracked a smile and laughed heartily (unintentional pun), though in hindsight, that might've not been a brilliant thing to do.

And in a strange way, the assignment deadline has been extended to two weeks, which is something unprecedented, so I've got a buffer.

Once again, thanks for your encouragement and prayers. And with that, I'll leave you with a reminder about how incredibly sterile the hospital experience is:

Hospital food is like a bimbo; looks great but totally bland.

Sunday, April 29, 2007

The angioplasty.

I'm in good enough of a mood to exhale and relax a little. My father went for an angioplasty, and it was the longest hour of my life. Waiting outside an operating room at 1 in the morning in a deserted area of the hospital is probably something that I'll never forget. The silence was forboding, and was broken by the occasional prayer my uncle would make. It was terrifying.

After it was over, the cardiologist told us that the heart attack was 'massive'. My dad was threading on an artery experiencing a 100% blockage. The most severe part of it was taken care of, but he's going to have to go in to receive treatment for the remaining arteries. I suppose I can say he's an actual V12 that's been running as a V6 for the last few years and now they're trying to make him a V10.

Back to the angioplasty; I'd never heard of the it before, but it's basically an operation where a totally blocked blood vessel is widened through mechanical or artificial means. It's obviously not over yet. With a few more operations scheduled in, it's going to make a strain on my father's heart. Literally.

It's humbling that Life can gnaw at us and spit us out, always. We can't cheat it.

It's going to be a long day later. I've got to go north and pick up my aunt's car from the workshop, and then speed back and visit my dad. Along with trying to find his mates to tell them of his condition. As well as the stepmother, which should be bizarre, seeing how I haven't spoken to her since I left Brazil.

It might be too early to heave a sigh of relief, and there's a lot more to be done, but I'm quite thankful to Whoever's in charge that I've been given the luxury to be able to pop a smile on my face. Truly.

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Okay. I don't know why I'm saying this, but I guess this is for whoever's reading this because I want to share.

My father was admitted into the University Hospital a couple of hours ago; he started feeling a pain in his chest, and had difficulty breathing and started sweating profusely. We took him to our family doctor, and he suggested sending my dad to the hospital straight away.

The doctor on call told us he had a heart attack, with a blockage to his heart. The only reason why he wasn't feeling any pain was due to his diabetes; otherwise he would've been in agony. I don't know. He might've been in pain but decided to spare everyone the hassle. My father is like that.

I've never been so scared in my life. He should be alright. They're giving him medication now; he's wired to equipment. It looks proper and high-tech. I don't know. He'll be transferred from the Emergency unit to the Coronary in an hour or so, and my uncle, aunt and I will be there to see him. But honestly, I've never been so fucking scared in my life and it hurts.

It might sound like a Hallmark soundbite, but life is precious. I love my father and I'll definitely have the chance to tell him that within his lifetime.

I don't know what I'm trying to say and there's probably no point in all this.

My father is a tough fucker and I am not. I can't put on a straight face for him to know that I'm alright. And it's just terrifying because I've never felt this way before and I'm terrified. I'm sure everyone's felt scared of losing someone before. And now I know how it feels.

This doesn't change my perspective on life much. I know that life is never as rosy as we'd want it. But I feel so rotten and I wish that feeling would go away.

All I can do now is to thank you for hearing me out. I don't know who to pray to, but I'm pretty sure I'll be heard out. I don't believe in miracles as much as I do in karma, and I know that my father has given so much that he'd never be shortchanged.

Everyone knows that life is unfair. I feel cheated, and I don't understand why my father would have to suffer for this. He's not a saint but he's done more than enough good. As the adage goes, I'll probably understand as time goes by.

I just want to ask you to root for my father. For me. Thanks.

Dare to fail?

After another night at JamAsia, I'm quite heated up about performing in front of people.

The problem is, I always catch this feeling...only to see it ebb away after a day or so.

You, dear friends, can make this a reality, though. Scourge through my list of songs and tell me which ones you'd like to see me perform...or destroy. And I'll consider it. I've already got one song in mind (which is the easiest to perform, no less), and that would be Why. For those of you not in the country, there's always YouTube.

I just wish we could have a nice, long, intimate jam session dedicated solely to covers, no matter how inane the cover may be.

