BOOGABAH

I Want To Wear.

2011-08-10T10:45:00.000-07:00

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.

Aye Aye Captn.

2011-08-04T08:25:00.000-07:00

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.

Hey, Listen.

2011-07-27T09:31:00.000-07:00

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.

FC Barcelona Vs. Manchester United

2011-05-30T23:09:00.001-07:00

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 café.

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.

Oh Wow.

2011-02-05T00:14:00.000-08:00

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!

When I Grow Up...

2010-12-15T03:05:00.000-08:00

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.

Love the Crab. Hate the Prawn.

2010-12-09T01:00:00.000-08:00

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?

Nerfing. (Part 1)

2010-12-08T00:43:00.000-08:00

Non-Expanding Recreational Foam. NERF. This actually sounds more serious than 'paintball'

While studying, I came across a news article covering some guys who formed a small Nerfing community in Malaysia. These weren't your regular kids running amok with guns while screaming their heads off. These guys looked like people across different ages. My first thought was; these people have not known the wonders of the playstation. Then I realized that I recognized some of these faces! They were friends I know in Kl. Now why would they be playing nerf?

For the uninitiated, Nerf is a brand name that manufactures 'blasters' or guns that fire foam darts. It was a groundbreaking invention some bored scientist created when he realized that foam didn't break stuff. So why not shape the foam into a sabot round and load it into a gun. After all, if he had fun playing with the dang thing, so would anyone who loved the thrill of competition and shooting bros after a hard day's work. It was a spectacular success.

I believed Nerf was a kids toy, something your little brother would run about playing with his over frenzied friends. But I couldn't help realizing that something in me was just shrieking to pick one of the numerous blasters my friend had to try them out. My inner child possessed my limbs and I found myself blasting my dear friend in his head with a foam dart. Just for the fun of it.

A real ammunition.

Nerf ammunition.

Then he pointed towards an atrocity. A monster. This humongous gun shaped like the perfect weapon of war. A machine gun. A nerfing machine gun. It was the belt-fed apex of a toy technology, and it fired pretty quick. Once you started up the machine, it hummed menacingly. Then you pulled the trigger.

And a stream of foam darts jettisoned from the gun.

Now at this point my inner child ripped apart my sternum, sliced open my chest and grasped the Nerf Machine gun with all his might. "Ok. Let's go play some nerf," I said. We divided ourselves into two teams, since there were only three people, it was a 2 vs 1. My friend had his machine gun. I had a minuscule revolver and my wingman had a watchmacallit blaster. Getting to the two sides, I heard the hum of the machine gun then, the splatter of foam shots smacking into our cover. I turned over to my wingman and he gave me a look that said," there's nothing we can do. Take one step and we'd be 'killed'. I must admit, I thought this game would be easier, but it wasn't.

We had to wait till there was a pause in the hum of the gun and the percussion of the bullets till we could charge out with guns blazing. And we did. While our foe was still reloading his gun, my wingman took him out with a single blaster shot to the head.

Now of course, this was just one spontaneous game my friends had obligingly arranged when I walked over to their house out of boredom. Many more battles followed

Fly Airport Fly

2010-11-19T01:32:00.000-08:00

I am a proud student of a university, flying home back to land and nation. Walking past the glass sliding doors with my head held high, I feel like a swan. A beautiful white swan. So beautiful I almost started dancing. In fact, that's what I did, a little dance. A graceful sweeping ballet of beauty across the white marble floor of the airport terminal.

No, I was queuing up for my air ticket. But I did have my head held up high.

I answered the stewardress woman at the cashier in a clipped, competent tone and smiled charmingly when she said, "have a nice flight." Oh yeah babeh, I am smooth like a dolphin's backside.

Then, with a noble student-of-uni walk I marched towards the escalator. I was a picture of competence and culture. Like Brad Pitt in some movie about walking while looking cool-as-beans. I took the escalator up to where the airport security was.

Hah. The airport security. I may be scrutinized, judged, investigated, and searched. But I am not guilty of anything. I am a student-of-university.

I approached the guard with my handphone, lappie and belt in a tray. Then I looked him in the eye. "Is that all?" I asked. He pointed at my pant zip. It was gloriously open.

Complete, resounding victory.

Sitrep.

2010-11-14T07:47:00.000-08:00

I am hugely busy. More so in the last few weeks. They've been chock-full of assignments, essays and projects. It's these wonderful times at the end of the year, when you realize you have to sleep at 3-4 am only to wake up at 7am to get assignments done. Thought challenging, I remain strangely joyous and happy. My health is fine too.

Whenever a uni student with an ocean load of paper work told me how lucky I was to still be in school; I scoffed and told him, "HAH. YEAH RIGHT." I find myself being that stressed uni student walking around campus with a starry zombiefied gaze, yelling to all high school student apocalyptically what awaits them.

I'm writing this in the library's glass roofed cafeteria while sipping ice coffee. The uni experience is fantastic!

At times you just stop in your tracks to wonder how blessed you are to be afforded the privilege of studying at uni. My favorite place to stop and wonder: in a place covered with trees next to the library building. During Autumn or Spring, it's beautiful with red bricked buildings and walkways clothed with brown, yellow and reddish leaves. All bathed in gold light. Fantasy land? No. The walkway behind my library.

I actually wrote this a week earlier while gearing up for assignments, and now that assignments are finished. I am free. Even as I am writing this, I'm in a room full of intensely studious exam preppers. Their faces twisted into energy from the caffeine they're gulping.

I remain chillaxed. Fly like a G6

Fly like a G6

Fly like a G6

A G6 is a plane by the way.

This is its interior. I want one.

Social Rules Learnt By Mr. Awkward. (Part 1)

2010-10-21T02:26:00.000-07:00

I'm quite socially awkward. As such, I had to learn through trial and error what is socially correct and what's just not in good taste.

1. Never ever push food off a person's spoon. Especially if you don't really know the person. Cause this is rude.

Now in some cases this might be ridiculously funny. Understood, but in some other cases, this would probably label you as a barbaric Philistine whose mother never taught him some manners.

2. Do not call people "gay". It's just not a good idea.

3. Never look at a person's food when they are eating or cooking. They will feel obligated to invited you to eat, even when they don't really want to share their food. This may all seem like complete common sense, but when you're hungry...

4. Don't bother debating about matters of taste. It all ends in tears.

Screaming Justin Bieber/Edward Cullen/Beethoven is as dumb is a doornail will probably end in yelling matches. Children have cried over this.

5. Try to keep a calendar of who you're meeting up for appointments. If you don't, it's likely you'll arrange two things at the same time which results in instant GG.

Happens to me ALL THE TIME. That's why I keep a calendar.

6. Never ask a girl her age.

Now I know this seems like me trying to look all goody-two-shoes and old fashioned, but its not. Thing is, if you ask a girl her age right off the bat, she'd probably think you're making a pass at her. Never a good thing.

7. Save all arguing for after you eat.

Do you really want to argue when you're on gorging nourishment? Save it after dessert. Everyone will be happy!

8. In matters of politeness, the hierarchy should look like this. Grandmas (grandparents), Ma Mas (parents), Ladies (the girls), peeps (yo hommies).

In Class..

2010-10-02T08:30:00.001-07:00

The chic fashion of expression worn on your toes.

Red Ruby,blue and shinny colored epoxy.

Rappers call it ice cream, rockers think they’re indie.

I prefer mine canvas, nike, crafted ID.

Close My Eyes.

2010-09-23T09:42:00.000-07:00

Ever had those moments when you felt absolutely happy. Perfectly joyous?

I had. This comfortable feeling of contentment washes over you. It's as if you know you're heading from point A to point B. You know where you're from, it's a dream. You know where you're going, it's a dream.

But right now, you're contented to realize where you've come and where you're headed.

That feeling of happiness.

I've had those feelings many times. Like a dream, things slow down, but you realize it'll be over in an instant. I close my eyes and memorize how I feel. I take in friend's voices, friend's laughter. I memorize the sun light, the fabric of the couch, the crispness of the air.

I wipe a tear from laughing too hard. I remember my friend's face, smiling. I look around and memorize more faces, each happy that they're here, that I'm here. Then I shut my eyes, and memorize everything.

I memorize the warmth of acceptance. The feeling that I can do anything, but I am content right here.

Contentment. Maybe it's not just a moment.

Student Hunting/Gathering techniques.

2010-09-20T22:58:00.000-07:00

I recall the all encompassing horror of my first self-cooked meal in Australia.

Wondering where I would get food at 6pm, (all stores closed) I promptly panicked realizing I didn't have food in the fridge. FInding only some rice and tomato paste, a concoction formed in my culinary retarded skull. I had seen coffee stores serve rice with pasta sauce for obscene prices; perhaps I could cook something like that as well.

After staring blankly at the rice cooker and the Preggo's tomato paste container for about five minutes, I set to work. An hour later and a mountain of dirtied cooking utensils, I ended up with semi cooked rice, and warmish preggo tomato paste.

It tasted terrible. Try eating some rice left outside the house for two days with lemon. That was almost how it tasted. But that was a year and a half ago. My survival skills have now improved by leaps and bounds!

I now know how to cook indo mee with sausages.

Just for Fun!

2010-09-09T04:25:00.000-07:00

Slim Jeans.

2010-09-07T02:52:00.005-07:00

I shall never wear a pair of skinny jeans. It's against everything I am.

Well no, not really, I have on an occasion tried on a pair of skinny jeans. Yelling, rolling around in TopMan's ample fitting room trying to fit that sorry excuse for a clothing around my plush tush. Pulling and dragging the blasphemy of a clothing, I realized to my pain that it's waist band only fit one of my thighs. I shall forever hate the skinny jean.

Needless to say, I gave up the hope of having my perfectly toned legs on display for the female race to gorge their sights upon. Then I started flipping through a GQ magazine, coming across this.

Well, uh... It was something like that. But not exactly. It said something along the lines of

"Back in the olden times, young men used to put themselves through the rigours of the male test that included pushing their legs through torturous garment known as the skinny jean. No more. D1 slim pants."

I was inspired to get myself a pair of them slim jeans for the wearing. After all, if fashion is based on the rules of self expression and optical illusions, the slim jean would then make my puny little legs look longer. And express that I was a fashion forward, beacon of garment guyishness.

Now I am loathe to put on my black slim jeans in the morning. Specifically because of two things. One, they are tighter than relaxed fit jeans, which are two times looser than slim jeans. I other words, now with the tighter, jean, I have to work twice as hard to put them on each morning. Two, there are buttons instead of a zipper. Sometimes, I fantasize about being able to run freely to uni in my boxers, gliding and skipping ala the "sound of music".

Having said that, I like my slim jeans, at least they don't ride up on my thighs, showing my Michael Jackson socks. Maybe it's time to get those low slung sissy socks too.

Tic Tock.

2010-08-25T23:24:00.000-07:00

Brussel Sprouts marching to brussels.

Lilacs in the air.

Giants chewing on mussels.

Me chewing a pear.

Why these ( pause for rhythm) lines?

I do not know.

But one thing that's for sure.

I've just stubbed my toe.

400.

2010-08-22T09:28:00.000-07:00

There were 400 spartans. Over at Thermopylae.

Some place characterized by super yellowish day.

I know you're thinking, 400? That's 100 too much.

You see they're not Spartans, THEY ARE FOUR HUNDRED WORDS LEFT ON MY STINKING STORY I DON'T LIKE TO WRITE BECAUSE IT'S LIKE AN UGLY CHILD I'M FORCED TO LOVE! AUUUUGGHGHHHHH!!!!!

Slippity Wippity Dicklety Doo!

2010-08-16T22:59:00.000-07:00

Wince and Wobble, next and crumble.

Next to stumble, wabble and fumble.

If you don't geddit, read it and wonder.

Till your brain farts and blows asunder.

A Short Dream.

2010-08-15T09:39:00.000-07:00

I want to fly first class,

My Breitling leaning out of my jacket sleeve,

The air stewardess smiles at me.

A crystal glass of champagne between my index and thumb,

I look out the window,

It's New York.

Goodnight.

Read Shmead

2010-08-02T09:02:00.000-07:00

Rubbing your eyes across the words of a page is never easy. Most books tear into the skin of your eyeballs with each and every word, a complete pain to read. Case in point, the science text book. Your hands pull open the cheaply laminated cover only to be greeted with tissue thin paper with runny ink, flowing into a diatribe of painfully exact words.

Not my idea of fun.

Then, there are books. Exciting, the shades and colors jump at you from behind every syllable. The mind runs by a stream of words, leading from suspense to suspense with the eyes running unfettered from sentence to sentence, each idea pouring into the next idea. Easily read, easily understood. A joy.

I just need to find those books. Someone show me!

Army Green or Desert Biege Sir?*

2010-07-29T08:37:00.000-07:00

Surfing the net like a boss, I was struck by the piercing shell of curiosity. I was struck with the question of how much would it financially cost to drive my very own Main Battle Tank.

Enlightened by this surge of curiosity, I searched for an affordably priced armored tank. Preferably something with air conditioning, comfort, and of course, an affordable price. So I began clicking.

I stumbled across a used Chieftain battle tank. Not only is it, a battle tank, it's a MAIN battle tank. So it's not a girly, sugar candy driven, sorry excuse for a war machine. It's pretty much the brute force of the British army. The darling looked savagely beautiful with it's right angles and machismo looks.

