Thou shalt not preach on blogs!
This is that 11th commandment that was trashed from the final edit of the Bible along with the 13th apostle (who was black) and the 5th horseman of the Apocalypse (who was a suicide bomber — so he blew up his own horse).
There’s one thing I hate more than a preachy blog and that’s readers who enjoy them! Arggh! Get over it! There’s nothing in these blogs that hasn’t already been done to death in a dozen or so self-help guides, Oprah and episodes of Dawson’s Creek.
Oh boy, here’s another meaningless discourse on the meaning of life. Ooh ooh, and here’s another theory about relationships! No one’s ever done that one before! Arggh!
I don’t think I’m complaining as much as I’m crying in pain. Enough with all this pop philosophy! Go out there and read some real books!
Here’s a tip to avoid preaching on your blog. Avoid, among others, the following:
‘Life is like…’
‘…this is because guys are [insert insight] while women are [insert further insight]…’
‘Falling in love is…’
‘What is reality?’
I mean, if you wanna talk about life, then talk about your life. If you wanna talk about love, then talk about your experiences and what they do to you. But don’t bloody make sweeping generalisations as if you’re the friggin’ spirit of our generation! Or if you must do that, then at least make it funny!
*Please excuse the preachy nature of the above posting.
Sunday, September 29, 2002
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
xtn etc. spins off!
In the tradition of some of the best TV shows, xtn etc. now has a spinoff blog called automatic xtn. It’s basically got all the stuff that isn’t important enough to me to dedicate a whole entry to. I think I used to call them Shorts or something like that. So anyway, it’s probably not very readable. But if you want to check it out nonetheless, it’s here and you can tell me what you think.
UPDATE: Now with comments too! Woohoo!
In the tradition of some of the best TV shows, xtn etc. now has a spinoff blog called automatic xtn. It’s basically got all the stuff that isn’t important enough to me to dedicate a whole entry to. I think I used to call them Shorts or something like that. So anyway, it’s probably not very readable. But if you want to check it out nonetheless, it’s here and you can tell me what you think.
UPDATE: Now with comments too! Woohoo!
Tuesday, September 24, 2002
Kachingo!
– I can see a nipple.
– Where’s the nipple?
– There.
– That’s not a nipple.
– That’s a nipple.
– OK. Fine. That’s a nipple.
I thought I’d come back from my weekend away and write all about it but the thing is, I really don’t feel like it now. Cos I know it’d just be all a bunch of in-jokes, misquotes and gratuitous self-glorification on my part. That’s something everyone can do without.
So instead all I’m gonna do is a sort of rundown of the highlights. Cos from my experience, fun times are very hard to put down on paper. And I had fun times here.
*All names have been changed in order to protect the innocent.
Place of visit: Hunter Valley Region
Accommodation: Some poor farmers’ house in the town of Broke. The farmers actually had to move out of their own home and live in the shed for the weekend!
Friday:
– The drive seems longer than expected and our driver, Gillian, plays ‘Are we there yet?’ with herself while Milo and Huey make spastic hand signals in the back.
– The people in Jackson’s car suffer trauma as multiple Australian native marsupials commit suicide by running themselves into the car at night.
– Huey makes the claim that the big red mark on his neck is a ‘heat rash’.
– xtn, Huey and Milo make some tea by the side of a country road at night, while making racist jokes and speculating about Knee’s lovelife.
– We play spoons and manage to completely destroy the 6 of diamonds.
Saturday:
– Gillian wakes up first and finds purpose in cleaning everything she can see.
– We go on a wine-tasting tour and are continually mistaken for either overseas tourists or students.
– Racial jokes increase in number and intensity, while Knee still doesn’t deny our speculations about her lovelife.
– Tony has a hilarious mid-afternoon hangover and his coughs are so violent that it sounds like his lungs are gonna come straight out of his mouth.
– Marv, xtn and Gillian make plans to start a band in two years and squabble over band names while completely ignoring a more obvious problem: talent.
– After a few glasses of wine, Milo promises xtn that she’ll sleep with him.
– During dinner preparation, Marv disappears and we find him later playing with puppies.
– During dinner, Gem starts a conversation about religion. Sex gets an honorary mention. No one seems to care enough about politics though.
– After dinner, Marv inadvertently invents a new game called ‘Kachingo’ and xtn discovers that he is actually able to stick his head up his own arse. Literally.