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Friday, April 27, 2007

And Solitaire's the only game in town.

Life can bite you like a bad choice of cards in Solitaire. We've all gone through it before; an instance where they're two face cards that can be used. One card will eventually spell success a number of moves later, while the other card will unleash a pile that's totally useless, which leads to disaster. You might think that the variables found in a game of Solitaire are different from what we have in reality; in the game, it's all controllable within a certain degree, while in life, we're faced with perpetually stacked and accumulating odds that lead to things spiralling out of control.

Most people would agree in the context of that analogy, but we'll always repeat the cycle if we never nip the problem in the bud. I don't really like that phrase --- 'nip in the bud'. But it gets the message across. I suppose that if you make preparations, you can overcome whatever obstacles are thrown at you...because unlike a game of Solitaire, we have the luxury of making contingencies. It really depends on how willing or determined you are to do such a thing.

Looking at my current predicament (the whole super-rushed/late assignment drama brought about by procrastination), it's obvious that my repeated failure to score decently in life, as opposed to Solitaire, has been my own undoing. What's mystifying is my determination to do something about it, only to let my efforts run out of muster and sputter out in the end. I'm my biggest enigma.

But as long as everyone automatically assumes that I'm some sort of diligent, work-ethic enthused genius wunderkind, I can safely say it's fun to keep up appearances, even though in this particular case, it's all deceiving.

So, I apologise to David Bowie...because I can't trace time and time hasn't changed me.

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Wednesday, April 25, 2007

You are what you post.

I still don't really understand how blogging is therapeutic...this is especially so for celebrity bloggers, who're pressured into maintaining their readership and consistently updating their material. Unless you're blogging under the comfort of anonymity or a pseudonym without intending to ever leak your identity, there must be some pride in whatever you post...which means you're prone to taking a look at it and constantly thinking of ways to tweak the site or to leave readers exasperated by giving sweeping statements all the time.

Like how supporting Chelsea is alright as long as you're a pouncy faggot who adores High Street fashion.

I've been keeping this thing for over 4 years, and for a little while within these 4 years, I was convinced that I was heading for blogosphere stardom because I felt incredibly witty, though hardly articulate. Simply put, if we're hungry for fame yet lazy to attain it, we have to find the latest tools of convenience to whore ourselves.
  • It's why some people leave URLs on their posted photos: to claim copyright and authorship, but also to whore themselves. It's why some people constantly remind their friends to check their blogs out (we're all guilty of this at some point or other): because something mega has happened and it's got to be known immediately.
  • It's why we're all self-indulgent and leave short, cryptic posts that nobody but ourselves would understand...because it's just simply possible.
  • It's also why we leave strange pieces of self-composed music that people should enjoy...because some of us love to take the chance to entertain people at our own expense.
  • I also don't understand the tribal culture of how bloggers think highly of themselves just because they're 'bloggers' (should we call an anthropologist?)...especially from those without any good material or hideous grammar. I mean, come on...it's got to be classy. At least for a day.
I suppose I've given up on actually conceptualizing a point to all of this. I always thought that I could leave some kind of subliminal message in each post that would convince people the world over to start eating more Shapes. But, nay, it wasn't to be.

Does a blog really represent who you are? I really don't think so. I believe that a blog is a surrogate for what we are, and most importantly, what we want to be. A friend of mine once told me that studies had shown that gamers choosing a particular class or attribute in RPGs wanted that attribute simply because they didn't have it in reality.

Which means I really want to be a bow-wielding, cow-slaying female Rogue-class warrior. I always knew it.

Be it as it may, I try my best not to show any consciousness in realizing that I blog on the blog (except for situations like these). Doing so takes away the experience that a reader might get from reading the material firsthand...it's as if having a reader realize that you're concsious of the blog being a hindrance in enjoying what it is you're trying to say. And we can't have that, can we?

Oh, well.

Happy ANZAC Day.

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Monday, April 23, 2007

Put on your best spartan face.

Hey, I've got no arms!

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Postcards from the Shangri-La.











Yes, the ball was alright. Thanks to Khai Lun for his treasure trove of photos. I've picked out the ones where I look just right. Not fantastic, but just right. Because I can.

For the actual rundown of the events, click here, here and here.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

You gotta fight for your right.