Then I looked at the price. Mind you, I had envisioned this fact finding excersise to be one purely for my personal entertainment. I would assume that an armored tank would match dollar to every kilogram it weighed. Out of a need to prove that my assumptions are always true. I searched for the used tank's price. It costs 270,000 Ringgit.

Not Dollars. Ringgit Malaysia.

WROAH!

Now, it's not to say that 270 k is affordable by any means, but bear in mind that it does cost half the amount of a BMW convertible bought in Malaysia. Yes. A Chieftan Battle Tank is half the price of a BMW in Malaysia.

This does provoke some very interesting ideas. How would it feel like powering your very own battle tank through some of the most jammed areas of Kuala Lumpur? Or perhaps, dealing with all those psycho idiots on the roads. For instance, Kancil owner's who are thoroughly convinced they're driving hippos instead of really tiny cars.

What am I talking about?

I am talking about the possibility of smashing a hole right through the walls of unrighteously cramped parking spaces.

It's about using the sheer weight of the tank to smash stupid double parkers into mangled tin foil.

It's about blasting road bullies off the road and into the South China Sea.

I am talking about the respect an armored tank would afford you. A respect they will have to pay because of the knowledge that you can blow them up with a gigantic cannon. A simple knowledge that you can, and will, end their sniveling, pathetic lives if they dare so much as LOOK in your direction when they meekly move out of the way during a jammed morning rush.

And it comes with an air conditioner.

For your consideration. The affordable Chieftan Battle Tank.

*of course, you'd have to take in the shipping costs, tax, fuel, laws and numerous other elements which will probably cost as much as having your very own air-force.

Pharmacist Rhymes with Narcissist.

2010-07-25T21:45:00.000-07:00

My life, is an anthill. And in those anthills, are many ants. Of those ants, many are pharmacists. And pharmacists are awesome people. Most believe that they are the bespectacled bros and sisters behind white clinical tables dispensing drugs and medicines. The nerds.

what you think they look like.

But hold up! What did you just read? What was the line you've just read that announces their about their earth shaking, meteorite smashing, cosmos decimating, cool-beans status!?

They dispense drugs.

WROAH!

Not that it's right, legal or admirable to dispense drugs of the streets; in fact, in some countries, drug possession carries the death sentence. But they do it legally, intelligently and stylishly. Think about Cd's upon Cd's of lyrics from rappers glamorizing the life of a crack dealing, piece wearing, bling enhanced hustler. Now, imagine, all the glamour, none of the violent, disgusting vices of em dealers. What you have, is a pharmacist.

what they really look like.

Being surrounded by them. It leads me to inevitably learn about them.

1) While I'm reading magazines and comics, they're reading the books that are thicker than phone book directories.

2) They're studying all the time. Wouldn't you if you had a word like, pogliotinkiolinkoniosycolisis to memorize?

3) Mind you, it's not everybody who becomes a pharmacist. The average pharmacist is probably some crazy, psycho smart guy who normally got all A's just by licking his textbooks.

4) Need entertainment? Watch a pharmacist stress out before her exams. Never endingly funny.

5) The thing about them, is that they've been trained in the art of never being negative. So even with the entire Australian curriculum crashing around them, they'll still wear a steeled smile while screaming faux vulgarities at their books. Hilarious.

6) They can wear cool T-shirts with phrases like:

Pharmacists, saving the world one panadol at a time.

I know the meaning of the word, Hepaticocholangiocholecystenterostomies. Do you?

U R Dumb. I R Smart.

Hustla. Legally.

Pharmacists read the Pharmasutra.

Pfizer Cartel.

7) They are crazy people. I had a pharmacist charge at me, yell hello in my ear and run off in a peculiar way.

I wish I could say more. But then again, a Pharmacist is sort of like an Oompa Loompa. You know their quirks, and their zany dances, but they still remain a mysterious lot. I'll probably be writing more on them, after an adventure or two of trying to discover their fascinating tendencies. But for now. See ya!

This Blog is My Blog!

2010-07-20T10:26:00.000-07:00

This is my blog.

I have just so many thoughts, but I'm terrified of posting them here. What I feel etches a line of text in my mind, and I'm terrified of typing it down on my blog. It's a little like running through some up-town, high-fashion clothing store with only your boxers on. But sometimes, I need a place to write, to know what I think, to make sense of what I think. To know that what I think makes sense through writing it down.

But I can't be bothered to write something in a brown diary, and keep it in a forgotten, messy corner of my room. To be dug up and thrown away by an older Joseph who thinks it's thrash.

Walking through a library once, I needed a distraction terribly. And so I picked up a hard cover book with black and white graphics on it. I can't remember the title at all, but I do remember what the book was about -inspiration. I flipped through the pages and met astounding artists, shared a coffee with great leaders and listened to visionaries.

I came across an artist's quote, something along the lines of, "the community is important for my art, without the community, I wouldn't make art. I couldn't be bothered making art for my own enjoyment." Or something like that. (something along those lines)

The artist strummed a chord that made sense to me. I understood. I wouldn't write something, work on something, only for my entertainment, I'd rather be doing something else.

The things I want to say, the thoughts I want to desperately say, I do not want to say to the dust wafting in the corner of my room. I want to say it to people, someone. But I don't dare. I'm afraid of running around Dolce and Gabbana wearing only my boxers.

Potato Storms Are In The Air.

2010-07-20T06:10:00.000-07:00

Wouldn't it be cool if it rained potatoes, turnips, carrots, wheat and cabbage?

All you had to do when it came to hunger was plant some clouds in the middle of a desolate region. You'd have tomatoes, potatoes, carrots and onions falling from the sky.

ABC soup for everybody!

Potato storms predicted with a high of thirty five.

Owh!

2010-06-16T04:32:00.000-07:00

I've often wondered where the dudes down at Lucas Arts stumbled on the fantastic idea to have a moon as a super weapon. It's sheer genius the idea of a looming moon with the ability to fire a gigantic spear of destruction at a hapless target!

Ok. You obviously weren't completely blown back by the sheer indescribable awesomeness of a super weapon moon.

Imagine, little Sith Jr. being bullied incessantly by some guy from the planet of Utapau.

Now, he's all grown up, raging, seething and still a little sensitive at the Utapau dude. However, I believe, he is plagued by insecurities, cannot look at himself in the mirror without crying, and constantly doubts his own abilities in the Force. With all these emotional baggages he's carrying around, he can't very well bring himself to strike down his bully can he? Considering you've got to be face-to-face in order to bring about that dramatic moment with his overgrown torchlight whizzing through the air.

So how do we work around this?

We build a death star.

that's right sugar.

Instead of having deal with the psychological agony of meeting his tormentor face to face. He flicks a switch. NO. FORCE flicks a switch, the beams charges up and KAPAU! No more Utapau!

But coming back to the question. Where on earth did the dudes get the idea to get of all things. A moon with a laser on it?

The answer.

The Kugelbunker.

This was made by the Nazis in World War two to be used as a personal bunker by the individual soldier. The soldier would sit inside his glorified hamster ball and shoot from the little hole that was quite artistically cut out from the sphere. Think about the Allies' surprise when they realized that hamsters where shooting them with machine guns from concrete balls. Problematic.

Also, if you haven't already noticed, the startling similarities between both pictures, the Deathstar and the Kugelbunker. Imagine Lucas walking around in the museum, probably thinking about a wicked super weapon for his upcoming film with a cheesy title. Possibly getting bored with the "apius man" section on the first floor, he shuffles to the war section and behold! He spots a ball with a hole in it!

His mind starts to churn, and an equation starts to form.

Ball+hole+super weapon= ?

A flicker of genius. And the Deathstar was born.

this probably isn't true, but owh wells.

Balli$tic$ Expert.

2010-06-13T08:36:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid.

I WANTED TO EXPUNGE THE EVILS OF THIS WORLD WITH AN ARMY OF SUPER SLAYER ROBOTS.

No I didn't.

I know that any post with the words,"when I was a kid," does tend to cause friends to lapse into boredomination. So... I ACTUALLY WANTED TO DESTROY THE WORLD WITH SELF TAUGHT POWERS OF TELEKINESIS!

But seriously. When I was a kid, I built a ton of projectile launching guns. Most of them kinetically (big word for rubber-band) charged. There was just something diabolically fun about manufacturing a projectile launcher out of the decidedly innocent K'nex parts I was playing with. The rods would come together and the connectors would form a barrel. To provide the potential energy, a rubber band was fitted in the place where gunpowder would normally go. In other words, it looked a little bit like a brightly colored crossbow.

I kid you not, it was fun.

I'd build a house of cards. Not just any house of cards, but a very well engineered bunker. Armored on all sides with playing cards. Think, the Merrimack from the American Civil War.

The one on the left! To the left to the left! All your things in the box to the left!

Wisely setting up the bunker right next to my family's stereo system, I'd set up my particle accelerator thingy. Working on the different nooks and crannies, this simple and yet elegant weapon would present all sorts of diabolical opportunities for destruction. I would aim down the barrel of my weapon ensuring pinpoint precision instead of pin prick devastation. Then, my gleeful fingers would begin loading it with the ammunition of my choice, normally the first plastic rod I could lay my eyes on.

And just pound that thing with an arsenal of plastic! Drive stakes into the faux cement. Ensure its destruction. Each shot like an explosion from the barrel of a world war 2 battleship. Every blast ripping apart the exterior of the house of cards I had built for the sole purpose of destruction. If the weapon wasn't kinetically lethal enough, enhancements would be made, upgrading firepower, lethality and reloading speeds. Yes. I was a destructive child.

Punk'd.

Of course if I couldn't blow the thing up with my fusillade of plastic projectiles, I'd just walk over and Godzilla it to death. What's a child without an imagination having Godzilla in it?

Shucks, should have taken up engineering or something.

Jo

2010-06-08T09:22:00.001-07:00

Laughed until he cried. With a friend.

Three times.

Love days like this.

Darth Vader.

2010-06-07T01:42:00.000-07:00

I'm a fan of Star Wars. It's turned from something that dad used to watch on his first date with mom, to something relevant and ridiculously cool. Well, to me anyways. For instance, Adidas Originals with their Star Wars line of clothing and their advertisement featuring a tight Daft Punk's Vader's March remix. Makes you wanna drop it like Dee Vadah.

Darth Dog.

DV: Luke, I am yo daddy.

Luke: Fo' shizzle pa.

DV: Don't "fo' shizzle" me.

Both of them start to have a dance battle. Dee Vadah wows the crowd with his headspin.

One day, I shall own my very own death star, and rub it in the noses of every 40 year old kid who always wanted one. Then I'll head off to force Steve Jobs to give me my much deserved Ipad. And maybe a fifty dollar iTunes gift card while he's at it. I deserve the Ipad because I think its nice.

Here's the plan. Hijack Ikea and Microsoft. And force the suckers to make me some uber cool computer that combines Ikea's ergonomic sensibility with Microsoft's accessibility. I'll name it the Imic . I from Ikea and the Mic from Microsoft. Such a genius. Or name it the BILLY XP.

I'll make a whole aircraft carrier load of cash, and buy off the U.S government by somehow causing a run on the US dollar. With all my blingage in the bankage, I'll walk right up to Obama and demand he make Nasa build me a Death Star. If he doesn't, I'll bust a cap in his stimulus package, or whatever fiscal thing he's coming up with.

Once that's done, I'll force Stevie to give me a free Ipad. And that fifty dollar iTunes gift card.

Ranting aside. I need new shoes. I really want to get a shoe with a TIE fighter emblazoned on it but. Meh.

Aunty Rendang

2010-06-06T06:01:00.001-07:00

The awesome lady I buy my Saturday Curry Rendang from.

My assignment was due, I sincerely had nobody to interview for my descriptive essay. If I couldn't hand something up, all manner of indescribably doom would befall me. Suddenly, it hit me when I was walking about worriedly in my Uni Campus. Why not interview the nice, warm aunty who sells me that gloriously familiar curry rendang every saturday? And so I asked her while buying my SatCuRendang.

"Can I interview you ah mak cik?"

"Can, but now I very busy. Come back at 4pm"

"Alot of people interview you ah?"

"Got," she says.

Wow, apparently I wasn't the only one who wanted to interview this culinary superstar. I bet I wasn't the first Malaysian/Singaporean arts student looking around for someone to interview. Oh wells. She's an experienced interviewee, I knew I was in for entertaining times.

So I met her for the interview in her coffee store. It's homely, warm and comfortable, with shelves lined with magazine. "Please buy if you want to read." Heh. That's why I bring my own magazine on saturday mornings.

The interview was awesome. She's everything a Malaysian aunty is. And more. I ask questions while scribbling furiously with my pen on paper. It's as though I'm in some indie movie documenting the aunties who sell SatCuRendang! She tells me about her husband who's an engineer working in Sinagporean Airlines, about her farm (a FARM?) and her life back in Singapore.

Her personality mimics her store, its warm and disarming. She is charming, in an auntie sort of way.

"I am super wife!" she says when she's describing her life at home.

As the interview came to an end, her sister or friend or her I-dunno-who-she-is-cause-I-didn't-ask walks over to say goodbye. Yes, Australian businesses close at five.

Their goodbye is hilarious! "OKAY! BYE! PIUP PIUP PIUP PIUP!" (mimicking air kissing noises)

Awesome interview. Saved my butt too.