– During games of Kachingo and Snap, five of us consume 5.5 litres of soft drink and wine. Toilet trips incur a penalty of two extra drinks.
– TV educates us about the ‘Clingon’ — a 3-headed glass dildo which is also dishwasher-safe. Handy.
– Milo turns out to be all talk.
Sunday:
– We go home.
– Knee still gives us no denial about our speculations.
So in conclusion, we had fun.
– I can see a nipple.
– Where’s the nipple?
– There.
– That’s not a nipple.
– That’s a nipple.
– OK. Fine. That’s a nipple.
I thought I’d come back from my weekend away and write all about it but the thing is, I really don’t feel like it now. Cos I know it’d just be all a bunch of in-jokes, misquotes and gratuitous self-glorification on my part. That’s something everyone can do without.
So instead all I’m gonna do is a sort of rundown of the highlights. Cos from my experience, fun times are very hard to put down on paper. And I had fun times here.
*All names have been changed in order to protect the innocent.
Place of visit: Hunter Valley Region
Accommodation: Some poor farmers’ house in the town of Broke. The farmers actually had to move out of their own home and live in the shed for the weekend!
Friday:
– The drive seems longer than expected and our driver, Gillian, plays ‘Are we there yet?’ with herself while Milo and Huey make spastic hand signals in the back.
– The people in Jackson’s car suffer trauma as multiple Australian native marsupials commit suicide by running themselves into the car at night.
– Huey makes the claim that the big red mark on his neck is a ‘heat rash’.
– xtn, Huey and Milo make some tea by the side of a country road at night, while making racist jokes and speculating about Knee’s lovelife.
– We play spoons and manage to completely destroy the 6 of diamonds.
Saturday:
– Gillian wakes up first and finds purpose in cleaning everything she can see.
– We go on a wine-tasting tour and are continually mistaken for either overseas tourists or students.
– Racial jokes increase in number and intensity, while Knee still doesn’t deny our speculations about her lovelife.
– Tony has a hilarious mid-afternoon hangover and his coughs are so violent that it sounds like his lungs are gonna come straight out of his mouth.
– Marv, xtn and Gillian make plans to start a band in two years and squabble over band names while completely ignoring a more obvious problem: talent.
– After a few glasses of wine, Milo promises xtn that she’ll sleep with him.
– During dinner preparation, Marv disappears and we find him later playing with puppies.
– During dinner, Gem starts a conversation about religion. Sex gets an honorary mention. No one seems to care enough about politics though.
– After dinner, Marv inadvertently invents a new game called ‘Kachingo’ and xtn discovers that he is actually able to stick his head up his own arse. Literally.
– During games of Kachingo and Snap, five of us consume 5.5 litres of soft drink and wine. Toilet trips incur a penalty of two extra drinks.
– TV educates us about the ‘Clingon’ — a 3-headed glass dildo which is also dishwasher-safe. Handy.
– Milo turns out to be all talk.
Sunday:
– We go home.
– Knee still gives us no denial about our speculations.
So in conclusion, we had fun.
Tuesday, September 17, 2002
A couple of things first.
Over the past couple of weeks, a couple of people have said a couple of things that have pissed me off a couple of times over. On top of that, I've kinda noticed that the quality of my blog has gone downhill somewhat. So I wrote this. It's not really a response to anything. I just felt like it. Cos I know I have to write this sometime. And it might as well be now.
And then after this I think I'll take a short break from blogging. And when I come back, I'll lighten up a bit.
__________
Bulletproof
Step back.
Slowly.
You can always ease yourself back in later.
You wait. Latz howls at the moon from his kennel. It’s the absolute last thing you’d wanna hear on this night. You can hear her outside your room telling him to shut up. Inside your head, a tune from a British mini-series you can’t even remember plays itself over and over again. Then the phone rings. Or the door opens. Which way it goes you can’t quite remember. But you know that this is how it begins.
For the next few days, for about fifteen seconds from the time you wake up each morning, you manage to convince yourself that the day that had just passed had been nothing more than a bad dream. These fifteen-second lapses will be some of the happiest moments you will ever have.
The guy sitting in the corner has his face buried in his hands as you watch him. He is no more familiar to you than the rest of the prayer group that occupy your house tonight. They recite prayers for a family they hardly know, mourning the loss of someone they’ve never met. And the guy in the corner looks like he’s praying a little harder than anyone else.