I visited the post office today to register myself as a voter. It didn't cost anything, and all they needed was to take a look at my IC and my signature. I could preach about how it's a privilege to vote and how we should all carry out our civic duties, but if I really was that holier-than-thou I would've registered much, much earlier. I've got a long way to go before I can wave the conformity stick on anybody.

But, as idealistic and as naive as it may sound, it's good to cast your ballot, regardless of whoever you're voting for; who you vote for is not as important as taking the effort to vote. It's a good thing to use this chance that we've all been given.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Indie, outie.

There was this indie-loving engineering student that I encountered during a party a few weeks back. He held the mantra that whatever was on the radio wasn't worthy of being listened to simply because big music behemoths were responsible for putting it on air, thus depriving the underground or anyone else from being heard.

That was all fair and good, but he didn't know anything about the local underground scene, while he endlessly paraded the fact that he had great bands from everywhere else on his portable mp3 player (which was hooked up to the obligatory mini-speaker system that he had brought along). He was also playing tracks from the Verve's Urban Hymns but had never heard of On Your Own from their prior album, A Northen Soul. To his defence, he said that he had only started listening to the Verve recently. I suppose that I had a 6 year headstart, even though I can safely say that I still only know three songs from the album, with the rest of it simply being mind numbing.

To his credit, he had Oasis' Wonderwall. Which wasn't very indie. Or was it?

The fact that he started coming off as being incredibly anal and a total pedant about it made me want to strangle him; I felt that I was going to make him cry if I started changing the songs he'd put on.

I'm all for "indie", but what he played was just downright bizarre. And he'd never heard of Muse, despite them coming to KL and everything.

Plus, he left in a Lexus. That should give him a lot of indie cred.

Two things.

First: what constitutes as indie? Even indie, as a genre, is marketed to busloads of disenfranchised youths like the aforementioned stellar case study. Indie isn't really indie anymore. Are Travis as indie as the Bravery? Is Ian Tai as indie as Albert Hammond Jr.? Should we really care about all these things? The fact that indie has already (unwittingly) carved itself out as a genre should make it less than credible; if you can stick an 'indie' label on it, it might not be really indie anymore. Maybe it's time for nu-Indie to come out and cock indie on its head, no? How indie can you go?

Secondly: it's great being a steward for something that might be refreshing and a little different for people, i.e. superindie music. But being a total prick about it doesn't win you any points with the people who don't know you at parties...or in general. Having a passion for something is one thing; making yourself to be the King Ass about it is totally different. Or, in this particular case, I could just boil it down to the fact that quasi-eccentricities ruled the night.

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Friday, April 13, 2007

I predict a riot!

This whole Don Imus fiasco worries me. The act of censure on the media's part for what he said makes me feel that the world's foremost proponent of free speech is second guessing itself.

I've never listened to his radio show, but I'm guessing that he's a Howard Stern knock-off, only that he's still on the terrestrial airwaves.

I suppose we've all gone liberal and PC to an extent that we can't crack a few jokes without a bunch of placard-wearing, picket-waving feminists blowing hot air up our asses.

And even if he is a bigot, I still believe that he should get a fair chance to say what he wants. People tune in, no? Otherwise, you could simply change the station...or just stop listening completely.

Nobody lightens up anymore.

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Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Oh, Beverly.

Here's a tip for the girls which might help.

If you, by any chance (or incredibly strange reason, be it through intoxication for any other form of assisted stimulation), are compelled to repeatedly toss out a name while you're approaching an orgasm, make sure the name belongs to the person who's the catalyst for the aforementioned release, and not a prior....acquaintance.

Thank you.

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Monday, April 09, 2007

She pointed her finger at me, and proceeded to make me lick it.

And lick it, I did. That beautiful, slender index finger. I felt the rough tip underneath my tongue. I teased her finger, slowly moving my mouth and up and down. She quivered in delight. My God, her finger tasted amazing. I closed my eyes and let the sensation overcome my mouth.

Barbecue sauce. A1. Only the best.

I opened my eyes, and released her finger from my mouth.

"Would you like me to flip the meat?", I asked, and proceeded to take the tongs from the counter.

"Yes, I would", she purred in response, and opened up an upper drawer. As she stretched up to grab a plastic bag, her midriff revealed itself to me. Still delectable. I saw the gentle outline of her abdomen, and her flawless skin. "I've got to get the buns ready", she said, taking her time to unwrap the tag from the bag.

