Saturday, May 26, 2007

Nintendonomics.

Which would look more stable to an economist...the Mushroom Kingdom, or Hyrule? What's the conversion rate between a Rupee and one of Mario's gold coins? I mean, honestly...if we were putting together a Standard and Poor's report on the two nations, which would be ranked higher?

Let's look at the basics. Hyrule's people are peace-loving simpletons who just happen to have their lands relocated each time. Notice how the map of Hyrule changes with almost every game. Not to mention that Ganon (or Ganondorf), has the kingdom in his clutches on an occasional basis. Also, there're more than one princesses named Zelda, despite the chronological inconsistencies; anachronisms dictate that Zeldas pop up a dime a dozen...although there was one occasion where there wasn't even a Zelda in existence.

The Mushroom Kingdom has no real citizens to speak of, other than the...Toads. Now, Princess Peach (or Toadstool, depending on your localization location) has managed to rule the Mushroom Kingdom peacefully, only to be thwarted by Bowser and his Koopas each time, who, in turn, have been thwarted successfully by the Mario Brothers. Having asexual Toads as loyal subjects to give Mario the bad news that the princess is really in the next castle doesn't hurt...aside from the fact that the Mushroom Kingdom's citizens can't be living in any great poverty due to the abundance of gold coins hidden rather unsurreptitiously in suspended bricks.

Now, the loyal subjects in Hyrule are mostly human (Kakariko Village), along with the various forest creatures and oversized humanoid fish (the Zoras), whereas the Mushroom Kingdom's filled with walking mushrooms and flying, walking and swimming turtles, amongst others. Which has the higher employed population? I suppose the Mushroom Kingdom takes the cake, since everyone found there can list 'Lackey' as an occupation.

Both kingdoms are normally found in peril. One kingdom calls for a man in tights to save it, while the other has its own pair of plumber heroes. One kingdom is under the control of a mad magical tyrant, while the other is in the thrall of a giant humanoid turtle dictator.

Which kingdom earns a bigger bang for your buck?

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Thursday, May 24, 2007

Oh, the tears.

While lots of Milan fans (and definitely non-Liverpudlians) may gloat and taunt me, I'd just like to say that it was cruel, but I can live with it. I won't complain about it because we played terribly well. Even better. But, alas, that's the way it goes sometimes.

All's even in the end? I suppose so.

Now I'm going to back into a corner and cry. Again.

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Monday, May 21, 2007

Don't stick it to the Man.

Call me materialistic, but I always go bonkers over a cellphone with a camera which can play MP3 ringtones, in addition to all the other bells and whistles and doohickeys around. In terms of the MP3 ringtones, it's the only way to show the world that I'm tasteful. In terms of the doohickeys, it's the only way to show the world that I'm a man of the moment.

Sadly, it's the moment before it all becomes out of fashion again. And then we ride the carousel, going bonkers over the new bells, whistles and doohickeys. It's a vicious cycle.

And, once again, although we try our best to be individualistic and unique, we want to be like everyone else. All we want to do is to be accepted by the herd; we rarely get the chance to be the leader of the pack.

People who renounce the hive mind have got the right idea, but they'll never win.

Be superficial.

Because, in a sad way, you're bound to love yourself more because of it.

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Friday, May 18, 2007

The Bin.

I suppose that it's a matter of principle.

My neighbours have been placing their garbage bin very close to our side of the kerb. Their kerb consists of a variety of plants and fauna that block a direct route of access from their gate to the bin; normally, their maid would have to walk around the kerb to dump their garbage.

What my father takes offence to is that the neighbour's doing this so that there won't be any unpleasant odours going towards their gate...which means that our side suffers. Likewise, those nice men from Douglas Waste are more prone to use our side to access the neighbours' trash rather than their side...which annoys my father enough to compel him to become the Anti-Tai.

For the last few days, he's asked my uncle to move the neighbours' bin deeper into their side of the kerb to let them know his feelings. In his own words, if they didn't get the message, regardless of his current condition, he'd personally throw their bin into their pond. Either that, or kill their plants via a mixture of salt and detergent. Simply because it's a brilliant example of 'shock and awe'; something so incredibly drastic, in one mind-numbing blow, that they get the message. His example was Colin Powell. Go figure.

It'd be preferable for my father to just talk to them, but apparently that would mean we'd be asking them to do us a favour. I suppose that I could talk to them myself, but I have testicles made of cotton, which causes me to stray from anything that remotely resembles anything confrontational, no matter how mild the situation.

Honestly? I feel that my father's right in principle...but not in practice. I wouldn't want to freak out my neighbours' two young daughters with having my psycho dad throw their bin into their house, waving his arms around like a lunatic. And I wouldn't want to poison their plants in lieu of the risk that their incredibly sweet-natured dog might take a bite and die.

However, in his own words, he's quite willing 'to die' for these people, just to see his point driven across. Over a bin. Risk a heart attack. Over a bin. It makes no sense, although I'm grateful for this sudden realization:

He's turned even pettier than I am.

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Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Feel my rage when you eat sardines.

I remember when my grandfather would throttle his way through the stairs of my house whenever he was angry, or whenever it wasn't his day...which was almost every day. He'd complain endlessly about anything: not being able to open a tin of Milo, not being able to spread jam over bread evenly, and even having small bits of rice fall from his mouth while he was eating. All these complaints would be punctuated with frequent cursing in Hakka, and he'd look up to the heavens and shake his finger at God...because there was no one that he was willing to blame in the house.

Despite his eccentricities, I loved my grandfather. He was a loveable dick. I remember bawling my eyes out during his wake, and broke down at the cremation. In a way, I think I loved my grandfather more than my grandmother, probably because I could relate to him more. Not that I was aiming to become him...but he did have a full patch of silver hair on his head up to the time of his death.