God bless him.
The food comes and the silence is broken. A party for all but the uninvited hosts. You stay in your room and try to block out the noise. You wish they’d all just go away. The whole bunch of them well-intentioned peoples. You just wanna watch TV.
When most of them begin to leave, someone is telling you that it was his time to go. She says that it is all part of God’s plan. You look like you’re taking it in. You look as if her words are easing some of the pain away. But inside, you indulge in a little fantasy where you are scooping her spleen out with a spoon. You hate those words. You don’t want to hear those words. But you put your fantasy spoon away because in the end you know it’s really not even worth the effort. All you want is for her to piss off and leave you alone.
When they leave, the silence returns. There’s just the four of you. You ease back into conversation.
– Hey, did you see that guy in the corner with his face buried in his hands?
– Yeah. He looked like he was praying harder than everyone else.
– No! The guy was just picking his nose and trying to hide it from everyone else.
– Oh.
God bless him.
At church I enter the doors and the man in the suit asks me to sign the guest book. I tell him who I am and he apologises and shows me to my seat. Walking down the aisle to the front of the church I feel, inexplicably, like laughing. But I know that it’s inappropriate to do so and I don’t really know why I feel like laughing anyway, so I just keep my mouth shut, my head down and I wonder what’s gonna happen next.
Today I am sitting cross-legged on the freshly-mowed grass at Rookwood cemetery, just two minutes down Necropolis Drive from the gates where I entered. The city of the dead. I see a bunch of dead flowers in front of the black marble headstone that someone must have left on a visit. I wonder who it was. Whoever it was, the flowers are dead now and I decide to remove them. I tell myself:
This is no place for the dead.
When I am alone, I begin to remember things. Memories. Maybe memories. Fractured memories. Then comes the guilt. The regrets. The might-have-beens. And I close my eyes and hold it all in. I tell myself:
This is no place for tears.
A 12-year-old boy sits some distance away from me. He is picking at a scab on his knee.
‘Are you gonna talk to him?’ says a bird sitting on the headstone.
– I want to tell him that he shouldn’t be doing that. He should leave it alone if he wants it to heal.
– I wasn’t talking about the boy.
– Oh.
The bird flutters a little, then walks along the top of the headstone.
– It’s different now. The intimacy is gone. The nuances are no longer there.
– And you speak English to him now.
– Yes I’ve noticed that. That never happened in life.
– But don’t you want to tell him what’s been happening with you? What you’ve done? What you’ve achieved?
– I’ve survived.
– And survived well.
– Too well.
– You’ve flourished.
– Without him.
– And?
– Well I want to suffer.
– The pain?
– The memory. I want to remember.
– And you don’t?
– Well…not exactly. Somewhere along the way, I must have moved on.
– That’s good. It was a long time ago.
I look at the bird and realise the ridiculousness of the situation.
I want to remember. I want to suffer. I want to feel the pain. I want to still miss him so much that I can’t function as a normal human being. I don’t want to survive. I don’t want to move on.
– And why is that?
Because I have to know that he meant so much that I can’t live without him. Because I don’t ever want to forget. I want to hold on to the pain. Because forgetting is easy.
The bird hops to the next headstone in the direction of the boy.
I can still remember the bloody nose-picker. But I can’t even remember his voice properly anymore.
– And what do you suppose that means?
You tell me.
– So are you going to talk to the boy?
No. Let him pick at it. I guess some wounds you just don’t want to heal.
The bird nods. And then I get up and say goodbye.
I say, til next time. And the bird chirps and flies away. And I walk back to my car and I go two minutes up Necropolis Drive to the gates where I entered and I drive on home.
Over the past couple of weeks, a couple of people have said a couple of things that have pissed me off a couple of times over. On top of that, I've kinda noticed that the quality of my blog has gone downhill somewhat. So I wrote this. It's not really a response to anything. I just felt like it. Cos I know I have to write this sometime. And it might as well be now.
And then after this I think I'll take a short break from blogging. And when I come back, I'll lighten up a bit.
__________
Bulletproof
Step back.
Slowly.
You can always ease yourself back in later.
You wait. Latz howls at the moon from his kennel. It’s the absolute last thing you’d wanna hear on this night. You can hear her outside your room telling him to shut up. Inside your head, a tune from a British mini-series you can’t even remember plays itself over and over again. Then the phone rings. Or the door opens. Which way it goes you can’t quite remember. But you know that this is how it begins.