Holls Have

2010-06-02T06:57:00.000-07:00

Okay, they haven't arrived just yet. I still have one last assignment to do. But once it's done!

1) Have fun and look for friends.

2) Pick up new hobbeh.

3) Figure out what to do with myself.

4) Make this list longer.

I will be back!

Young Adi

2010-05-28T08:46:00.000-07:00

The air smelt fresh, clean and crisp. A young boy stepped into his stone bricked school brightened by the morning light that filtered through the windows. His friends took their places around him as the teacher exclaims in German, “Adi? How are you today?” The young boy smiles brightly at his teacher and takes his seat at a long pine table near the front of his class.

The boy’s face is open, oval and handsome. The young teacher has often mentioned to his parents in a greeting that he looks exactly like his mother. Perfect double eyelids frame his large eyes. His nose is sharp and straight, curving into a small mouth that tucked into his chin. His brunette hair, cut by his mother is combed forward, ruggedly framed his face. However, what the teacher considered most striking about young Adi was how his light blue eyes contrasted with his jet-black hair.

Today’s lesson is math, simple six-year-old math. The teacher scribbled each question on the black board. The town school with grey bricks is quiet except for pencils tapping on paper as the students marked down numbers. Adi’s bright blue eyes flicked to the board and back to the paper, tapping the answers out. He was done as always, before the rest of the class. A couple of jealous boys sneered ,”muttersohnchen.” This meant “mother’s boy” in German. The young teacher looked up from the attendance roll she was holding and smiled gently at Adi.

After school was over, Adi strolled back to his home with some friends; his brown shoes making small imprints on the dirt road. Adi’s little body looked quite poised clothed in a dark brown jacket, white shirt and black shorts. The little boys chatted happily in their Bavarian accents, distinguishable from the standard German with their rolling “r”. It was a healthily blue and beautiful afternoon in the town for Adi to have a little escape with his friends, but not today. Today he would have to help his father with some farming.

“Adolf!” his father Alois Sr. barked angrily at him when he saw his son coming up the dirt track.

“You little wretch, you are to be home sooner! I will beat you later!” Alois yelled, flinging his pitchfork to the ground. Adi was used to such threats from his authoritarian father who was sometimes drunk. The farm smelled of the freshly digested grass in cow manure mixed with the afternoon’s warmth. Adi tore of his jacket and flung it on a seat, running to his father’s orders. His father had beaten both him and his beloved mother before.

Adi grabbed the pitchfork resting on the mud and looked around to see his father’s broad back. He shot his father a quick, angry look before tossing the golden hay into a wooden wheelbarrow half his size. At the time, there was nothing else he could do. His brown shoes now dirty and muddy, young Hitler averted his gaze to the blue sky and wondered what the future might hold.

1 min 24 secs. Go.

2010-05-25T06:05:00.000-07:00

So my friend is coming over in a couple of minutes for to bring me to his house to settle something. ANd i've decided to make a blog post in the amount of minutes he takes to get to my house. That's about four to five minutes. I shall provide a discourse on my day.

My day started out awesomely and resplendently. With birds chirping in the air and the bees buzzing in the seas. That did not make sense.

I was skipping joyfully about my house when suddenly.

Three men in black masks completely suited for urban warfare burst through my window shattering the glass. They wipped out Mp5 sub machine guns and began to start catwalking up my hallway. Posing infront of me with their machine guns

An Apology

2010-05-21T18:21:00.000-07:00

Now it seems that every blog post begins with an apology. And for that I apologize profusely. As profusely as possible. Made possible by profuse apologies. Made possible by my profuse apologies made possible by my profuse apologies made possible by my prof...

Hee Hee.

Lately my life has been a seismic graph, very good times indeed,thrown in with a few bad ones. However, the vanilla flavored good times taste so much better after the wake up call of the coffee tasting bad ones. Truth be told, I am finding my joy in the Lord. I am finding my peace in him as well.

I am studying writing. Its just hit me that my career will one day have to do with writing. Sadly, I've begun to question the prestige of my degree. Surely something with a name that ends with a "sicist" or a "ology" sounds far better than "ter". However, I've realized that I only ever bothered with thinking about how prestigious my degree is because I wanted to show off.

Superficial?

Yes. I do agree.

But then again, writing is a love. Something I can zone out and do for at least two hours before having to get up, adjust the balance of my buttocks on my seat before deciding its time to deflate the bladder. At the moment, words, a google of them, are my color pencils to color the world I live in. To give vibrant colors to the parts that interest me. To color fill areas that make me happy with oranges and yellows. To darken pictures that scare me with greys and blacks. But I've realized I wouldn't write without an audience.

Hmm, I should probably blog more often.

Let Me.

2010-05-02T21:33:00.000-07:00

Let me get in your mind and paint a picture,

Let me, with clay, make you a sculpture

Let me touch, and make, and sew and thread.

With words an artpiece in your head.

Ultimate Morning Process (which I wanna have)

2010-04-19T20:41:00.000-07:00

Wake up at six.

Facebook about waking up at six.

Toilet to allow deflation of the bladder, accompanied by morning thunder.

Shower. A nice, warm, thorough scrub.

Teeth brushed, flossed. Face scrubbed, feeling very clean.

Quiet time.

Hair merged with a little wax. Deodorant or cologne sprayed on, depending on whom I'm meeting. Deodorant for men. Cologne for ladies.

Pick out clothes! If its cold, jeans with a shirt. Some socks and some shoes. Normally vans. If I feel like it, pants and slippers!

Downstairs for some breakfast!

Red beans heated, eggs fried.

Coffee made with coffee maker, mixed with milk to produce a welcoming latte.

Falling going back to sleep only to wake up at eleven.

Facebook about waking up at eleven.

Sleepy.

2010-04-18T02:01:00.000-07:00

Mine eyes are shutting. Quietly, slowly, deliberately. Demanding that I stop, demanding that I sleep. I refuse. There's work to be done.

There's posts to write, friends to chat with, friends to make. Scenes to enjoy, movies to watch. Assignments to be done. Lectures to attend.

There's things to become, things to move on from. Things to fight for, things to figure out. Time to grow. Time to know how to grow.

But this time, my the muscles around my eyes quietly soothe my mind with a gentle melody. A soft string ensemble choiring me to rest. I am tired, I want to give in. I want to fall asleep in a theatre with the ochestra of my senses lullabying me. Winking at me, smilling at me. Gently stroking my face, to sleep.

My bed beckons. Fresh smells. Familiar smells. The colors of beige, light blue and some yellow. The warm afternoon sun peeking cheekily through my window blinds. My pillow welcoming me. My blue blanket, delightfully cool as my legs rub against the fabric. My beige mattres sinking into my body. I turn my head to my clock, and give in to the lullaby.

I'm asleep.

Sat down. Wanna Study.

2010-04-12T23:27:00.000-07:00

The green cup on my table has drops of coffee stains all over one side of it. It looks happy, sort of pimpled with brown farts of caffeine speckled on it. Its half an hour to three, and I've done all I've needed to do. I've turned myself into a major hurricane and swept up my room, using the full entirety of my barometric power to throw bits and pieces of my room into order. I've turned myself into a Japanese industrial packaging machine kachunking my clothes into neat little squares. Stuffing my socks into amusing little balls.

Caffeine is cheekily floating through my veins dumping adrenaline and causing a complete mess of themselves. Floating on red rubber barges with their orchestral instruments while playing covers of disco pop as they cruise up and down my blood stream. No wonder my fingers are starting to shake.

Despite increasing efforts to keep my room in shape, atrophy steps in every five minutes, giving my possessions a hi five and proceeding to have a dance battle. My books get thrown about, my pens somehow lodged in never before seen places. My handphone somehow manages to grow itself little Nokia legs and do the boogie before running off into a fold of a shirt somewhere in my room. The plugs and power points stare blankly at me as though saying," we could help you if we wanted to but we're inanimate objects." Wonderful help they are.

Regardless! My room is clean, I just drank mah coffee and I need to study. Now to look for someone to study with!

Wanted.

2010-04-10T02:03:00.000-07:00

Sunlight, fresh air and unicorn sprinkles of love. What more could I possibly ask for? Apparently quite a couple of things. However, it must be noted that these are things I want. Having the cash and blessing to get them, I believe I'd rather just save and buy some book sitting on some shelf with a catchy title and a preposterous name. But I really want them!

1) Nissan GT-R

Sigh....

The Nissan GT-R was made with cornering and handling in mind. That said, it still goes at the speed of insane fury, making jet fighter sounds at high speed turns. Fury also made the fastest speed record for a production car at the Nurburgring circuit. Modeled and shaped for a more masculine look instead of the usual European blonde stylings, it is boxy, yet somehow; stunningly beautiful. And because it performs so well, it politely samurais the Porche 911 Turbo as one of the world's best production supercars. And costs less.

2) Aviators.

These look fashionably revelant. First, these shades were made for World War 2 airmen by RayBans. The distinctively tear dropped shades were crafted so they could fit perfectly into the flight goggles the airforce pilots wore. And because they allowed sun and glare protection, military pilots had visual advantages in day missions and dogfights.

They hit public fame when General Douglas MacArthur walked onto the Phillipine Beach during the Allies' Pacific campaign wearing aviators. MacArthur then gritted his teeth and gave the I-look-as-cool-as-beans look and the military paparazzi went crazy! Lady Gaga what? The American public went wild with them and so did the rest of the world.

3)RISK. The game of global domination.

Since I can't conquer the world. I'll settle for the game. But it's so expensive!!

Not only is it an awesome game, it was grounbreaking at the time it was invented. Made by a French film maker Albert Lamorrisey ( who that?) it was the most cutting edge production boardgame of its time.

The prototype RISK boardgame was fitted with pseudo guided missiles, tractor beams and robot controlled machine guns. The Hasbro board deemed it too dangerous (SISSIES) and decided to use plastic pieces instead.

I've realized now I've run out of things that I want so frivolously. Or maybe its the assignments calling out my name. Regardless, take note, these are things I WANT. Not NEED. But sigh... I really want them.

Violin

2010-04-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

I remember walking into my violin teacher's house at night with my parents. We were looking for a new violin because my old one was a little too old. I seriously loved that old violin though, it had the warmest sound, and the gentlest nature and was as as forgiving as the nice girl in class who used to lend you her only eraser. But somehow, it just didn't let you express what you wanted to. It was that, gentle, forgiving and soft. I needed a new violin, those grade fives ain't easy.

I battered my persuasive eyelashes at my parents, willing them somehow into providing me a new violin. However, their breaking point came when I finally passed my grade five and my teacher commented, the kid needs a new violin.

Mr Boey, I (masculine version of hearts) you much.

I sat down in my teacher's home. There were five newly crafted violins, never played for more than an hour by anyone. Each with their own distinct sound, appearance and smell. Yes, smell. Every violin has a sort of oaksy scent, though its made from maple. It smells wooden, organic, living, inviting you to pull a bow across its strings. So I did.

Across each of them I pulled my teacher's bow, a five thousand dollar stick with horsehair. Each unique in its own way, having been handcrafted in China. Thing about China is that, they normally export their violins over to luthiers Europe to have them fine tuned, normally to have a little engraving on the scroll of the violin, and to stick their english brands and an extra thousand dollar price on what was a cheaper violin.

Mine was straight from China, raw with minute chips in its outlines and slight mistakes in its varnish.

I tried every violin, not sure what I was looking for because I played my older, darker violin. I opened the last violin case and the first thing I noticed was how brightly orange the violin was. it has a diamond shaped splatch of darker orange on its back and brownish tiger stripes all over. As I drew a note, the first sounds were brash, loud and piercing. Like a lady dressed in a red dress screaming obscenities. Regardless, I played through, running through a scale. It was difficult to play because the strings were positioned further from the the fretboard.

But it was so vivacious! Resonant and vibrant! It could run from this end to that end, screaming rogue pitches whenever you didn't pay attention. The sound was pure, beautiful in no ways subtle, unless you tried very hard for it to be.

I didn't like it.

But my parents did and so did my teacher, thing was, it was so different from my old violin. Like a demure next door girl traded for a loud, brash, vivacious 19 year old. I was terrified.

Joseph, I think you better just go get this violin. And I got it after some uhhhs and ahhhss...

Having written this, my orangy violin is still with me. Mellowed down and warmer but and still brash as fury. Still difficult to play. It's lying there in my closet leaning on my suitcases. After three years, and alot of learning, I still take it out to play whenever I'm stressed or in need of a pick me up. Thing is, I gradually realised that it's sound was indeed beautiful. But I didn't know because i was so used to my old violin.

One day, switching back to my old violin, the sound was warm, as usual. But so boring and dry. So lacking in expression. Then I realised, that I liked my new violin.

Discalimer: The writer only has a passing grade for grade five and is in no ways pro at the violin.

Feels Like..

2010-04-02T08:20:00.000-07:00

Huge apologies for not updating.

Life has been a whirlwind, ending with me so thankful, yet thirsty for more.

I've realized what an idiot I've been, yet still agonizing over decisions I've made.

I make my bed each morning, clean my dishes, wash my clothes, fold them when their done.

Eat indo mee when I couldn't be bothered to cook.

I feel like I've got so much to learn, I don't know where to start.

I feel like a little kid looking at the stars, trying to learn how to be the sky.

Slowly larh. Hee hee.