"Please do. I can hardly wait for everything to sizzle", and as I said that, I eyed her every move. Her bare feet, her legs, her thighs, leading up to a pair of daisy dukes that no living man could have imagined. I could feel the lump in my throat, probably because my living essence was being taken away from me for every moment I was with her.

I took two of the sausages off the grill, and landed them on a nearby plate; the juices from the sausages were flowing onto the white porcelain, giving them a silent, transparent stain.

"I suppose that I get to give them a try them first", she said, and took a knife and fork. She slowly cut the sausage, starting from the head to the other end. After her effort, there were eight even slices of a freshly grilled sausage, and she took the first bite. She didn't budge, and she didn't wince. Nor did she complain that the slices were too small; after all, she was more than capable of helping herself to smaller portions.

"How is it?", I asked, tearing off a few pieces of napkins for her.

"Maybe you should try", she said, and she pointed her finger at me, and proceeded to make me lick it.

And lick it, I did.

But despite the teasing and the erotic finger licking, I could never get you out of my head. I didn't go to bed with her that night, for a few reasons.

For starters, her obsession with sticking sausages up my rectum was unnerving.

And secondly, I couldn't find what I wanted with her. There was no passion. There was no spark. The magic that I had with you would always have outdone the best that she could have given me. With you, I was invincible. Only with you.

I may have been in the heights of the Andalucians, but I missed home. I missed you. My one, true love. And by saying that, I swear I'll ply my way back to you. Time, distance, these things do not matter; my determination will see me through. My love for you will be the fire in my loins.

I will return to you one day. I promise you.

I never failed you. And I never will.

I love you. Promise to never leave me.

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Sunday, April 08, 2007

Who blew Cock Robin away?

The Easter Bunny is a homosexual paedophile. He plants eggs in spots that young boys would frequent, such as the sandbox at the playground where they'd play with their toy trucks. Once the boys are ensnared into the promise of chocolate albumen, the Bunny pounces.

He stuffs them into his sack, and traverses via charter jet to Barrow, Alaska, where by he'd drift towards the Northen Pole of Inaccessibility, which is 903 miles north. From there, the Bunny would commiserate with Santa's Elves, unbeknownst to Santa, and they would together indulge themselves with the boys.

I was one of them.

It was very painful. My rectum was charged by the phalluses of a dozen disguised dirty dwarves, under the guise of being happy, holy elves. It's a memory that has forever haunted me to this day.

The Easter Bunny, or christus oryctolagus cuniculus, only comes out of hibernation during the second Sunday of April. However, there have been sightings of Bunny-like apparitions during the festivals of Hanukah and Arbor Day. Even the Jews and treehuggers are not spared from his deceit!

For decades, the Easter Bunny has propoganded himself as the proponent for goodwill and well-being, with the aim of continually fostering cordial relations between the children of the world through the distribution of chocolates in bringing good fortune. He has positioned himself in the minds of parents as a lovable, respectable, reputable and caring anthropomorphic rabbit.

I say that the farce should stop while it already has reached its ears.

Parents!

Do not be fooled by the whiskers. The adorable rabbit teeth. The long, endearing rabbit ears.

I would have more faith in the Playboy Bunny. That's a wild hare that you can caress and stroke lovingly.

The Easter Bunny is no bunny. The Easter Bunny is evil.

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Wednesday, April 04, 2007

She shagged me senseless and I loved every riverting minute of it.

Okay, let's clear some things up here.

I'm not a sex offender. And I don't have any incredibly strange fetishes...maybe an odd foot fetish, but that's only because I find that it's an incredibly funny and endearing trait to have because (most) women have lovely feet...but it's not perverse to the extent of me wanting to see every girl on the street tied up from a grapple on the ceiling, in bondage, followed by being forced to sit on a chair while wax from a burning candle is being dropped onto their smooth, flawless skin, moaning ecstatically from the sensation of having a flowing effervescence gush them with a twisted delight, while being bound and gagged by some rope and a ballbearing to ensure that all crevices are covered to sate my unquenchable desires.

Oh, no, it's nothing like that at all.