For the next few days, for about fifteen seconds from the time you wake up each morning, you manage to convince yourself that the day that had just passed had been nothing more than a bad dream. These fifteen-second lapses will be some of the happiest moments you will ever have.
The guy sitting in the corner has his face buried in his hands as you watch him. He is no more familiar to you than the rest of the prayer group that occupy your house tonight. They recite prayers for a family they hardly know, mourning the loss of someone they’ve never met. And the guy in the corner looks like he’s praying a little harder than anyone else.
God bless him.
The food comes and the silence is broken. A party for all but the uninvited hosts. You stay in your room and try to block out the noise. You wish they’d all just go away. The whole bunch of them well-intentioned peoples. You just wanna watch TV.
When most of them begin to leave, someone is telling you that it was his time to go. She says that it is all part of God’s plan. You look like you’re taking it in. You look as if her words are easing some of the pain away. But inside, you indulge in a little fantasy where you are scooping her spleen out with a spoon. You hate those words. You don’t want to hear those words. But you put your fantasy spoon away because in the end you know it’s really not even worth the effort. All you want is for her to piss off and leave you alone.
When they leave, the silence returns. There’s just the four of you. You ease back into conversation.
– Hey, did you see that guy in the corner with his face buried in his hands?
– Yeah. He looked like he was praying harder than everyone else.
– No! The guy was just picking his nose and trying to hide it from everyone else.
– Oh.
God bless him.
At church I enter the doors and the man in the suit asks me to sign the guest book. I tell him who I am and he apologises and shows me to my seat. Walking down the aisle to the front of the church I feel, inexplicably, like laughing. But I know that it’s inappropriate to do so and I don’t really know why I feel like laughing anyway, so I just keep my mouth shut, my head down and I wonder what’s gonna happen next.
Today I am sitting cross-legged on the freshly-mowed grass at Rookwood cemetery, just two minutes down Necropolis Drive from the gates where I entered. The city of the dead. I see a bunch of dead flowers in front of the black marble headstone that someone must have left on a visit. I wonder who it was. Whoever it was, the flowers are dead now and I decide to remove them. I tell myself:
This is no place for the dead.
When I am alone, I begin to remember things. Memories. Maybe memories. Fractured memories. Then comes the guilt. The regrets. The might-have-beens. And I close my eyes and hold it all in. I tell myself:
This is no place for tears.
A 12-year-old boy sits some distance away from me. He is picking at a scab on his knee.
‘Are you gonna talk to him?’ says a bird sitting on the headstone.
– I want to tell him that he shouldn’t be doing that. He should leave it alone if he wants it to heal.
– I wasn’t talking about the boy.
– Oh.
The bird flutters a little, then walks along the top of the headstone.
– It’s different now. The intimacy is gone. The nuances are no longer there.
– And you speak English to him now.
– Yes I’ve noticed that. That never happened in life.
– But don’t you want to tell him what’s been happening with you? What you’ve done? What you’ve achieved?
– I’ve survived.
– And survived well.
– Too well.
– You’ve flourished.
– Without him.
– And?
– Well I want to suffer.
– The pain?
– The memory. I want to remember.
– And you don’t?
– Well…not exactly. Somewhere along the way, I must have moved on.
– That’s good. It was a long time ago.
I look at the bird and realise the ridiculousness of the situation.
I want to remember. I want to suffer. I want to feel the pain. I want to still miss him so much that I can’t function as a normal human being. I don’t want to survive. I don’t want to move on.
– And why is that?
Because I have to know that he meant so much that I can’t live without him. Because I don’t ever want to forget. I want to hold on to the pain. Because forgetting is easy.
The bird hops to the next headstone in the direction of the boy.
I can still remember the bloody nose-picker. But I can’t even remember his voice properly anymore.
– And what do you suppose that means?
You tell me.
– So are you going to talk to the boy?
No. Let him pick at it. I guess some wounds you just don’t want to heal.
The bird nods. And then I get up and say goodbye.
I say, til next time. And the bird chirps and flies away. And I walk back to my car and I go two minutes up Necropolis Drive to the gates where I entered and I drive on home.
Monday, September 16, 2002
My weekend
Or… I’m an idiot, you idiot!
For the past few weeks I’ve been making a real doofus of myself. Especially in hindsight. I’m like this bungling fool in a dazed stupor from too much anaesthetics.