Bucket List. (so far)

2010-03-18T21:14:00.000-07:00

Be a best man.

Have an air hockey table in my room.

Should've Been a Theoretical Physicist.

2010-03-17T07:14:00.000-07:00

Me: Copywriters work like dogs for the first two years at like 2,000 rm. Then after that they can earn like THREE TIMES MORE THAT MONEY IN FIVE YEARS!!

Nov: WHAT?! THAT'S LITTLE LARH. SIX K ONLI?!

Me: deflate.

They Said...

2010-03-11T20:14:00.001-08:00

Art students are underachievers.

Bullocks and Walrus.

Jo read the Abc, and the West Australian every single day and scored 4.5 out of ten for his weekly current affairs quiz.

His Ozzy classmate read the West Australian two days before the test and scored 7.

Wha?

The Battle Cry

2010-03-10T21:31:00.000-08:00

Never in the face of human endeavor has so much been undertaken by one man. Often, when challenges comes a knocking, fear rears its ugly head and attempts to smooch you all over. Regardless, I fling the doors of my ability wide open to the bane of gastronomic sensibility.

The challenge was this. Beef Rendang.

Often, in culinary circles, cooks are allowed to walk through the stages of heurism. However, as this is pretty much an I-leap-out-of-without-parachute-moment, caution will be flung to the wind and I will attempt to make rendang for my cell group. It shall be my first try.

As such, I called my fellow cell grouper whose known for her culinary expertise to ask her what to do. (She has a boyfriend my 20 something friends. And he has a Phd in engineering so yes, he can build a deathray if you try anything funny).

Jo: Hey Angie! How do you make beef rendang?

Angie: Ha? You want to make rendang? That's the most difficult of all of them you know?

Jo: Issit? I thought just buy paste?

Angie: You have to go fry $%^& with $%^& then after that #$%^& and #$%^& then #$%^&(&*%&^%&^%&^%(&^%*%^&%^&%&^%^$%^$*^*&*&*& booya! Rendang.

Jo: Never in the face of human endeavor has so much been underta...

Heurism- trial and error! Took me a whole day to memorize that. I feel quite pleased.

Anti Christ*

2010-03-08T18:20:00.000-08:00

At night, getting ready for bed, I was pondering about something. It wasn't one of those things you think about before you get to bed, but something out of place. A thought brought about by a tired mind. I was wondering who the anti Christ might be. Getting into bed and pulling down the lid of my laptop, it struck me.

I've realised who it might be.

The Garden of Eden.

The tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

The fruit.

That bite.

The first sin.

Is it obvious now?

Could Steve Jobs be the anti - Christ?

The apple logo, stamped on every apple device. Staring at us from every macbook. Watching us being unaware that it might be a symbol of something more sinister and dark. We just didn't realise. Be wary.

*purely satirical.

I stand And Shine!

2010-02-25T21:23:00.000-08:00

Lamposts stand and shine.

Lamposting is an art in which every social wingman must excel at. It is the techniques of stealth is married with the science of psychology creating a purely new discipline Lamposting is whatever happens when a friends invites you out with him and one of the opposite sex. This arrangement often promises that the couple, though for all intents and purposes are a couple; however, because of the lampost's presence, can plausibly deny being a couple! After all, three is a crowd.

Go back and read the paragraph again if you don't get it.

Now that we've got the legalistic hogwash out of the way, there are many rules one must follow towards being a professional lampost. Now you might wonder why is this socially awkward nerd trying to teach me how to be a lampost. Fear not, for I Joseph Wong, have all the training in the world to correctly guide you. When my brother's of spiritual relational bond had no one to turn to, they came calling me. I, through raging sun or shattering cold rallied to their aid regardless of personal interest. As such, my knowledge of how to be a lampost should therefore be sufficient. Or they somehow managed to get girlfriends all by themselves which might acutally be a more likely story.

Rule 1) Do not kill steal. This is the first rule of lamposting. As a lampost, you are supposed to grow and nurture a relationship between your two friends; not cutting off one and talking too much to the other. Hijacking the romantic relationship and forcing the girl to listen to you alone is a big no no. Do it and risk the girl falling in love with you and losing your guy friend to an abyss of hatred. This rule is also known as "do not spanar".

Rule 2) Try to keep your talking down to a minimum. Remember, your opinions are worhless, your wingman's opinions however, are as sacred as though they were carved in the heart of the statue of liberty.

Rule 3) If your wingman happens to be incompetent and lets the social exchange dissolve into terrifying awardness, be prepared to intercept the silence with a well timed comment your wingman's achievements. Or if your wingman is decidedly the humble stumble type, as the lady a question about her achievements or likes instead. Whatever would keep the conversation going.

Rule 4) Remember, the night or the outing is not about you, its about the two people your going out with. Therefore, never steal the spotlight. Instead, you should yourself be the stage light instead, allowing your two friends to shine, greatly illuminating each other's lives!

Rule 5) When you sense that they are essentially comfortable with eah other and the chemistry is sizzling between them. Ie. they are laughing and smilling and generally chatting with each other. I's time to pull back, walk five steps infront of them, or five steps behind them. Generally, one should walk behind as both your targets so they do not have to question what you're doing walking all by yourself.

Rule 6) If you sense that your presence might be keeping them from a breakthrough whithin their relationship. For instance, if your wingman would like to say something to her probably out of your earshot, for goodness sake! Go pee! Toilet breaks are excellent ways to leave the couple alone. This should also be done when the said couple are chatting quite sociably with each other. A little like stepping back to watch the flowers bloom.

A couple of ways to leave the couple alone without generating too much attnetion:

"eh I need to go pee"

"lemme go buy ticket for you"

"Wah! New video game! I need to go see!"

"An injustice is happening before me! I must intervene!"

"I need to go read book."

"Eh I go look for food."

So on and so forth.

Rules in the universal guide of lamposting writen in the annals of society will always be changed in relation to the culture of the seasons. However, be on the ball and take note of some of these techniques. Take note and indeed, steer your friends into the port of love.

Sitrep! (Situation Report)

2010-02-24T18:55:00.000-08:00

Apologies are due!

Due to my inherent lack of ability to work the university's internet system without somehow logging out and or crashing the demented thing, internet connection has been a vastly rare thing. Not to mention a lack of promised internet connection in my new house. Thusly (who on earth uses the word thusly? Sheldon?) updates have come slowly and aggravatingly!

My conscience bears down heavily.

Well, my degree has been finalized, I am now taking, a Bachelor of Arts majoring in.

May the snare drums roar!

Professional Writing

and

Creative Writing

Let me give you a short explanation to save you from having to listen to my lenghtly speech on what it is. Professional writing is pretty much writing for industry, for advertisment and such. It is sort of the more industry orientated form of writing. Mostly persuasive writing to sell stuff. Creative writing is the flowery stuff that Jk Rowling and Doctor Seuss does. In short, the creative writers write the book, the professional writers write the cover.

Wonder what life would be like if I were a molecular astrophysicist.

After touching down in Australia, I must admit, I do feel slightly lost, however the presence of church friends and old friends never does cease to cheer me up. The flight here was actually quite pleasant other than that torture device they call a seat. Goodness, if you could somehow pay extra and get Mr Asia to upgrade your seats to something more comfy I honestly wouldn't mind splurging an extra dollar or two. But thanks to a book, and a lack of babies with miniature sonic boom transmitters, I was fine!

Honestly, I'm a tad bit wary and afraid of the whole university experience. Not to mention the nature of the degree I'm taking. Professional and Creative writing may be an experience that I seems tailored to suit me. However after checking the work some students in my discipline have done, I fear for myself because I have no clue about what they're writing!

For instance.

Poetry, the sewing of words and their connotations to form coherent and suggested beauty. I have no clue what it's about. It is the complete bane of my existence, how could I tell that the poet is trying to talk about the moral dilemma of this world when he's talking about teddy bears dipped in oil? Nonsense.

Not to mention my apparent inability to write a non cheesy romance story. Don't judge me! The only experience I was reading Archie Comic books and watching comedy romance movies. Problems arising? Not if I can gaze into your sweet limpid, pools you call eyeballs.

Also I fear that perhaps my future might not be as secure than if I had chosen to do something more established, let's say a law degree made a life altering decision to take on a degree in theoretical physics. Not likely, but its nice to wonder.

Honestly, as this stage in time, I feel like I'm in a little rubber dinghy in a huge ocean with many islands and continents. All I have, a little wooden paddle to go where I think looks good. Looks intimidating, feels scary but oh, so full of excitement and hopefulness. Its also extremely comforting to have a God Positioning System in my lil boat. (your eyeball's rolling be stopped)

Right now though, I think my little rubber dinghy is a hungry. Paddling off for lunch!

Till Next time.

T - Shirt Signs I'd Wear.

2010-01-19T09:47:00.000-08:00

Reinforcements have Arrived.

We Need Backup!

Shmuck!

Your T shirt Sign Sucks.

Pi is Pie

Be my friend.

Ookie Bookie!

My other shirt is Witty-er.

Eye Lub U Luts!

I Love Coffee.

My Degree is Cooler than your Degree.

For The Wantan

You look Nice Today.

Right Back At You.

Things to Do other Than Cyber Coffees.

2010-01-07T17:35:00.000-08:00

Normally, I would have better and more simulating things to do other than shooting clear through hordes of zombies with a band a brothers. Or leading a column of armored tanks into an alien base to blow up their extraterrestrial butts. However, considering I haven't been near a cyber cafe for the last 8 months, it feels like I have rediscovered the magic of gaming in a glorified office with three to four like minded chaps.

I marvel at bassy boom of sounds, the colorful language, the true attitudes and characters of men showing clearly. Ladies, a word to the wise from the foolish. If you want to discover the true character of your significant other, video tape him in the cyber cafe. For truly, the cyber cafe is a place where leaders are born, cool thinkers discovered and strategists practise.

However, according to a dear friend of mine who has the near super human ability to play the guitar and talk on the phone at the same time, cyber caffe -ing is boring, and I should do something else. Before I mutate into a geek slob without any hope for a future.

So I have come up with a list.

1) Go go-karting in USJ, because nothing else says you're fun and cool better than driving around in mini death traps.

2) Grab coffee in an exotic location with people who love to chat and drink coffee! I especially need people who love to chat because I might run out of things to say. However, as coffee is the fuel of intelligence, that might not happen.

3) Movie marathons. Movie marathons and pizza, come to think of it, why didn't I do this sooner?

4) Due to surplus amounts of geekdom and nerdiness in my brains, I really can't think of anything else to do that's cool. But fear not! I shall think of something!

Convoes With Daryl

2010-01-07T17:19:00.000-08:00

Daryl: hey man, happy birthday.

Jo: Haha, thanks man.

Social Studies Example: awkward manly silence because guys don't normally chat over the phone.

Daryl: So what you doing now?

Jo: Just came back from the cyber cafe. Hee hee.

Daryl: Wah, your whole life revolve around cyber cafe ah! Whole world cyber cafe issit!?

Jo: Wah! Don't be like that larh! No cyber then do what!?

Daryl: ....

Jo: NOTHING TO SAY AH! WHY GOT HESITATION! SO THERE'S NOTHING TO DO ISSIT!?

Daryl: Aiyah you just go play your cyber larh! Go play larh! We go out whole day play cyber

okay!?

Jo: WAH LIAO!

Constellations.

2010-01-03T21:34:00.000-08:00

Shards of diamonds littered throughout the sky, like petals of flowers wilted from the gardens of heaven. Clouds of sparkling goodness, mysteriously creating lofty symbols and pictures of greek gods and roman goddesses. Truly, the cascading hair of beauties mire the sky with drops of perfection. Most declare fervently that these nocturnal speckles of goodness are their sources of inspiration.

PFFT BUTTOCK STARS.

For one, living in a city that's designed after a female's brain, star's are simply as blocked out as though non existent. Thanks to the comfortably polluted air in Kuala Lumpur, many are hard pressed to see even a firefly much a less a star.

Perhaps even if there were stars, twinkling in their arrogant goodness, how on earth do people derive inspiration from them? Its not as if we could crack open a star as though a fortune cookie. True, the little farts in the sky might be beautiful as they are, and I do understand that some brighter individuals than I might derive their meaning from these balls of gas; but I simply can't.

Lately, I have been out of inspiration, for about a day, and wondered if my source of revelation could come from the stars; however, tough luck. All they do is laze around, barely pulling their weight in the mass of black, thinking that the planets revolve around them. Pouty arrogant balls of gas, and mind you, that's exactly what they are, balls of gas, nothing solid, nothing firm, completely lacking any back bone.

Perhaps I'm just bitter those blasted shards of sky poop aren't inspiring me.

HMS Resolute

2009-12-31T08:52:00.001-08:00

I fear resolution. I've in fact given it a better name, the HMS Resolute. I fear resolutions so much i've given them the name of a fearsome empire ship of the line. The reason I fear HMS Resolute is that if I do not keep my new year's resolutions, her majesty's ship with its rows of high calibre guns blasts my integrity and projected self-worth into nothingness. Splintering and sinking the dinghy of my soul into Davy Jones putrid locker.

Thing about resolutions is that they are problematically hard to keep.

