I Want To Wear.

Wayfarer Sunnies.

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

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

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

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

So I found the wayfarers. New sunglasses that took was created with new plastic moulding technology. Worn by JFK and Audrey Hepburn, it definitely is an iconic pair of sunglasses. Granted, it wasn't warn by General Douglas MacArthur, but still. JFK! 

And it looks nice too. So now I want a pair of wayfarer sunglasses and I have no money. 

Aye Aye Captn.

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

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

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

Rights. Back to work.  HELLO ASSIGNMENT. 

Hey, Listen.

I think you are beautiful.

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

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

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

 From your hair. To your toes.

Thanks for listening. 

FC Barcelona Vs. Manchester United

It was two in the morning and the large living room lit by three dim fluorescent light bulbs was filled with about 20 friends. 15 of the 20 were wearing bright red, the color of Manchester United’s jersey. Potato chips were crunching, and cokes cans were opened while we waited for a friend to bring his widescreen television.

In my room, on Facebook and Twitter, friends from everywhere, and from different countries were reaching ridiculous states of soccer frenzy. I read chants ranging from expletives to professional sounding predictions of the match’s outcome. Then I read a Twitter comment from a friend. It read, “will never understand why people get so emotional over football. There're more important things like political factions, world hunger.”  She echoed the thoughts a few others had about soccer. I was one of those few.

My friend finally showed up with his 40-inch LCD screen. Three of them stood around attempting to connect the screen to the house’s antenna. The screen buzzed black and white; white noise emanated from the screen’s built-in-speakers. There were several disappointed murmurs as my friends thought they might have to watch the game in some odd, dirty 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.

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...

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.

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)

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

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.

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)

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..

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.

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.

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!

Slim Jeans.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.