The latest episode being just this weekend past. It all started on Friday which was normal enough. I was tired and I made the point of coming home early so that I could sleep and wake up early the next morning to play basketball. But I ended up on the phone til late. The next day I paid for it. Urggh.
I hadn’t played for months and initially I thought, ‘hey, I still gotz skillz’ (or words to that effect) but once we started playing full-court, I realised that my fitness level was somewhere closer to Michael Jackson than Michael Jordan (although I didn’t need to be escorted off the court from exhaustion). Basketball was followed by super-greasy yum cha and by the time I saw the movie (Insomnia) I had reached my stupor stage. There was one scene where a couple of the characters were having a conversation and I swear, all they were saying were ‘Blah blah blah blah. Blah bleh.’ I snapped myself out of it and enjoyed the rest of the movie. There must be some irony in watching a movie called ‘Insomnia’ when you yourself haven’t had any sleep. But I guess it’s been lost on me…
It gets worse. At night I drove to my friend Cath’s house which is about 2 minutes from my house and I’ve been there millions of times (exaggeration has been used for effect). But somehow I managed to get lost. Even when I eventually found her street I couldn’t find her house for a while! Yes!
That which was supposed to be an Arnold Schwarzenegger video night turned out to be just Kindergarten Cop, kebabs and me learning majhong. Kinda tough for me since I can’t speak or write Chinese and none of the yum cha foods are featured in the game.
Sunday brought two more basketball games. I thought I’d be playing better but a mix of the kebabs the night before (and I ate what felt like half a tub of garlic sauce), no breakfast in the morning and then a suspicious-looking sausage sizzle, plus my aforementioned poor level of fitness, made me feel like I was gonna throw up and/or collapse on the court (you should’ve seen the state of my toilet that night! Oh boy!).
So my basketball comeback was not to be, this weekend, and now I’m back at work and feeling pretty crappy.
I think I’m gonna grab some food now. Don’t have much left of my lunch break.
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.4 I would like one of the following:
to play again on a basketball team where they don’t automatically look at me and say ‘You’re playing centre’ (I’m not that tall damn it!)
or
to play centre on a team of hobbits and playing against other teams of hobbits. At least then I’d have a real size advantage.
__________
At which point did this blog become so crappy?
Er… don’t answer that.
Or… I’m an idiot, you idiot!
For the past few weeks I’ve been making a real doofus of myself. Especially in hindsight. I’m like this bungling fool in a dazed stupor from too much anaesthetics.
The latest episode being just this weekend past. It all started on Friday which was normal enough. I was tired and I made the point of coming home early so that I could sleep and wake up early the next morning to play basketball. But I ended up on the phone til late. The next day I paid for it. Urggh.
I hadn’t played for months and initially I thought, ‘hey, I still gotz skillz’ (or words to that effect) but once we started playing full-court, I realised that my fitness level was somewhere closer to Michael Jackson than Michael Jordan (although I didn’t need to be escorted off the court from exhaustion). Basketball was followed by super-greasy yum cha and by the time I saw the movie (Insomnia) I had reached my stupor stage. There was one scene where a couple of the characters were having a conversation and I swear, all they were saying were ‘Blah blah blah blah. Blah bleh.’ I snapped myself out of it and enjoyed the rest of the movie. There must be some irony in watching a movie called ‘Insomnia’ when you yourself haven’t had any sleep. But I guess it’s been lost on me…
It gets worse. At night I drove to my friend Cath’s house which is about 2 minutes from my house and I’ve been there millions of times (exaggeration has been used for effect). But somehow I managed to get lost. Even when I eventually found her street I couldn’t find her house for a while! Yes!
That which was supposed to be an Arnold Schwarzenegger video night turned out to be just Kindergarten Cop, kebabs and me learning majhong. Kinda tough for me since I can’t speak or write Chinese and none of the yum cha foods are featured in the game.
Sunday brought two more basketball games. I thought I’d be playing better but a mix of the kebabs the night before (and I ate what felt like half a tub of garlic sauce), no breakfast in the morning and then a suspicious-looking sausage sizzle, plus my aforementioned poor level of fitness, made me feel like I was gonna throw up and/or collapse on the court (you should’ve seen the state of my toilet that night! Oh boy!).
So my basketball comeback was not to be, this weekend, and now I’m back at work and feeling pretty crappy.