I love new years resolutions though they may frighten me. On the last day of every new year, I can't help but to wonder about how I would be like on the same day, the same time only a year later. What would I be? An image plays about, formated like the beginning of Sims 3 where I get to choose muscle build, talents and all manner of things that would otherwise take about a decade to develop in real life. However, how marvelous to imagine! It's as if the beginning of Sims 3 is right on that piece of paper, with whatever I want to write on it happening to me next year. Therefore, I write resolutions.

Soon, I have for myself, a mouth wateringly grecian god like build, the ability to play any instrument like Mozart and Hendrix's monster child and the ability to woo even Jessica Alba from John Mayer's grubby hands.

Of course I completely forget that these things take discipline and a whole array of other character traits in order to bring them to pass.

Deceivingly simple these stealthy phrases of moralities are bouncing about in our head. Without another thought they flow from mind to arm to finger. To pen then to paper. There we have it, another resolution, written on a paper, a deceptive phrase promising all kinds of good things. Such as the ability to acquire a mate at a quickened pace, or to be able to become a artisan of such talent.

But simply such things do not simply happened at the speed of pen, they happen over a period of many months, day in day out of constant patience, practice, study and discipline. I might as well have replaced practice, study and discipline with all manner of more un-luxuriously vulgar language. There they are, the cannons of HMS Resolute, volleying their vulgarities at my noble moralities. It can be tiring.

But, the human spirit is made of something a lot tougher than mere skin and bones, it is made of indestructible spirit. After all, your hands can't hit what your eyes can't see. Perhaps, then, my fortress will stand in the face of HMS Resolute and her hated guns.

Apologies

2009-12-30T07:56:00.000-08:00

Daryl: Sigh, I haven't update my blog for so long...

Jo: Me too man...

Jo: Must be the holidays.

Daryl: Yah larh... too lazy to update during holidays.

I apologise for not blogging

Because I've been holidaying.

Been gaming and napping.

Penang and travelling.

With friends just hanging.

At church doing some helping.

And doing glorious nothing.

Hope you'll forgive me.

I know you will.

But I'm back at blogging.

ing ing ing ing ing.

2009-12-20T05:39:00.000-08:00

Daryl Is SO SO SO SO awesome! He rocks socks !!

okay.makan time,

Fascinating Feminine

2009-12-11T17:56:00.001-08:00

Women are all fascinating creatures. So scientifically similar yet so irreconcilably different from the male species. The fact remains true that the way female minds work is so astoundingly different that one might as well try to plant an oil tanker in the genetic divide. Females are perturbingly astounding.

I tried to figure out a girl once, and I realized, you must be ready to sell your soul in order to please one. Also, one must abandon all sense of self, ripping your ego out of your spine and tearing it into bite sized little pieces to be consumed by the female you're trying to please. Miht as well rip out your spine while I'm at it. Therefore, the experiment begins.

Waking up in the morning, I grabbed a razor blade and started cutting out my spine. After so doing, ranting and raving at myself while listening to a de motivational tape on a loop. After washing up (cause girls like hygiene). I went out to see that lady. She looked at me as though a hungry Appalachian Snow Tiger about to pounce on an Appalachian Snow Rabbit.

"I don't like spineless men."

"WHAT!"

Girls. Who can figure them out.

I never could, so I never really talked to them. Especially since I despise ripping out my spine in the most grotesque way possible, I never did whatever was in the last few paragraphs. However, that was what would probably happen. Had I found pain physically feasible.

Go AWAY!

2009-12-11T17:56:00.000-08:00

2009-12-05T06:55:00.000-08:00

Jeremy was here...

jo is emo-ing because ... the girl he was eye-ing is taken -.-

Quotes of Quintilescence (yes I made up that word)

2009-11-25T07:13:00.000-08:00

"Get a life!" History lecturer when asked about watching television.

"hee hee, yeah, south park is funny" History lecturer when being asked about South Park.

"I had a life, I had a girlfriend." History lecturer when asked about his life.

"After studying I got up and beat up my brothers, they needed it anyways." History lecturer when asked about what to do during study breaks.

"oh my gosh, *bangs head on whiteboard." History lecturer when told about kids who inhaled their feces for a drug like high.

"oh please, just make it stop." History lecturer when faced with a macbook's Expose.

Signs of Exam Stress.

2009-11-08T23:16:00.000-08:00

1) Nosebleeds. I kid you not, I had a nosebleed before my history test. Or maybe because I rubbed my nose too often.

2)Rubbing your nose too often.

3) Making odd sounds involuntarily. (Daaa yaaa, Rar rar, Hurk lalalallaa!)

4) Being addicted to the pain caused by exams.

5) Foul language. (shmuck, Yaargh, buttocks, backside, nen nen, butt head, butt brain, boob face, virago)

6) Waking up in cold sweat.

7) Writing letters of apology to parents.

8) Crying.

9) Making a spider a pet and naming it Mike.

10) Killing your pet spider with a vacuum cleaner.

11) Finding his mom next to your sink.

12) Killing his mom with a vacuum cleaner.

13) Falling into the dark side.

14) Naming yourself Darth Wing.

15) Crying

16) Hitting on your housemates

17) Getting hit by your housemates

18) Trying to kill yourself with too much indo mee.

19) Singing Barney's "I love you" again and again.

20) Singing Veggie Tales.

21) Making deals with God.

22) Drinking far too much coffee.

23) Bless your hearts.

OMG

2009-10-31T00:13:00.000-07:00

MISHIE WORE A DRESS.

and looked very nice in it.

Saya Ber Emo.

2009-10-28T08:31:00.000-07:00

Well, I am emoting. Whenever I stumble across some highly emotional blogs, I constantly wonder how on the deepest, darkest night can this person possibly go on with life? Every sad little post is a small miracle telling us the depressed person on the other side of the internet hasn't slit his wrists with his eyeliner.

Or stabbed himself with his black color pencils.

Or drowned in his black nail polish.

Or his tears.

Then I realized.

Emo blogs and emo posts only come to existence when normal people are emo. As such, three emo posts in a month could mean the writer could only be emotional three days of the month. What a discovery! With that gauge in mind, measure the amount of times an emo writer blogs, as the result should give you an estimation of how many times he or she feels under the weather. If its merely three to four times a month, you have a particularly joyful creature who gets depressive whenever monday roles around, not a emo shleemo.

Personally I endure emotional ups and downs religiously and fanatically. If I was a woman, I would be pregnant with an entire college of art students. Due to my blessed personality I would be from one euphoric extreme to the other groveling extreme. From the soaring heights of mount everest to the disemboweling depths of the Sarlacc. All within a single hour. This leaves me absolutely no time to blog about my emoness.

However, I do emo.

I emo very well in fact.

I shall now write a poem about my emoness. *ahem*

I hate myself

the passing pall of infant sorrow

I hate myself

oh the woe of dastardly tomorrow

I hate you

go and die now

I hate you

you ugly old cow

I hate the world

for making me cry

I hate the world

oh sigh oh sigh.

PIZZA DELIVERY IS HERE!! YAY!!! WOO!!

*Please do forgive me if I've trodden on emo sensibilities. I mean no insult. A blog is your own to express your own opinions. Unless those opinions are rude and vulgar.

Knees On Floor.

2009-10-26T08:41:00.000-07:00

An impending execution is something most would prefer not to go through. Many in fact would find the prospect of having one's neck divided by a cold metal axe a grotesque and fearsome experience.

Once, a long time ago. More specifically, after the English renaissance during a time of noble pomp and poor squalor; children where hung or beheaded for certain offenses such as stealing handkerchiefs or stealing fruit. As time went by, these considerably inhumane rites were replaced by more humane but no less fearsome procedures and processes. The rough rope of the hangman's noose were replaced by Computer Science and the executioner's axe by Economics.

Whosoever says they simply enjoy going through the process of an execution are merely putting on shows of bravado. Such acts were often performed by military men who desired to end in the most legendary way possible by smiling at the face of death or laughing before being pulled apart by horses. Indeed, such displays were exceptionally rousing especially for mere mortals such as I. However, they all met with the same an equal fate, the examination/execution.

So there I was, in front of the examination hall awaiting my exams just three weeks ago. At present time, I've just received my scores.

Before taking this examination, I knew first and foremost that I was a complete dolt. An intelligent dolt though. At the beginning of the year, I did very well receiving mostly A's and B's. I asked God for help every morning and begged him for mercy every time before a test. I normally placed around the top three to five in my classes. For history, I was the first place overall. Then I got cocky. Now, cockiness doesn't work out very well, especially when God is the recipient of your cockiness, after all; He has a knack of putting dolts where they belong.

My marks began a steep and unhappy decline. Its not my fault though, Youtube was as ensnaring as it was bewitching! Moreover to be fair, my housemate often asked me to wash insurmountable amounts of brown dishes sticky with all manner of yellow filth. Never did study much. After all, I was doing well.

My averages fell. From being normally in the top three in my class, I fell to the average and sometimes below. In my college, an average score is the death warrant, calling for a slow and ugly death. An average was normally a failing mark, equivalent to having your heart dug out by a evil little girl wielding a small pink spoon.

The biggest blow was when I received my economic mark. 42%

I quietly walked to my room and switched off the lights. I found the darkest spot in my room which was in my closest and just kneeled as low as I could possibly go. I put my face to the carpet and begged God for help and mercy. Especially for forgiveness for being such an arrogant teenager. A two weeks before executions began

So during the weeks nearing examinations, I begged God for his mercy and his help. I asked family and friends to pray for me. As well as his forgiveness for being such a rotting piece of dried breast meat in my house's fridge. I studied hard, asking God for his mercy each morning.

God is faithful, help me he did. Though my scores may not seem like much, they are tremendous improvements. Today, after receiving my scores, and receiving some attention in the form of,"Wah... you ah joseph," or "not bad not bad." I couldn't help but to realize that it was because of God. I reread my papers and though the scores were passes and B's, they were such improvements couldn't help but to sit at my desk befuddled; realizing God was faithful, though I was not.

My computer Science score was 65.5 % with the teacher writing "very good" next to the score. This test was incredibly difficult as acknowledged by the examiner and the teachers in charge of the computer department. Most students failed. The average overall was about 30-40 % or around there for that particular exam.

My history was 78 %. Though I had slid from first place to third, I worship God as this was a good score. 78 % is an A grade.

My economics was a 63 %. This was an incredible improvement as my last economics examination was only 43 %.

My English and Australian Cultural Studies score was 76 %. Again, most had failed this exam. This was indeed a terribly difficult exam as most had gotten marks that were far below their earlier scores. My marks actually rose from a mere 50 % for my last test; to 76% which was the top of my class for that particular exam. God is amazing.

I thank God for my semester 2 exams. I've come to realize over the past few weeks that whatever I achieve, I achieve for God and through God. As God has given me a sound mind to think, a heart to discern and two lungs to breathe, I cannot do anything without him. With my own hands, I cannot lift myself. Try lifting yourself with by pulling on your toes; its an impossible exercise. In God's hands however, I am lifted. Lifted by God's mercy.

Now for round 2.

I Heart Fashion

2009-10-24T07:07:00.000-07:00

When I was young, my mother arranged for me to have an examination on fashion, which was not the strongest of my subjects. It all began when my family noticed the unhappy symptoms of fashion retardation, such as matching garish green with giggly pink and not wearing socks with my shoes. For such eyesore and abrasive matters my parents could still endure. However, the final blow came when they found me sporting pridefully, an uber cool Ultra Man wallet which was the equivalent of committing fashion suicide by hanging myself with dental floss.

I was ordered to sit for an Fashion Intelligence Determination Exam. Or FIDE for short.

I studied for the test as hard as I possible so I could retain a place in society among the fashionably sane. I read up on Yves Saint Vuitton; garnishing my mind with the knowledge that YSL was a homosexual male who received much hazing in the French military for being artsy fartsy. Also, I researched a fair bit on the cut of jeans among other things. All of which was as fascinating to me as reading up on military hardware. Though I had indeed done the studying, I poignantly realised that fashion needed a certain amount of genius and flare, which I simply did not posses due to some freak genetic missalignment.

I sat there in the exam room doubled as a dressing room in MNG Malaysia. Worriedly, I clutched the pencil with my cold and clammy hands and pinched open the leather embossed exam paper.

I stared blankly at the questions. And tried to answer them of course.

Q) A pair of skinny jeans would go well with which top?

a)topless

b)Some odd top which has a frenchie sounding name

c)I dunno

d) T-Shirt.

A) c

Q) Examine and Discuss the artistic attributes of the Paris/Milan Haute Couture show of 2007 and its achievements.

A) The Paris/Milan Haute Couture show was stylish and stuff cause it had clothes that were nice.

Q) Compare and contrast the impact of the Calvin Klein Jeans line with its UnderGarment line.

A) They were from the same company but the undergarments had to go under the jeans and were therefore different in that extent.

At about question 4 of 50, I proceeded to squirt blood through my eyeballs. Screaming, I tore across MNG's flagship store, chaotically spraying blood all over their white-themed Spring/Summer collection.

Needless to say, I was yanked out of the examination by a rather stylishly dressed guard and posthumously labeled a complete and utter dunce of fashion. Also, in another category of fashion infamy, was labeled as the Malaysian to ever receive the lowest mark in FIDE. Only second to the fanatic masses who religiously frequent Sungei Wang and its blasphemous worship of sharply contrasting colors and lace.

As such, Megan Fox flew down from Hollywood to personally award me a medal and a kiss on the cheek. Yay!

Yum.

2009-10-21T03:07:00.000-07:00

Things I love.

