Wednesday, August 10, 2011

I Want To Wear.

Wayfarer Sunnies.

Take me back a year ago and I would have vehemently argued that the aviator sunglasses were the peak of sunglass engineering. Is is a perfect blend of history and functionality mixed with the garnish of fashion. (Not that I claim to know a thing about fashion). 

Thing is, I wanted to own something that World War II pilots wore when they were piloting their P-51 Mustangs over the Pacific. I wanted to own something that gave a fighter ace a slight advantage over the pilots of the Rising Sun. The aviator sunglasses were built for that purpose, the curved edge of the sunglass protected the eyes from the sun at every angle. 

It definitely worked for the World War II fly boys, and it still is in use by air force pilots today. I needed one. I walked into Sunglass Hut and tried on a Ray Bans aviators. I looked like a fly with an eyeball disease. Oh to the wells. 

But I need sunglasses! And far beyond it for me to look like Laurence Fishburne in the Matrix. I simply refuse to wear those little eye mudflaps. Or Wraparound Oakleys that would make me look like a wannabe hardcore climber. 

So I found the wayfarers. New sunglasses that took was created with new plastic moulding technology. Worn by JFK and Audrey Hepburn, it definitely is an iconic pair of sunglasses. Granted, it wasn't warn by General Douglas MacArthur, but still. JFK! 
And it looks nice too. So now I want a pair of wayfarer sunglasses and I have no money. 

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Aye Aye Captn.

Right now, I'm thinking of dreadnought battleships armed from stern to bow. Grey iron plated, and intimidating. I wish I was a captain of on of those ships. Clothed in a spotless white uniform, pressed perfect and capped off with a captain's hat. 

I turn my head and nod to my Lieutenant. The lights in the command room is bathed in angry red.

The wooden floorboards jerk you off your feet. It is the guns firing shot after shot of artillery rounds that are two times the size of a man. They power through the air screaming through the sky before cascading and penetrating through the timber floor boards of an enemy cruiser. The steel cap strikes at gunpowder laden magazines and a ballistic, bassy crack rips the ship into two. 

Rights. Back to work.  HELLO ASSIGNMENT. 

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Hey, Listen.

I think you are beautiful.

I sit here in front of my laptop’s piano gloss and think for a moment of what I want to say to you. The person reading this.

I think you’re beautiful. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know what you look like. But if you sat with me for awhile, and we laughed over something we had in common. I’d look right at you, and realize you’re beautiful.

Even If there’s a moment of silence when we realize we’re completely different, I'd find you interesting and think; that you're beautiful. 

 From your hair. To your toes.

Thanks for listening. 