I think I’m gonna grab some food now. Don’t have much left of my lunch break.
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.4 I would like one of the following:
to play again on a basketball team where they don’t automatically look at me and say ‘You’re playing centre’ (I’m not that tall damn it!)
or
to play centre on a team of hobbits and playing against other teams of hobbits. At least then I’d have a real size advantage.
__________
At which point did this blog become so crappy?
Er… don’t answer that.
Wednesday, September 11, 2002
Just push play
The view from my desk, veiled by a set of thirty-year-old curtains, is the Bohemia Crystal warehouse. It might be a factory. I don’t know. But I figured that they’re made in Bohemia. Wherever that is. On a good day you can actually see the sky behind the smog. And the smell? It no longer bothers me. Hell, a few hours of clean air without the factory smoke and truck fumes, and I’d probably need my puffer just to calm me down.
It is September 11 today. For the uneducated, that’s the day last year that Ian Thorpe might have died had he been still in New York and decided to do some sightseeing at the World Trade Center. Instead he was already somewhere else and telling us via satellite how close he came to dying. This is of course totally unrelated to October 15. That’s the date last year that Ian Thorpe might have gotten hit by a truck had he decided to take a walk in front of a speeding truck. Thankfully, he didn’t.
God bless Ian Thorpe.
I feel like talking about a certain person but I won’t because they might be reading this. So instead, I’m tiptoeing around them. I look like a big pansy doing this.
I feel like painting myself with various prime colours and running around naked in the forest shouting meaningless phrases like ‘The one to watch!’ or ‘And that is why I love George Double-ya!’
I’m awakened. Maybe I’ve never been asleep. I’m feeling good but distressed that I’m having a hard time understanding why. I’m free. Like a bird out of his cage. Like a prisoner given a pardon. Like Kylie freed from Stock, Aitken and Waterman. I want to come up to animals and sing:
Doe, a deer. A female deer…
I want bluebirds sitting on my shoulder and reciting John Donne to my ears.
Peel me a grape.
I’m Pinocchio shouting ‘I’m a real boy!’
The notes come at me with mathematical precision. But it sounds little like music. My hands are too big for these keys methinks.
Wooooooo!
I am a ball of delirium trapped inside a completely coherent and composed shell of a person, only betrayed by the constant trips to the water dispenser and the toilet.
It all just flows right out.
I am a non-intelligent being today. Take your bag. Leave your brain at the door. My paycheque comes today.
That’s money in the bank.
La la la la la la la…
The view from my desk, veiled by a set of thirty-year-old curtains, is the Bohemia Crystal warehouse. It might be a factory. I don’t know. But I figured that they’re made in Bohemia. Wherever that is. On a good day you can actually see the sky behind the smog. And the smell? It no longer bothers me. Hell, a few hours of clean air without the factory smoke and truck fumes, and I’d probably need my puffer just to calm me down.
It is September 11 today. For the uneducated, that’s the day last year that Ian Thorpe might have died had he been still in New York and decided to do some sightseeing at the World Trade Center. Instead he was already somewhere else and telling us via satellite how close he came to dying. This is of course totally unrelated to October 15. That’s the date last year that Ian Thorpe might have gotten hit by a truck had he decided to take a walk in front of a speeding truck. Thankfully, he didn’t.
God bless Ian Thorpe.
I feel like talking about a certain person but I won’t because they might be reading this. So instead, I’m tiptoeing around them. I look like a big pansy doing this.
I feel like painting myself with various prime colours and running around naked in the forest shouting meaningless phrases like ‘The one to watch!’ or ‘And that is why I love George Double-ya!’
I’m awakened. Maybe I’ve never been asleep. I’m feeling good but distressed that I’m having a hard time understanding why. I’m free. Like a bird out of his cage. Like a prisoner given a pardon. Like Kylie freed from Stock, Aitken and Waterman. I want to come up to animals and sing:
Doe, a deer. A female deer…
I want bluebirds sitting on my shoulder and reciting John Donne to my ears.
Peel me a grape.
I’m Pinocchio shouting ‘I’m a real boy!’
The notes come at me with mathematical precision. But it sounds little like music. My hands are too big for these keys methinks.
Wooooooo!
I am a ball of delirium trapped inside a completely coherent and composed shell of a person, only betrayed by the constant trips to the water dispenser and the toilet.
It all just flows right out.
I am a non-intelligent being today. Take your bag. Leave your brain at the door. My paycheque comes today.