2009-09-25T23:28:00.000-07:00

Playing my violin to de - stress. (my poor housemates).

Listening to Paramore's Decode. Outstanding. Love that song. Hayley Williams is hot.

Goodness, what a voice from a petite frame! I was thinking of a Battleship Artillery Fire from a pistol!

Doing my laundry.

Screaming like a little girl.

Reading Magazines. (Rolling Stones, GQ, Time and Men's Health. And a little Cleo whenever my self respect sinks to dangerous levels)

Walking about my room making mock speeches about topic that interest me. (I feel like I've shown you my underpants)

Hoarding unwashed dishes in my room.

Cleaning my room once a week.

Instant Noodles and Fried Dace Fish with Salty black beans!

Nike Shoes.

2009-09-22T04:45:00.000-07:00

I remember when I got my first pair of branded shoes.

They were Nike Basketball shoes. I remember the look on my dad's face when I asked for them. He looked at my mom with that look and said,"sigh, give him la."

And I got my first pair of Nikes.

I remember being so proud of them. They were sleek and black, with a silver lining from front to back. They had special shoelaces which never untied themselves. I remember developing a habit of looking down at my shoes whenever I walked so I was perpetually looking down at the ground.

They were on my 15 year old feet and I had no idea how to play basket ball and wasn't an athlete of any sort. But the shoe was made for an athlete, or a sportsman, but there it was. Stuck on my feet.

I can't remember what I was writing about.

My Condolences

2009-09-19T10:21:00.000-07:00

Hey man... I heard what happened. I remember your dad. He was giving me and Jeremy a lecture about something deep; I don't exactly recall what cause I simply wasn't interested in theistic theories at that age. But I do remember this, I was dang happy when he brought us to dinner at Burger King's.

He said, what did you guys want to eat? I immediately looked at Jeremy and said, "dude, burger kings."

You asked your dad if we could eat burger kings. Uncle didn't particularly like Burger Kings and far prefered Chinese food like all chinese father's do; but he still brought us to BK. I fondly remember the free burger I inhaled under 5 minutes.

Sigh... Its times like these even the most eloquent of men find that they don't know what to say. Its moments like these the best writers can't think of anything to pen.

I could say, I'm sorry. But its just so shallow.

I could say, He's with the Lord. But he's not here with you.

I could say, Be strong. But, if that happened to me, I would be destroyed.

I could say, Time heals. But it still hasn't healed.

I could say, I know your pain. But I don't.

But I will say this. Whatever capacity I have in my heart to feel your pain. I feel it. As much as I can possibly share your suffering, I share it.

Jon, as much as I know what you're going through is unimaginable; indescribable. But, have no doubt, that your friends would willingly share your pain if they could. Were here. God's here.

When words from humans are useless, God speaks to you.

When comfort from humans offer no solace, God comforts you.

Take care.

Discovery.

2009-09-18T00:41:00.000-07:00

One of the most helpful things i've heard this year was this.

"you don't like the way your life is, change your life."

Simple as that.

Thing is, there's always the big black dog that keeps you on a leash with a spiked collar. Constantly digging into your flesh. You try to pull it off, another spike digs deeper.

Procrastination is that big black blog. I've named it Buttock Face.

Thing about it is, whenever, a you say that you're gonna drag it off, its always in future tense.

What I mean is, it's always.

I'm gonna deal with procrastination. Gonna.

I have to deal with procrastination. Have to.

I'll deal with procrastination tomorrow. Tomorrow.

I'll have to deal with it soon. Soon.

I'm going to deal with procrastination now. Going to.

Its never," I am dealing with procrastination."

I'm dealing with procrastination.

But I'm sleepy.

Magnon.

2009-09-14T09:44:00.000-07:00

I read somewhere that liberated women of today are succesful. They are wonderful, incredibly intelligent, vicious, smart and ferocious. They get what they want. And if you're in the way of what they want; you better get out of the way. They (refer to the blog post below). And yet, somehow, they are still women.

Remember, I read this somewhere. Being a woman, there's a sweltering need to bathe themselves in the full glory of a man's carnal sweat. The smell of ferocious musk and that satisfyingly sexy stench. Steaming puddles of perspiration welling up in the ridges of his muscles. His hair greasy and black with man oil. The stuff that moves even the sturdiest hearts. They adore the deep barrely voice of a dirty man's lips. The ocean trembling roar of a man's sneeze.

Face it ladies. You like Cro Magnon Man.

Cause Cosmopolitan says so.

I think that's where I read it from. Or was it GQ? Hmm....

No Place For Woman!

2009-09-12T01:07:00.000-07:00

The kitchen is no place for a woman!

Feminists are fearsome creatures. In fact, they were always the crack battalion of troops of ancient civilizations. They could run, jump, kill, batter their eyelashes and decimate all who stood in their way. If the legions and cohorts of men armed up to their eyeballs found themselves in a a desperate situation, a desperate call was made to 1-800-Amaz-ons with weap-ons. Don't believe me? Go watch some movies! Cause Hollywood is always right.

Whenever I think of feminists, I think of a horde of bulging Hildas on steroids and Harleys. Viking-like in their mannerisms and terrifying with their war chants. Upon stumbling upon a male who dared to make a particularly chauvinistic remark or action such as opening a door for a lady; ( 0h woe!) they would immediately rip their off their bras (an evil symbol of male domination) and batter the hapless man on pathetic noggin till he bleeds.

A long time ago, a wise man who made an unwise comment while eating his wife's cooking, once said: hell hath no fury then a woman scorn'd. Indeed. Men think they are so strong, with their muscles and ability to think logically. Bah I say. If men were so strong, and smart, why on earth do they need to ask their moms' or wives' permission to do anything?!

Thus, the kitchen is no place for a woman! Imagine if a woman were to be given knives to handle. Not merely that, pots and pats and all manner of sharpened cutlery. True, they might be tools of culinary trade; however, in the lethal hands of an angered woman. Such metallic articles could well become the instruments of torturous death ! The terror of having your heart suddenly dug out by a blunt spoon by a berserking female would be a debilitating, forcing men all around the world to watch their words. Imagine knives flying about at the speed of sound, slicing noses, ears, and mouths off! Fear and terror, unforgettable,unimaginable unadulterated inundated unanundunanunuted pain and suffering would reign! Boiling water would scorch male flesh! Eyeballs dragged from their sockets with toothpicks!

No no no... keep women out of kitchens. Men make better chefs anyway. (hee hee)

Rock Ialah Batu (episode 2)

2009-09-08T03:27:00.000-07:00

What's WRONG with Liking Jonas Brothers! They are all sooo cute! I love all of them! Kevin is just such a juicy man! Whenever he smiles, my heart starts melting because I love him. I love, love, love, love all of them. I play the drums because of him. And I want to be just like the Brothers. They are my inspiration!

Some day... I'm going to be on Team Jonas!

Mummy said I should hang motivational posters all over my room so I can get even more motivated. Never give up on your dreams! And I adore the cuties too! So I got a Jonas Brother's blanket for my bed and Nick Jonas in my toilet so I can watch him whenever I brush my teeth! He speaks to me and gives me new ways to play my drums. I also got huge Joe Jonas poster on my ceiling so that whenever I go to sleep, I will see Joe's smile. MMmmm.... I normally have sweet dreams.

I'm gonna be a drummer just like Nick!

So I joined this band by my big brother Joe. He say he need drummer. Then I say okay lorr, the drums are in my room. And I got enough space. Joe never come into my room before because he doesn't like a room that doesn't have wildlife reserve growing inside. But nevermind he said.

On that day. The whole band came to my room to rock! Me, my bro and Darshan. Then they saw all the Jonas Brothers pictures in my room and they called me a sissy! I TOLD THEM THEY WERE TALENTED MUSICIANS AND THEY COULDN'T HOPE TO BE AS GOOD AS THEM!

I hate my stupid brother. He took my drumsticks and started beating me up. He kept on screaming at me to hate Jonas Brothers! He's so stupid. So did that gorilla face Darshan! They made me say I hate Jonas Brothers. But I will never ever betray them! But it hurt so much so I say I didn't like them.

I lied.

Jonas Brothers... I will always love you. You make me feel special.

My bandmates are idiots. Them and their stupid Rock Band. I hope my retard orangutan brother and his bomoh friend reads this.

by Chun Tak.

oh man... I can't believe I am doing this. If you're reading this. Seriously go get a life. Who am I to tell you to get a life. I'm writing this. I should go get a life. Check out sexy boy's blog for episode 1. Storyfromthemadhouse

Parades.

2009-09-06T01:25:00.000-07:00

Light was shining with an earthy hue as lines of little Elves in blue blared their trumpets! In their sequined, shimmering red military costumes while skipping and marching in perfect cadence. Twanging treble music jumping out of their trumpets as they twirled in line. A sea of Gnomes followed them, each blasting on a silver trombone. They hobbled along with a clumsy gait, with their red and white stockings in their cobbled shoes. Their beards white, grey and black, their cheeks rosy as they blew. Yellow berrets on each and every gnomish head bobbing gaily as their shoes clopped. Their eyes squinting and their noses wrinkling as brazen sounds leaped from the snouts of their trombones. Their uniforms spectacular with the purple fleur de lis on every button and corner. All this as the parade marched on.

Giant, friendly trolls carried the percussion along the ancient, european renaissance style street. Stamping on the sides of the procession. They were dressed smartly in Navy blue. Gold trimmings, gold buttons and gold ties and all. Boom, boom, boom, came the sound of the beat as the smiling trolls slammed their drum-logs against the gargantuan base drums. The smaller of them carried snares while marching in between the big trolls. Their drums rattling and tattling as they snapped their sticks across the tightened skin. Their uniforms were bright red, still with trimmings of gold and silver.

The horns blared and sounded, as the tuba oomped and loomped as the elephants playing them marched by, behind the lines and lines of the odd colorful sea of creatures! Their trunks providing a steady yet, jaunty rhythm for the music to groove into. The crowds were excited and joyful as they tried to catch the bright blue apples floating down like confetti from the clouds. Then they oohed and ahhed as a squadron of 60 Pixies in six V shaped formations soared above. Each pilot pixie with a single white wand, magically waving tinkling, teasing snow upon the vibrant, colorful crowd below. Children were astounded as the teasing snow burst into more elves and gnomes who quickly joined in the marching parade!

The sky was filled with white snowflakes and bright blue apples mixed with clouds of brighter red confetti! I was doing my computer science and I got bored.

Celebrity Crush #2

2009-09-02T10:05:00.001-07:00

JoWONG (15 year old edition ): Wow.

Jo ( 18 year old edition): WOW!

all images credit to Nobeena cause I took the pics from her blog.

Adrian

2009-09-01T21:26:00.000-07:00

sdong dang doong funghi

Muzac

2009-08-31T19:14:00.001-07:00

Muzac is actually "music", but since we live in an age where the letter 'z" means all things cool and adds a certain level of modernity to anything; I decided to add in Z. Muzac is actually music. Music, is something that everyone says they love, even though they might not be particularly good at playing and instrument or yet, have terrible musical taste. Indeed, taste is a matter of opinion, but if you like the taste of poop, please forgive me for failing to visibly hide my cringing (politely of course, we must respect everyone's opinions!).

Ugh. Down with cantopop.(RESPECT THEIR OPINIONS!)

Music is something that most people claim they cannot live without, often screaming with a near fanatic passion that they would drop to the ground and surrender their souls to whatever. Complete nonsense, unless its me saying it. My dad sells records. No record sales, no money, Jo starves and flies to heaven in a blazing chariot of FIRE.

But still, I truly cannot get through certain days without music. I love music. And I would die without music. (hee hee hee) My love for certain kinds of music is fostered by different people. Mostly friends, due to the fact that they more often than not, have a certain understanding of what appeals to me and what doesn't. It helps that my friends generally have an excellent taste in music.

Back in the day when I was a teenager... I used to listen to Rap/ hip hop quite a fair bit. KJ-52 was mah man. Yo shizzy to da fizzy izzy y'all.

Mmm... loved him. There was this song that provided me nonstop entertainment when I was doing homework. It was about how nerds would have their vengeance on the cruel world dominated by the diabolical forces of coolness.

Next it was Fort Minor. The first time I heard this over the radio it so quickly appealed to me! Even more surprising; there was a lack of reference to SEX! Finally! Someone wasn't rapping about something I knew completely nothing about! Lollipops? What on earth are lollipops. I hardly understand why li'l Wayne has so many women in his music video when the only thing he's talking about are lollipops.

Petrifying. Yo mista deejay spin yo black top yo. Boom ch ch Boom kakakaka. ch ch ch...

I know ya'll know what I'm spittin'.
Cause I know what ya'll are thinkin'
Where'd you go was da song you be listenin'
Singing along like you's somethin'.

However, all these were encompassed by the awesomeness of`

Rock, Rap, Nu_metal. Chester Bennington's screaming vocals. Mike Shinoda's rapping. Mr. Hahn's scratching. Wow. When this came out, I realised that my solemn vow made when I was 6 that I would never ever listen to mainstream music and only listen to classical sonatas was going to be broken.

An orchestra of distortion, scratching, vocals and thundering percussion. Song after song, track after track. Just when you thought they couldn't top "Numb", they smashed you in the ear drum with "Session".