I remember punching boxes to release my rage. It didn't hurt a lot, and it felt good. I'd occasionally slam a wardrobe door to prove an overdramatic point, and on one instance I actually broke the inside mirror for one of the wardrobes...which I didn't mean to do. Honestly.

Rage runs like fire through my family's blood. I think being Hakka is akin to being Irish. The only person who doesn't show his rage openly is my father, but yesterday he was peeved at my neighbours over the positioning of their garbage bin and even threatened to throw it into their koi pond. This was said in confidence to me, of course. But the vitrol in his words was so foreign to me, that I had to calm him down on the grounds that I didn't want him to pop a vessel.

I like to pick fights and be antsy, like my mother. I also like being a pacifist and thinking things through rationally, like my father. I also like to throw my toys around and hit things, like my grandfather and uncle. I also like to be a stingy bitch, like my aunt.

I am the perfect amalgamation of my mad family. I used to come from a broken home, but I think I've reached the notion that it doesn't need any fixing at all.

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Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Slumberland has nothing on me.

When I was younger, I used to lament the fact that my beds were relatively devoid of life. Not that I was dreaming of fornication when I was 6, but besides a pillow or two and a blanket, there wasn't much to shout about when it came to my nights. I never slept clutching an action figure; even my sheets were nondescript and simple, usually consisting of not more than two colours, or, if my mother felt it was special, they'd break out in strange, flowery ensembles.

Now, almost 2 decades later, nothing has changed. The bed is bigger, but the song remains the same. Sometimes I miss sleeping on a sofa...the total lack of space helped in making me forget what I was missing. Then again, I never really had a teddy bear or stuffed animal before...most probably because my parents thought it wasn't essential.

And it wasn't.

I suppose a boy turns into some sort of a man when he realizes that the greatest companion in bed is a real one. Which means that I'd reach adulthood at 13, but kept it under a lock and key until now.

Speaking of which, my father never really initiated me into adulthood/manhood when I reached 18...and 21. It's as though he threw me to the lions and never looked back. I suppose that his consistent absence was more than a valid excuse...but I always expected him to sit me down over a cup of coffee and give me some sort of life-changing pep talk. But, I'm happy to say I feel that I turned out half-alright despite the lack of proper supervision.

Fabulous. The bed beckons.

I love useless nostalgia.

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Monday, May 14, 2007

Chuck.



From the same guys who gave us the O.C.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Shake it to wake it.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

A cup of milk and off we go.

Having a woman share a room with my father at home is a strange thing...but I suppose that it's a novelty that wears thin within a few days. The house hasn't been this crowded since my mother unceremoniously moved out...and now I find myself coping with another motherly figure coming in, albeit on a temporary basis. I have to remind myself that she isn't here for the family as she is for my father; we owe nothing to each other. But, of course, I'll treat her with as much dignity and respect that I offer to everyone else I know...which is very little.

No, seriously, I'm an awful friend. Ask around.

I don't believe that young love tastes as sweet as it would be if you were rediscovering the magic of it all when you're in your prime. It's a big pity that the prime of your life passes by so quickly, and that each passing day is a step closer to the big cookout in the sky.

With that said, I wonder what they see in each other...but at the same time, I'm happy for them. My father sat me down once and told me his reasons. I wouldn't have bothered, anyway; it's his life, and all I have to do is try my best not to repeat his mistakes. I said try.

In retrospect, I had every right to dick on him about it all...I still have that right. But I think I'm pass that point of bitterness, and I'm more interested in ensuring that my own life doesn't end up into one big folly that his might've become. Score one for self-discovery. Everybody changes.

I can only pray that they don't do anything that'd give him another heart attack.

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Monday, May 07, 2007

The Return of the Lotus.

For those of you who've kept track of me during the last few years, you've probably heard me drop a line or two about my potential future stepmother. What's funny is that I'm awaiting her arrival right now at home. My father requested for her to come down to take care of his diet...as if we couldn't do it well enough. I suppose it does free everyone else of any obligations, but I'm still going to find it strange to share a house with a woman whom I should openly despise. But, thankfully enough, I'm a nice, cordial chap, and I'll do my best to make her feel welcomed...to an extent.

So, yes. Her flight from Taiwan was scheduled to arrive about 2 hours ago, and my aunt and uncle dutifully picked her up. I obviously high-tailed it to college early in the morning, but not before taking the pretty car and leaving her first car ride from the KLIA to be taken in a beaten-up Wira.

Is this a test of sorts to see if their 'love' (I'm not sure what to call it when 2 elderly people exchange bodily fluids) can last? I certainly hope so. It's not up to me to say whether or not it'd pass any tests, but it'd be fun as hell to find out.

I've always wanted an excuse to act 16 again and stay in my room for the whole day.

I love coincidences.

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Saturday, May 05, 2007

Token cryptic blog entry.

Everything's going to change very soon.

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Tuesday, May 01, 2007

20?

It's hard to find a girl who isn't a complete idiot these days --- short attention spans notwithstanding, I'm talking about girls who've lost all sense of intuition and common sense, who at the same time are sheltered so much that ignorance becomes a norm. Any signs of intelligence are feigned, and the overall quality of the softer sex would be predictably reduced.

Bothersome. But a problem that would lead to more enjoyment for guys than anything else.

Thankfully, there're some girls who have a good head on their shoulders who can see what the others can't see. These are the diamonds in the rough; the sore thumbs that stick out due to hours of frentic thumbmashing.

And I'm more than content to have be with one of them...even though it's terrifying to know that all feminists would be content to learn that she's really the one who wears the pants in the relationship.

Happy birthday, babe. Thank you for being there when I needed you most. (Now everyone can collectively laugh at me.)