That’s money in the bank.
La la la la la la la…
Monday, September 09, 2002
Footnotes
It only very recently (like, on Saturday) began to frighten me how just about everyone ends up reduced to a footnote at the end of someone else’s interesting or not so interesting story.
You meet someone and you talk to them and you exchange stories. These stories are full of other people. ‘This guy’, ‘that guy’, ‘this other girl’, etc. The thing is, once upon a time, these other people probably meant the world to them. Now they are reduced to ‘that guy’ or ‘this girl’ or whatever.
Being completely egocentric, it never really bothered me until the thought crossed my mind that I myself am also falling victim to this common practice of identity reduction. Somewhere out there, someone may be referring to me as ‘this other guy’. I know I do it myself. I often recall emotional events in my life in ways that completely trivialise the matter and the persons involved. It’s not nice but it happens all the time. But now I realise that it also happens to me! Me! And I can’t hack that!
But do we have enough memory and emotional resources to maintain the integrity of events and people in our lives, and not reduce everything and everyone to a bunch of interesting anecdotes?
It only very recently (like, on Saturday) began to frighten me how just about everyone ends up reduced to a footnote at the end of someone else’s interesting or not so interesting story.
You meet someone and you talk to them and you exchange stories. These stories are full of other people. ‘This guy’, ‘that guy’, ‘this other girl’, etc. The thing is, once upon a time, these other people probably meant the world to them. Now they are reduced to ‘that guy’ or ‘this girl’ or whatever.
Being completely egocentric, it never really bothered me until the thought crossed my mind that I myself am also falling victim to this common practice of identity reduction. Somewhere out there, someone may be referring to me as ‘this other guy’. I know I do it myself. I often recall emotional events in my life in ways that completely trivialise the matter and the persons involved. It’s not nice but it happens all the time. But now I realise that it also happens to me! Me! And I can’t hack that!
But do we have enough memory and emotional resources to maintain the integrity of events and people in our lives, and not reduce everything and everyone to a bunch of interesting anecdotes?
Thursday, September 05, 2002
Endings…
Two endings. Possible beginnings. Whatever.
The almighty Team USA basketball has finally fallen. Since USA started sending professionals to compete in international competition, they had held a 59-game winning streak. The streak ends now. 87-80. Losers to Argentina. Some might say this is sad. Others will say this is promising. I say it’s just time for USA to send their best players — like they haven’t done since the 1992 Dream team of Barcelona.
In sadder news, Sarah Michelle Gellar is married. She’s married! Buffy is married!
DANGER! DANGER! WORLD IN CRISIS!
What little hope single men all over the world may have held onto has now been crushed. But hey, this is Hollywood. She’ll be single again in a year!
Woohoo!
Two endings. Possible beginnings. Whatever.
The almighty Team USA basketball has finally fallen. Since USA started sending professionals to compete in international competition, they had held a 59-game winning streak. The streak ends now. 87-80. Losers to Argentina. Some might say this is sad. Others will say this is promising. I say it’s just time for USA to send their best players — like they haven’t done since the 1992 Dream team of Barcelona.
In sadder news, Sarah Michelle Gellar is married. She’s married! Buffy is married!
DANGER! DANGER! WORLD IN CRISIS!
What little hope single men all over the world may have held onto has now been crushed. But hey, this is Hollywood. She’ll be single again in a year!
Woohoo!
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
I, security liaison
Jeffery calls on Friday afternoon and tells me I’m doing bloody security. On Sunday, I come late to the meeting. Jeffery introduces me to everyone.
– Everybody, this is Christian. He’ll be in charge of security.
Everybody laughs. I guess it is obvious to all that the extent of my martial arts expertise only goes as far as a 12-hit combo on X-Men vs. Street Fighter.
Hadokken!
Saturday and it’s game on. I am late again. I’m given a plan of the Roundhouse and suddenly, the resemblance of the venue’s floorplan to that of the Starship Enterprise prompts me to pretend for a few minutes that I am Lieutenant Worf, Senior security officer. I put on my badge and the power surges through me like adrenaline. The rush fills my head in an awesome way.
– George, you take the stairs and the green room. Andy, take the other stairs. Derrick, you have the bar. I’ll take the front. Leo will be drifting. And Ben… er… thanks for coming. Let’s lock and load gentleman. The Asian invasion is upon us!