I could not get enough of them.They're songs started out like something of an appetizer, with a beat, then they would add layer after layer after layer of concentrated listening pleasure. Not to mention their awards. If there's a separate link on wikipedia for a band's awards, you know its gotta be more than "runner-up for best movie track award"

Also, I borrowed this CD from a friend long enough to have her say... ," so you borrow things and don't return them unless they ask for it lah issit?!"

Ooff.

15 year old self, 18 year old self says its she probably forgot she said that. Learnt a good lesson there, you borrow, better return. Which reminds me, eveyone with their books in my house... SORRY.

Of course, though I still love linkin park and the Rap Hip hop era of my life was a good one. I had begun to make friends with certain muscially atuned individuals, namely 1000010001000 10000010010010 and 100101001100100. (hee hee. Com Sci yo? )

I was introduced to Switchfoot.

Thankyou. This noted a change for me. I found rap and hip hop, incessant and startingly annoying. Its beats simply began to deride nerves. The words flew by so fast I couldn't catch what anyone was saying and worse of all, all rappers ever talked about was their jeans, ice-creams and machines. Wonderful.

Then God made Switchfoot. Alternate Rock became my new muse. My main qualifying factor for a favorite band would be a Cd released having an euphoric listening experience from beginning to end. The Beautfiful Let Down was one of these. From the first intense songs to the calmer songs, everything was so charged with meaning and depth. Once you got past the stage of being cast in rapture and started to think about the lyrics, you can't help but to marvel at some of the things sung in the Lyrics. Thank you Switchfoot.

My Next.

Everything I loved. Meaningful lyrics. Calm euphoric melodies. Soaring choruses. Enthralling solos. Energetic Live shows. Not to mention Chris Martin is actually British. HOw are YOU all DOing? Its MAHvelous that were ALL Here! I See JOseph IN the CROwd, WE Even HAve FANS in maLAYsia! . Accent the capitals while speaking to emulate the British accent.

From the people who brought you anthemic intros in "Clocks" to the now overplayed because its so magical, "Viva La Vida," to my personal favourtie "Lost." One can't help but to wonder in an instant how certain people had their inspiration. Did they see chords and music whenever they walked down a street. Did God whisper in their ears while they slept? Did the sound of their morning tinkle remind them of bells in conjuction with guitars and violins? Nonstop wonder this band. I listen to them while studying.

heh. I need to get back to economics. Its been fun. I'll probably go edit this.

Hi I'm Jo.

2009-08-07T00:57:00.000-07:00

I'm Jo. I'm not J.Wong or JoWong. I'm Jo. The cut short convenient name of Joseph. I love my name, I think my outdone themselves in naming me Joseph. It took some time to accept my name and what it represents; still trying to accept it completely. Its difficult, but its my mandate, and my birthright.

When I was a kid, I was called Yu Wing. I didn't like it very much as it often meant being slobbered by relatives and being asked redundant chinese new year questions. Which i somehow enjoy.

Then, it was the Jowong/J.Wong phase of my life when I was about 13 to 16. Whenever I looked back on those times I think simply how ridiculous I was. I actually tried to be a rapper! Mc JoWong. That would be my street name, allowing me all fame, friends and respect I so desperately needed at that time in my life. I took it to incredible heights! Trying to rap to the point I annoyed my desperate friends to the point of tears and violence. Being hip and hop meant I actually had to look the part, however the problem was that Mom see, or understand my need to be a ragamuffin with hot air sized jeans slung half way past my buttocks. She did not see, much less understand the need to dish out 200 Rm on a pair of boardshorts. Thinking back, I think she was right not to see. Thankfully, that part of my life came to a close when I challenged MC Cupert (daryl) to a rap match. And was destroyed by him. The judge, MC Fishball (Jeremy Foo) simply declared,"Jo, your lines are so cheesy." Well, that was the end that. Some people may accuse me or simply declare that I was giving up on my dreams, and yet, there are just some people in this world who have many dreams. Many unrealistic ones that would, on more thought, amount to so little other than a rush of glory. I am one of those people. As I matured and got out of my JoWong stage, I learned to cut down unrealistic and childish ambitions that simply sound cool.

I began to embrace who I was.

I am Jo. I do not like rap music. It would sound nice if only I had some slight understanding on what the hommies were talking about. However, due to my unparalleled intelligence, the meanings of these words simply escape me. I far prefer alternate rock and rock/pop. I also discovered I enjoy writing. The speed of my posts on this blog don't contradict me. Often when I right, especially to post something on my blog, I have this need have a good post up. That takes time, patience, grammar checks and goodness knows what else. Having said all that, I would gladly spend hours working on a post if I had the time. Its fun to see words fall to place, to paint pictures with words and to use the bewitching nooks and crannies english offers.

Over time, 17- now, I am still discovering who and what I am. I have discovered so much. I have discovered I am quite simple. Yet, immensely complicated, to the point where I simply have to slow down to think for a while to collect myself to understand what I feel. I have realized I can be quite sappy as well. I bore myself sometimes, yet, I am excited by the prospect of realizing that from this boredom, outlets of entertainment springs up! I am Joseph. Jo for short. I am still discovering who I am. And I hope I'll never stop discovering.

shla!

2009-07-24T11:00:00.000-07:00

I wanna shift to wordpress. Cause... I've got stuff bouncing in my head. Not only that. I feel quite... Sigh... like vomiting rainbows!

I really Liked This.

2009-07-20T09:59:00.000-07:00

By Karlyn Leong

You know when someone calls you dear, there's this mushy feely thing inside you, and all you really want to do is just close your eyes and be hugged by that overwhelming maternal protection? Sometimes, you just want be held like a little girl again, and just for once, stop trying so hard to be an adult. Just for once, have someone you can cry on, to let go all your frustrations, anger, insecurity, rage, everything, and letsomeone else have them for a while. Just for once, have your hair stroked, and feel the tight embrace of love surrounding every inch of your soul. Just for once, be told that you're a beautiful, bright young girl and who is doing alright in this wretched world you live in. Just for once, I just want to be the little girl again, the one with no worries, no troubles, nothing but fun and laughter and joy and happiness.

Gee... Last time someone called me dear. I was like, "I have a name..."

Probably The Coolest About Me.

2009-07-20T09:38:00.000-07:00

Sigh..

2009-07-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

My hormones are gonna explode out of my head. Its like...

My mind the fun house of my soul, the five-star retreat of my overtired, overbored, over worked and sometimes frustrated being is going to be crippled by a devastating blast of hormones. Magical, erotic colors splattering through my mind, shamelessly, cheekily sceaming inane chutterings of mounded floobagalah.

Its to the point where these tiny little colours of mutated hormonal drugs have evolved into evolutionary cro magnon monsters ripping out bits and particles of my five star hotel. Which is by the way solar system - esque due to the amount of immaterial material made by muddlings and fuddlings. These irritating quirks of joy, of need, of thirst, hunger and insatiable insatiability are pulling, dragging, ruined bits of my solar system into a homer simpson brain sized box!

Creating a astounding, reality defying space of shimmering shards of shades. Walled in by the bits of sanity provided absolute laminated armours of reality and common sense. This hole. This dark black hole gradually collapsing again and again on itself, due to an infinite gravity squashing colors together. Threathens to BLAST, SHATTER, DESTROY, DESECRATE, SHLAM, BAM, BOOM, JIGGLY WINCHILY SLAMA BA JAMMA DOOBIE DOO BANG BANG WOAH my poor poor skull.

I do believe my hormones are getting the best of me. I need girlfriend soon or I shall. YYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! Ok. I'm fine now. Hee hee.

Posts Rattling In My Head

2009-07-17T04:29:00.000-07:00

Boy's Brigade

Story of Joseph. (Jo and Potiphar's wife. Saucy mou?)

Daryl and Me Jamming. I Be the bread, Daryl be the butter. Cause he's fat. (probably end of the year la this one)

More video posts. (Tee Jo Wee, thou hath inspired me. )

a couple of emo posts.

What ladies find sexy in men.

How to potong que in Mcdee's. For the Australians, for goodness sake. Its not Mackers. Its... Mcdee's. Sigh. Beri saya nangis saje.

Thankthee post to friends, bros and comrades in Malaysia.

Praise Thee post to selected friends regularly.

More stuff with substance.

Bible Stories.

Yum

2009-07-13T04:32:00.000-07:00

I Am Not Jo.

2009-07-12T00:24:00.000-07:00

I DO NOT HAVE FUNNY TOES, despite what Joseph says.

I better go off before he finds out what I'm doing!

He has no idea. Ahaha! Not yet, that is.

RUNNING OFF,

Not Jo.

Heh.

2009-07-11T07:42:00.000-07:00

The cell is the structural and functional unit of all known living organisms. It is the smallest unit of an organism that is classified as living, and is often called the building block of life.^[1] Some organisms, such as most bacteria, are unicellular (consist of a single cell). Other organisms, such as humans, are multicellular. (Humans have an estimated 100 trillion or 10¹⁴ cells; a typical cell size is 10 µm; a typical cell mass is 1 nanogram.) The largest known cell is an unfertilized ostrich egg cell.^[2]

In 1835 before the final cell theory was developed, a Czech Jan Evangelista Purkyně observed small "granules" while looking at the plant tissue through a microscope. The cell theory, first developed in 1839 by Matthias Jakob Schleiden and Theodor Schwann, states that all organisms are composed of one or more cells. All cells come from preexisting cells. Vital functions of an organism occur within cells, and all cells contain thehereditary information necessary for regulating cell functions daryl thrashed me at call of duty four and for transmitting information to the next generation of cells.^[3]

Phosphorus (pronounced /ˈfɒsfərəs/) is the chemical element that has the symbol P and atomic number 15. A multivalent nonmetal of the nitrogen group, phosphorus is commonly found in inorganic phosphate rocks. Elemental phosphorus exists in two major forms - white phosphorus and red phosphorus. Although the term "phosphorescence", meaning glow after illumination, derives from phosphorus, glow of phosphorus daryl completely thrashed me in call of duty 4 originates from oxidation of the white (but not red) phosphorus and should be called chemiluminescence.

In 1835 before the final cell theory was developed, a Czech Jan Evangelista Purkyně observed small "granules" while looking at the plant tissue through a microscope. The cell theory, first developed in 1839 by Matthias Jakob Schleiden and Theodor Schwann, states that all organisms are composed of one or more cells. All cells come from preexisting cells. Vital functions of an organism occur within cells, and all cells contain thehereditary information necessary for regulating cell functions and for transmitting information to the next generation of cells.^[3]

My Kid's Labels.

2009-07-11T07:29:00.000-07:00

If its a girl...

-CoffeeBean Wong Shue Lynn

-Skittles Wong Xiao Ping

-Vera Wong Lei Ling.

If its a guy...

-Joseph Wong Yu Wing the Second

Food

2009-06-18T04:38:00.000-07:00

I love good food. Taste can be very subjective. To some, the salty sweet sensation of indo mee coursing right down their tongue is nothing short of wonder. To others, indo mee just means a whole bunch of bland noodles mixed with cancer inducing black sauce. Then again, other love the taste of pasta Bolognese and all of its tomatoey goodness. The sauce's richness and flavours built upon satisfying oodles of pasta. Some just think its a bit too sour.

I love good food. Stuff that appeals to me. Things like, pasta and indo mee. Roti Canai with milo ais. Crystal Cha's goodies, aunty Noreen's lasagna and aunty Kim's apple crumble are simply things that brighten my memories. Here, living by myself in Australia, I simply cannot study without having eaten a hearty lunch and a good dinner. I often cook spaghetti, its the easiest thing on earth to do and the least easy thing to foul up. Just go warm up some sauce from a bottle and I'm done! Otherwise, its lamb, go pop two pieces in the oven, wait for twenty minutes and stuff that I normally pay 10 rm for comes out right away. Good food makes me happy.

Most of all. Nasi Lemak makes me happy. Sigh.... my pain.

TeeJowee

2009-06-17T07:51:00.000-07:00

There are reason's upon reasons of why two main characters in a film should not somehow be entagled in a plot and fall listlessly in love with each other. He's too dumb, she's too smart, he's too poor, she's too rich, her daddy has a shot gun, his mommy hates the girl. Whatever. Somehow, thanks to the writer's role of god, both character's fall desperately in love through some subway runaround scene. Or a beautiful wedding spoilt by the perfectly timed Romeo's "I OBJECT!" I cringe in absolute horror when such things happen.

Haha, I lie. A small dopey smile often appears instead of my cringe. At the most effeminate core of me, there's a preteen girl screaming to be satisfied with the corniest of scenes and the most cliched of lines. When there's a subway chase where the dashing prince in jeans sprints through crowds, his face full of desperation, confusion and lurve. Searching for the face of his lady in a crowd of hundreds before she departs for a location only accessible by that one train in time prompts my heart to race! Then he leaps over a ticketing gate for his love and while she sadly waits on a platform thinking of how he broke her heart. Then suddenly, he careens through a corner and the cheesiest of music plays. The camera zooms in on his relieved face followed by that slightly awkward scene when both lovers stand facing shyly at each other. She realizes how much he misses her, then.... he whispers some soul tearingly annoying line... then... then... then... he looks into her eyes... (oooooh)..... they embrace.... and..... then... then.... taking all the shmucking time in the world.... they....

Kiss.

sigh...