Monday, May 30, 2011

FC Barcelona Vs. Manchester United

It was two in the morning and the large living room lit by three dim fluorescent light bulbs was filled with about 20 friends. 15 of the 20 were wearing bright red, the color of Manchester United’s jersey. Potato chips were crunching, and cokes cans were opened while we waited for a friend to bring his widescreen television.
In my room, on Facebook and Twitter, friends from everywhere, and from different countries were reaching ridiculous states of soccer frenzy. I read chants ranging from expletives to professional sounding predictions of the match’s outcome. Then I read a Twitter comment from a friend. It read, “will never understand why people get so emotional over football. There're more important things like political factions, world hunger.”  She echoed the thoughts a few others had about soccer. I was one of those few.
My friend finally showed up with his 40-inch LCD screen. Three of them stood around attempting to connect the screen to the house’s antenna. The screen buzzed black and white; white noise emanated from the screen’s built-in-speakers. There were several disappointed murmurs as my friends thought they might have to watch the game in some odd, dirty cafĂ©.
Finally, the screen came to life and crisp British soccer commentary was heard. I ambled out of my room to join my friends. After all, as the saying goes, if you can’t beat them, join them.
            I decided to cheer for FC Barcelona. I did that mostly because everyone was rooting for Manchester United. Flipping my laptop open, I Googled insults that I could use against Manchester United fans. Allowing myself a few shouts and screams at the television, I was promptly stopped when my friend leaned over and said, “I will smack you over the head with a spatula if you don’t shut up.” I laughed and went back to insulting Wayne Rooney very loudly.
            There was this short FC Barcelona player with flouncy hair. Whenever he ran, it looked as though he was shuffling around the field. His scarlet and blue ‘Blaugrana’ Jersey billowing at his sides and looked as though it was a size too big for him. I pointed at the screen and was told that the player’s name was Lionel Messi. Being curious, I began to read about him. My friend commented that he was the “Messiah of Soccer.” What makes him more remarkable is that he had a hormone deficiency as a child and was told that he could never play sport.
            I looked back up to the screen and was greeted by the sight of four FC Barcelona strikers pushing into the back of Manchester United’s defensive lines. A striker named Pedro passed the ball over to Messi and immediately, Manchester United’s defenders swarmed around Messi. I wondered how the plucky defender was going to get out of the trap. He merely dribbled around their feet, putting on dazzling and bursts of speed. When enough defenders were around him, he passed the ball out of the tangle of Manchester United defenders circling around him; and striker would appear out of nowhere to receive his pass. FC Barcelona made strike after strike in this manner. 
            Then I realized that how many people were watching this spectacle around the globe. Being the Champion’s League final, it was viewed by an estimated 100 million people. International Twitter feeds were buzzing with activity. It may not be the most important thing in the world but soccer was certainly the most popular sport.
             Football brings people together. The thing about soccer is this, people identify with the idea of soccer. They identify with the team. FC Barcelona is a team that hailed from Spain. Spanish citizens were cheering on a team that represented them on an international level. Not only that, fans around the world was cheering for players who were from their country. Thousands of international fans were supporting teams like FC Barcelona because they somehow felt connected with the drama unfolding on screen. There was also that simple feeling of unity felt when cheering their team on to a victory.
            Manchester United scored an equalizing goal. Twitter feeds erupted again. The twenty or so university students screamed at the television. On Facebook, Manchester United fans were busy writing the motto of their team ‘Believe’.
However, in the next hour, FC Barcelona went on to score two more goals pushing up the goal count to 3-1. A few minutes later and the whistle for the game to end sounded. The Manchester United fans looked completely dejected, with their faces staring listlessly at the television.
FC Barcelona fans around the world began to celebrate their victory. Calling Lionel Messi the Messiah and pronouncing equal titles over the different players in the team FC Barcelona. I found myself dancing around the room telling all my friends how much better FC Barcelona played than Manchester. My friends had none of it and promptly shut me up.
Perhaps it serves to show that while soccer may not be as important as world hunger; it does however, bring people together.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Oh Wow.

I really don't feel like writing. I'm not the only one. I have a dear friend who is studying graphic design. Come the holidays, I asked her if she was working on any art pieces. "No."She replied, with a slightly embarrassed look. That took some guilt away from me.

But still, I feel guilty. Here I am, studying writing, and seating my butt comfortably on a chair playing flash games instead of working on what I'll be doing in the foreseeable future. Guilt strikes once again. The semester looms closer, there are 24 hours in a day, surely I can devote some of that time to working at what I'm supposed to be doing?

I think it's time to get back to practicing again.

Happy Chinese New Year everybody!


Wednesday, December 15, 2010

When I Grow Up...

I want to be Malaysia's first Emperor.

I want to be the President of the United States of America.

I want to drive an Aston Martin.

I want to be the senior editor of a well known magazine.

I want to own an armored tank that fires giant nerf rounds.

I want a laser tag war room in my own house.

I want to give my name a super long suffix and prefix when I become emperor.

The great, most noble, most desirable, most glorious, leader who brings pleasure to your toes and massages your kneck with the powers of his mind in ways that are most glorious, king of birds; but only birds that look pretty. Lord of animals that are endangered by the diabolical fascist regime of evilness, and fish that are tasty, Magnificent Joseph Wong the wowness of wongness, in aircraft, jetfighter, explosions in the sky.

I want to learn how to stiffle sneezes.

I would love to learn perfect etiquette.

I want to buy a mac book from macdonalds.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Love the Crab. Hate the Prawn.

I despise prawns. These horrible thingies that come cooked with their beady eyes still staring at you. Worse, you chop it's head off when it's still on your plate and it's mushy brains. Then the chef forces you to skin the headless prawn all by yourself. The worse part comes when you realize the black stuff you're eating is actually prawn poop. Lovely.

Crabs however, are fantastic! They come in a beautiful package with the smoothest shells ready for your eating pleasure. The best part is that eating it is an interactive joy! One needs to use a hammer and a nutcracker to get to the flesh inside. And once you get to the gastronomically glorious flesh, well; who cares. The whole fun was smashing the crab into bits. Lovely.

That's odd. I don't like prawns cause of the work to get to the flesh. But I love crabs for the same reason. How now?

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