At about 5:50pm, the Asians have already lined up all the way to the other side of the Squarehouse. The doors open and KUTD 2002 is officially on.
By this stage, the real security had arrived and our jobs become obsolete. I, security liaison, am reduced to a combination of stamp boy and stairway boy. Five guys try to get up the stairs and I say, sorry. VIPs only.
– Yeah, we’re Viets.
Er… that’s nice. Now move along.
Leo, sporting a pin-stripe shirt and suit has the Yakuza look down pat. No one is gonna wanna mess with him. But all that hardness is wasted as he is reduced to VIP sticker checker. I tell him to relax and enjoy the show.
The rest of the night, I wander between my stairway post and the cloakroom (manned by a couple of twenty-something-year-olds who both look, at most, 15) and the judges’ area upstairs (manned by Wendy who can't seem to decide whether she's feeling really cold or really hot) and my four friends in the audience (I tell them if they hate the show, I’ll buy them all a drink). From time to time I pass Jeffery who, in his suit, almost prompts me to call him Jeffery Gor (Note to self: I watch too many John Woo movies). I tell him to relax too.
As far as the show goes, Asians are good dancers, but they got a long ways to go as rock bands… sorry.
By 1:30am I am having Maccas with the MC Mr Dre. We had just lugged up a whole bunch of audio equipment in and out of a van.
2:30 and I am in bed replying to an sms. Then I sleep briefly before a bout of insomnia takes me outside to witness Hewitt dismantling James Blake in five spectacular sets.
It was a good night on the whole.
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.3 I would love to see John Woo direct a movie about Moses with Arnold Schwartzenegger playing the lead role and Alan Rickman playing the Pharaoh. "Let my peepull go!"
Jeffery calls on Friday afternoon and tells me I’m doing bloody security. On Sunday, I come late to the meeting. Jeffery introduces me to everyone.
– Everybody, this is Christian. He’ll be in charge of security.
Everybody laughs. I guess it is obvious to all that the extent of my martial arts expertise only goes as far as a 12-hit combo on X-Men vs. Street Fighter.
Hadokken!
Saturday and it’s game on. I am late again. I’m given a plan of the Roundhouse and suddenly, the resemblance of the venue’s floorplan to that of the Starship Enterprise prompts me to pretend for a few minutes that I am Lieutenant Worf, Senior security officer. I put on my badge and the power surges through me like adrenaline. The rush fills my head in an awesome way.
– George, you take the stairs and the green room. Andy, take the other stairs. Derrick, you have the bar. I’ll take the front. Leo will be drifting. And Ben… er… thanks for coming. Let’s lock and load gentleman. The Asian invasion is upon us!
At about 5:50pm, the Asians have already lined up all the way to the other side of the Squarehouse. The doors open and KUTD 2002 is officially on.
By this stage, the real security had arrived and our jobs become obsolete. I, security liaison, am reduced to a combination of stamp boy and stairway boy. Five guys try to get up the stairs and I say, sorry. VIPs only.
– Yeah, we’re Viets.
Er… that’s nice. Now move along.
Leo, sporting a pin-stripe shirt and suit has the Yakuza look down pat. No one is gonna wanna mess with him. But all that hardness is wasted as he is reduced to VIP sticker checker. I tell him to relax and enjoy the show.
The rest of the night, I wander between my stairway post and the cloakroom (manned by a couple of twenty-something-year-olds who both look, at most, 15) and the judges’ area upstairs (manned by Wendy who can't seem to decide whether she's feeling really cold or really hot) and my four friends in the audience (I tell them if they hate the show, I’ll buy them all a drink). From time to time I pass Jeffery who, in his suit, almost prompts me to call him Jeffery Gor (Note to self: I watch too many John Woo movies). I tell him to relax too.
As far as the show goes, Asians are good dancers, but they got a long ways to go as rock bands… sorry.
By 1:30am I am having Maccas with the MC Mr Dre. We had just lugged up a whole bunch of audio equipment in and out of a van.
2:30 and I am in bed replying to an sms. Then I sleep briefly before a bout of insomnia takes me outside to witness Hewitt dismantling James Blake in five spectacular sets.
It was a good night on the whole.
__________
Wishlist
Wish No.3 I would love to see John Woo direct a movie about Moses with Arnold Schwartzenegger playing the lead role and Alan Rickman playing the Pharaoh. "Let my peepull go!"
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