A whole bunch of people (where did they come from?) start clapping or perhaps, if the director decides to have some class, zooms out the camera straight into the credits. By this time, my dopey grin has matured into a huge smile. Funny thing is, I don't even know I'm smiling and time again, I had to voluntarily wipe the corny grin of my face. I've even caught a dear friend doing the exact same thing once at a particularly drippy film. ( karl I'm looking at you) I clued on to how ridiculous I look.

Thing is, I like stuff like that to happen. Romance and happy subway endings somehow found its way from Europe into my blood. Somehow. These things just get better when the stories pile on reasons for the couple to not fall desperately in love with one another!

More reasons for people who are so different not to get together. How on earth does an intellectual carry on with someone whose only interested in yodeling or modeling. How does a fascistly neat person live with a cultivator of floor fungus? How does an idealist live with a surrealist and a socialist with a capitalist! How does a painter live with a doctor and a animal lover with live with someone who is allergic to hippos? Yet, these differences are fermented into something deliciously enchanting! Thought they may serve to annoy, yet similarities tend to make life boring, and love is anything but boring. While similarities are the chords that keep a couple together, its the differences that provide the glorious riffs to a song.

Things are made far better still when both partners happen to be equally attractive folk. Talented as well. Imagine the children they would have! Ice and cream coming together to birth Hagen Daaz! Such beautiful features married and engraved into a template of flesh, alighting the world applauding such a union! And the talents behold! Musicality married with artistry and song married to lyrics. Intelligence combined with trademarked wit amplified with flamboyance which provide the similarity of both parents! Truly! Their children would be attractively veneered monsters!

Sigh... dreams are dreams I supposed. Then again, 19 is an age that borders the edge of adulthood. Go make something happen.

This means you and ____.

Oh pretty please. For my entertainment. You know how I like these corny endings.

The Boy's Brigade

2009-06-17T07:48:00.000-07:00

I normally shy away from this topic as i don't think my writing will do it any justice.

This made Me Laugh.

2009-06-17T07:15:00.000-07:00

Jo Wee's Bday!

2009-06-16T08:58:00.001-07:00

Woman. I give you intercontinental hug.

Stuff I'd like to do with you on your bday.

-nasi lemak.

-eat a whole tub of really good ice cream

-watch cool movie

-laugh at something stupid

-sit on the swings in front of my house

-debate on why you should marry daryl

-teach you how to play playstation.

I'm sleepy.

Far better post to come up.

Resume on My Dateability.

2009-06-10T09:39:00.000-07:00

I am a 18 year old male. And dang it. I am charmingly shy and very generous with my money, food, and time.

I have a unique shyness about me. It will make you go aw...."he's sooo cute."

I love making people laugh. And I will cook and clean for you if you wanna be my girl.

I am scientifically minded so I won't care if you scold me cause I know that you're having a bad day. Instead I shall lovingly sweep you in my muscular arms and hold you close to my incredibly chiselled chest. I shall allow you to hear the melodious sound of my heart comforting yours. My breath so scented with pine and grass you'd wonder if you're dating an Ent.

I know how to play, the piano, trumpet, drums, saxophone, guitar, violin and harmonica. I even do vocals.

I am a carrier of excellent genetics. My mother was extremely good looking and so was my father.

I can be your sexyback.

I can give you the moon and the stars whenever you want them. Cause I'm superman.

My love is like a well. My armpits like a desert.

My belly is like a hill on which you can build your fortress on.

My will, resolute, my spirit, strong, my body, dashing. For who am I?

I'm Wong. Joseph Wong.

How To Be A Guy

2009-06-10T08:16:00.000-07:00

How to be a guy is extremely simple. Most males, if not all; enter this world with the necessary parts and tools needed to begin behaving like a guy. Some tools of the trade include far greater biological acoustics then our better counter parts. Some of these include: better trombonic anal acoustics and far more advanced gas dispensing techniques.

Of course, being a proper guys also means one must, for the sake of others, dampen such tools and only use them for private amusement.

Other than that, I simply cannot think of how else to be a guy. According to a certain friend, it simply is... natural. However, I'll probably think of something else and of course, add them to this blog.

Quote I live By

2009-06-05T21:43:00.000-07:00

YAAAAAAAAARGGHHHH!!!

Wondering why its not some mahatma Ghandi," hit not the brit and the brit will pack up and quit." quote?

Or Winston churchill's,"chill out when the Germs attack cause if they do, we're gonna fight on the beaches, on the breeches and make them nieces."

Or Theodore Roosevelt's," this is a day that will live in 21 jln hujan lumut tiga."

Or Mahatir Mohammed's,"saya tak mahu buat PM lagi."

Or even Bill Clinton's,"I did not have sexual narrations with that woman,"

Or Matin Luther's," I have a dream that he will sit down with him and makan."

Tss... You know what, nevermind. I don't have a fav quote.

Sans Vans

2009-06-05T01:05:00.000-07:00

Funny how non skaters and surfers wear surf and skate stuff. Wannabes? I dunnoe.

Vans are cool.

Vans are sweet

Vans are for..

Joseph's Feet!

Hasta La What?

2009-06-04T09:21:00.000-07:00

Woo! The end has begun! The war will begin on 2012! I'm going to laugh my head off on that day if the greatest AI computers can come up with is some Boss on a hard game.

But still.... I watched the movie. Paid 10 dollars for the ticket. After all, it was... the Terminator. I wanted to watch some testosterone laden action. And it wasn't bad. I think it would be something worth a download. Or a rental come to that, but it wasn't a movie that was worth fishing out a hard earned 50Rm for.

But still, If you want to finish that Terminator or Arnie Shwartzy collection of yours, why not? Go right ahead.

This movie had little of a story line to be honest. You kinda had this bugging feelings that the humans would live and the ever so cool robots with their indestructible armour plates and intense plasma cannons would somehow get squashed. Even though that itch of a feeling would be there, at times you'd simply get distracted by the amount of explosions going on screen. Not to mention the menacing metallic skulls of the terminators moving in for a kill.

Story wise.... Nyah. The story line felt like fillers in between the action sequences. But seriously, who watches terminator for the story line? One doesn't ask Arnold or the Terminator to read them a nightime story. Unless they're looking for something laughable. "Van Dae, Da Wolf Said, Hasta La Vesta Babee and Blew Da Place to Hell! Den Da GUd TerMiNator Get Red Ridding Hud to Get DOUN! Den he make Da wolf go BOUM! End Story!"

The story line felt like pauses in between pieces of action. Terminator's salvation came by using humongous robots and intense action sequences. Mine was when the tin-can-who-thinks-he's human is on the run from killer robots with Connor's dad. Along the way, they meet a truly epic hunk of brainy metal. Couldn't help me from not thinking about C&C3 Nod's Redeemer, or whatever you call it. And there was this incredible part where ____________________ then he _______the door opened and____ the camera started from the bottom and then____ you realised that_______ and when that scene was playing, the crowd in the cinema just started applauding!

Not a bad film.

Your Move.

2009-06-03T06:43:00.000-07:00

Red beans is a dish consisting of red beans (or, despite the name, usually stewed) in a sauce. Most commercial canned red beans are made from haricot beans, also known as navy beans - a variety of Phaseolus vulgaris - and sold in a sauce. In the United Kingdom, tomato sauce is most commonly used. A similar dish is pork and beans.

Red beans are cheap to make and buy. British supermarkets may sell store brand red beans for less than twenty pence a tinned can^[1] although some premium organic brands may be as expensive as £1.50.^{[citation needed]} Red beans are a classic example of a "loss leader", a product sold by supermarkets for an abnormally low price, often less than cost. Red beans have recently begun appearing in conjunction with other foods, such as a filler inside sausages, as a sidedish with bacon, or as a pizza topping.

The Smell of Malaysia.

2009-06-02T03:39:00.000-07:00

It is nearly patriotic to complain about my country. After all, there are so many things to complain about. From driving examiners with their perpetually pissed looks plastered on their faces to the diabolical methods mamak stall chefs use to keep their chicken crispy.

It is almost okay to buy a pirated good, even patriotic perhaps! In fact, buying an original is quietly, sometimes rambunctiously ridiculed. After all, in a purely buisness sense, its just better to spend 4 Rm on a game than 100 Rm! So what's the kicker? They have the exact same quality. Pirated is almost patriotic.

We complain, I complain, constantly and tenaciously about the government and about racial prejudices and so on. We see a whole in the ground and we wonder what on earth the government is doing about that! A vandalized traffic light or a sign board plastered over with loan shark stickers often earn our ire, directing us to blame the nitwits who dare. I pretty much dislike certain smells and colors of my country. And yet, whenever I say I am Malaysian, I feel proud.

I've never really thought about how blessed I am to live in Malaysia. However, I only need to look in the news to notice entire armies mobilized to kill their own citizens they swore to protect. Not because they are colored differently; but because they were born on the other side of the a mountain or the language they speak sounds slightly wierd. Other countries are run by pot-bellied scum made fat by the suffering of their people. Yet others run by ruthless men who float around shamelessly in their regal uniforms; being driven around in a fleet of mercedes benz that cost enough to sustain their countries for entire days. Their petty extravagances enough to feed their people for entire weeks.

Perhaps racial divisions are something groups fight about and few very brave ones fight against. Its a problem wherever there are differences that are skin deep. But oddly enough, dear friends and even relatives are Malay, Indian and Chinese. I was cruising through my friend's blogs when I realized that their class photos were quite multicolored, thrown in with huge smiles and looney faces. I suppose, ignorance instead of culture, color or creed might be the only true reason for prejudice and racism. My cousin's name is Saiful, my friend's name is Terence Raaj. We would make a perfect multiracial promotion photo if we were snapped together.

I was talking to a friend while we were waiting for a train in another country. Gradually we started whining about Malaysia. Then it hit me, how many times have I headed over to the largest shopping mall in south east asia, or eaten in an Italian restaurant overlooking the city. How many students walk around messaging on their touchscreen handphones in government schools and the amount of cars clogging up the roads. Hmmm, Malaysia can't be that bad.

Truth be told. I am simply proud of Malaysian culture. Once, someone refered to my country as Malay and I immediately corrected him. "Its Malaysia," I said, slightly annoyed. "Get it right." Then I realised what I felt, I felt a particular sense of pride for the country I was born and bred in.

I remember the mamak stalls, the oily meals and the fragrance of nasi lemak. I love how the pasar malam smells. The prevailing, scent of Follow Me or Shokobutsu in the crowd and the wafting scent of char kuey teow or carrot cakes being made. I miss the noise in the famous coffee shops and the roaring din of the cyber cafes. One of my bittersweet memories are of the annoying Hari Raya song they play over the radio and the even more repulsively screechy Chinese New Year whines. The late nights in the shopping malls and the magical days when I simply hung out with friends and watched a movie. Not to mention the colorful fashion scene where some, possibly more artistically faulted individuals dressed.

Never far from my heart are those quiet moments in a place called Leng Chai's which was basically a small coffee shop behind my school. Its toilet was a crack in the cement of a drain and the road to it was full of dead pigeons and rats. It was run by an Indian man who spoke english, mandarin, cantonese and tamil fluently. He was also married to a chinese wife who could speak manglish and cantonese. I miss eating spicy nasi lemak for breakfast with my mom and washing it down with an icy cold nescafe. Or chatting noisily with a friend over the mysteries of how hard it would be to start our own Malay Band.

I love the quirkily humorous way different cultures try to pronounce their friends names. When a Malay says Ah Meng and when a Chinese tries to pronounce an English name. I had a friend once who couldn't stop messing up my name. She was an Indian named Sonia and instead of calling me Joseph, she called me,joSAP ( A as in Apple). Goodness.

I miss Malaysia. The brainless will think it a faultless place, the heartless will think it a terrible place. I have a little of a mind and some heart. But I still want to be home. Maybe it because I miss the smell.

Red Beans. The Ultimate Hunger Squasher.

2009-06-01T06:21:00.000-07:00

Breakfast/Lunch. Well. This was actually lunch, but I woke up at twelve. Bacon is awesome in Australia guys. I don't think I can possibly loose weight with awesome meat candy so readily available.

Tomatoes with red beans! Here's my reasoning. If they have the same color, it probably means they were meant to be cooked together. After all, food is color coded. I think.

Yes. I enjoyed my lunch.

The Kitchen is No Place for a Man. Or me.

2009-06-01T03:31:00.000-07:00

Everyone was out, and I was forced to fend for myself in the desert of not knowing how to cook. All alone with no one one to help me. It was a depressing moment. Diving into the refrigerator, I found left over rice from last nights meal and in that one divine, inspired moment, I decided. I would throw everything together and come up with something so wonderful and so gastronomically sublime, it would simply embrace my taste buds!

Shouldn't be too difficult.

For those who know me in real life, you should be familiar with the phrase,"no, I don't really know what I'm doing." I had no idea what I am doing. Some people are simply credited with the ability to look as if they have a perfect plan of what to do. I am simply not one of them.

Tossing the onions and garlic in, I fried, then next came the chicken. After the chicken looked edible, I pushed from my chopping board the juicy tomato bits. It looked okay, but the colors simply weren't there yet. So I grabbed a bunch of bottles with black sauces in them. I had no idea how they tasted, but oh wells, I saw my mom throw sauces like those in. I did the same.

Allowed it to fry some more and Wala!

Jo's Fried Rice with Tomatoes!

Tasted a lil bland. But ah wells!