Young, 16 year old (and above) girls are nice to look at, no doubt. These days, it's quite hard to find any decent, sensible 16 year olds, but back in the day, everybody was nice and sweet and pure and virginal. When I think of 16 year olds, I think about the girls that I fell in love with every day in school, who were funny, smart, intelligent...or maybe it was the fact that I was in a pompous international school, and I was privy to the best of the best. Yes, there was the occasional skank, but everybody seemed so nice and hot that it didn't mater how incredibly vapid they were.

These days, most of the kids are brainless skanks who're not even well-informed about the world around them. And it makes me fucking mad. It makes me fucking sad. It doesn't make me glad. In fact, it's very bad. It makes them look like cads. I'd hate to be their dads. Would you fancy to be their lads?

Sorry. Drifted away for a moment.

If I happen to have a daughter, and if she does happen to become a whore of sorts, then fine. It's bound to happen. If she wants to explore her sexuality or whatnot, then so be it, but she's going to be fucking lectured on pop culture everyday so that she turns out to be more aware that the boys she shags. She's going to be the fucking brains of the family so she doesn't turn out to be one of the tramps I see around me. My daughter will be spunky, funky, and she'd be the fucking queen amongst the thorns out there. I'd give her the one thing that most girls don't seem to have these days: common sense. So, if she does go shagging boys senseless, I'd know that it was on own her terms, and not theirs.

Not that it'd make me sleep any easier at night. Fuck, no. No relief for the father of the bride, ever.

(As a point of reference, not all the girls I see around me are tramps; just a select, particular few who've made more of an impact than others.)

Boys and girls these days are just drawing blanks. I'm talking about the 18 and under types. More flash than substance. They might know how to swagger, but they don't know dick about swaggering. Very shallow. Now, I might be shallow, but I'm fat and articulate and incredibly funny and friendly, intelligent enough, helpful, loyal, loving, supportive and, as you can tell, incredibly fucking humble. I've got nothing to show for my sloth, and everything to show for it.

I'm not a bleeding philosopher, I've never had to bleed for my art; nor am I an expert on French arthouse cinema, nor would I ever want to be. French arthouse cinema is for the French. There're about 64 million French people. And they live in France. Post-modernism is for people who bother about it. I'm happy with a cigarette.

I'm a simple bloke who wants a good life of chugging it into my lovely wife everyday, coming home to raise a decent set of children with a 355 nicely snugged in the garage. I want to change the world and make it a better place, and I wouldn't desperately want to claim credit for it because I believe that it's our fucking responsibility to ensure that there's something to pass on. I want a fucking dog, and I'd walk it everyday. I want to put my daughter on my lap and tell her about how not knowing everything isn't a bad thing, simply because there's something new to learn everyday. I'd like to go to heaven and say hello to my grandfather and apologize for being such a dick to him while he was still alive.

It's a big world around you. And if you were gone, nobody would give a shit. Unless you really mattered. Which you don't. So stop pretending that you do. Unless you really do matter. Then I apologize. You've reached a point where you're important enough to be mentioned in liner notes. But there'd be someone who wouldn't care. Do you know how to become important to people? By treating them with a little respect. Sincerity. Realize that if the world revolves around you, you should give back to it. Because you owe the grand scheme that's Life. You owe it more than you can imagine.

Change the world around you first. Then proceed to change the rest of it.

What does this all have to do with being a sex offender...or sex? Almost absolutely nothing. If you've read everything up to this point, you'd probably think that you'd wasted your time. I digress. I've successfully imparted my wisdom upon you.

Now go run in the park naked and enjoy the rest of your day.

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Sunday, April 01, 2007

We've reached an impasse.

My father's back. He's twisted his right hand, and he did so two weeks ago, from this thumb to around that immediate area; apparently he was pressing down on it when it happened, ala push ups. Which got me thinking. And it should also get you thinking.

It's not disgusting if you consider the fact that your father could be having the same problem; it's just that he's not as willing as mine. My father has probably been inspired to a new performance peak, since his wallaby was stuffed in the marsupial's pouch for so long.


*On a different note, FileDen's giving me problems, so I'll most likely upload the stuff tomorrow, if anyone was eagerly anticipating another grand unveiling. Though I have to say that these two new songs aren't really as memorable as I'd like them to be. More exposition on them tomorrow, I suppose.

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