A Blog, Just A Simple Blog

2008-06-17T10:36:00.001-07:00

Rage Against the Machines [and the people that run them]

It's easy to contextualise every authored work on this blog as an extended rant built on spur-of-the-moment anger, and those who'd do so for the large part would be making a correct assessment. It's also easy, as their author, to look back through the catalogued entries and feel a little foolish: was I ever that angry, about something so trivial? And then I the justification of the moment hits home, and I stop judging. Of course I was that angry, as a sensible man I have no reason to work on undirected or unreasonable angst; if I have rage, there has to be a reason for it.

Today's gear-grinding, tree-punching, bottle-hurling angst is directed towards, what do you know, the workings of mankind. Specifically, the workings and expectations of those who as supervisory components of the modern workflow system. The anger that forms the basis of this diatribe stems from the abysmal final exam for Marine Ecology that I had just sat for earlier today. Now all students would feel entitled to voice a certain aggrievance post-examination, doubtless the stress of sitting and making a halfhearted attempt to take the course material seriously is beyond many people's capacities. This exam however, was consensually and undoubtedly an utter farce, of the type that would make me want to get drunk on cheap sherry and end the night shouting tearfully at a lamp post. In its perpetuation, this exam fully encapsulated what is wrong with the current academic system, and in an even more universal context, the rest of the developed world.

The thing you have to understand first and foremost is most subjects have what I like to call an 'individual arrogance'. This affects the way a course structures its workload and assessment weightings; at its most extreme manifestation, a course is built like it is the only course a student takes all semester, with an intensely heavy workload and in-depth syllabus. This is what aggrieves me most: the people who coordinate and formulate such courses tend to forget the average student takes at least two other courses in a single semester. The stupidity of the reality is that every course has similarly upped its ante in order to not lag behind the others in difficulty. Put basically, university courses these days overload students. Veterans of the institution tell of the sepia-tinted days when courses used to comprise even more information and even more intensive hours, and speak of a dumbing down of information contained within current syllabuses. The reality is however that students in those days didn't have to take three, four, or even five courses, each competing with one another to provide above and beyond the ever-increasing information threshold.

In a way, current students are victims of the outburst in science and information. Our understanding and interpretation of science has grown exponentially in the space of one generation. Entire new fields of study have sprung up where previously there existed nothing more than a blank on the information map. Study methods have been revised, critiqued, and subsequently streamlined so more information has been wrought from even more sources. It is like the ancient Chinese proverb: every road has a million roads branching off it, and each of those roads a million more. The onus is now on academic courses to condense ever more information into increasingly short timescales. One cannot help but feel like part of a machine, constantly chugging along on a conveyor belt along the length of which robotic arms attach more inputs before sending one along on his/er own merry way. The old courses could afford to be in-depth; there were just one or two of them, and they lasted for a year. Under the terms of my foreign student visa, I am obliged to take four subjects every four months, the length of one semester, each subject attempting to condense even more information into its syllabus into a third of the time. Assuming there is little information overlap between courses, it is the closest anyone can come to a true multiverse complex. Specialising is an illusion; it's like discussing restaurants, boutiques and bookstores in the context of a mall. Everything is contained, sure, but everything is near-discrete from the everything else, the bonds flimsy at best, where each turn is like walking into something entirely different from the other.

Technological advancement has also played a major role. Development of new technology used to work in tandem with the idea of convenience; with technology, the machines would do the work, or at least allow us to work faster, leaving us with time to relax. Now the innocence of that utopian 70s ideal has been replaced with one of a voracious slave endeavour; technology allows us to work faster, allowing us the space and time to do more work. The idea that we would be given time to recoup our efforts and maintain some semblance of mental stability is no more, instead people in the position to give out work have created a work dynamic in which people are expected to do more with the time they have. Of course, this conveniently aids the world of new science: with more information to be processed, it's all too easy to fall into the trap of making people do more within a shorter period. With that in mind, it's easy to understand why many students struggle within the work capacity expected of them. The academia expect too much, too soon. When you realise applying this to a system which advocates, no, DEMANDS, a reliance on memorising everything, and we all know it's impossible for any one average student to remember everything in a syllabus no matter how many times he/she has gone through it, you realise that there is nothing left in this world but to be futilely swamped by an information overload that sweeps you up in its vicious, viscous current and leaves one left on the bank miles downstream, burned out and jaded.

Of course, it's easy to complain as one of the average folk. The fact is though the system is engineered to encompass and cater for the upper bracket of student capability. There are of course, students who are more than well-equipped to deal with the strain of the current work system. They are though an exotic animal, ludicrously talented individuals who through one or a combination of an inhumanely unwavering work ethic and an incredibly large information quotient eventually pull through, and are exceptions, by no means the rule. The system and the people that run it is not wrong in having to accommodate these people, and in this sense the system seems to become less of an issue and more of a necessary evil. The problem is people mis-comprehend the way Nature works in this regard; it's not that these students adapt to the system, it's that they have the tools that allow them to.

We also then have to factor the illusory behaviour of most modern people: the parents and academicians who feel everyone has an equal capacity to be a genius and as such endeavour to push and belabour their proteges in order that they may achieve the goals expected of them. They've thus created a system which just cannot understand that not everyone is created equal, that for every leading rider and chaser there is a massive peloton which will never have a sniff without either or both of an incredible piece of luck, or an incredibly superhuman event of endeavour.

Today's exam was a culmination of all that, combined with a thoroughly catastrophic implementation. In the current style of ecology, even the most basic principle ties in with a panoply of others, making even a basic question function like an essay. You could just identify everything that's wrong with the world when you read that we had seven of what were effectively essays, to be done within one and a half hours. With so much information from the syllabus being covered, were we given time to think? No. Were we allowed even a slight pause to gain composure? No. Instead we had a mind-numbingly breathless and cruel exam where everyone's ability was severely compromised. Not one person I know finished the exam. I struggle to think that there might be even worse examples of such horrendous undertakings, instead I have to come to terms that I and my classmates had the misfortune to be saddled with an incredibly absurd and intensely frustrating endeavour which has done nothing more than substantiate my loss of faith in humanity, which has itself suffered a grievous loss of plot.

2008-06-13T07:18:00.000-07:00

Shameless plug: try the Firenze triple cheese pizza from Gregorio's Italian restaurant on Hawken Drive, St. Lucia. Such food is precious and cannot be wasted remaining an abstract concept, its only existence being as words upon the laminated menu of the establishment. It should be savoured by all who have access to it.

It's probably rather evident I had pizza for dinner tonight. In all honesty I had been craving this for a while, and despite the limited budget I'm placed on every month I still make it a point to have dinner from one of the fine eateries located two streets away from my residence. The restaurant was crowded today, with every table occupied and the staff quite literally falling over one another tending to the crowd. No one was hurt.

Whilst waiting for my order to be processed I took a read of today's Courier Mail newspaper. The headline article, and particularly its wording, intrigued me. It was pertaining to one of the worst roads in outer Brisbane, the Ipswich Motorway. I've been on that road once before, and I can safely testify there are few worse major arteries when it comes to congestion. The article however was more focused on what were perceived to be broken promises on the part of the government with regards to improving the motorway. Bracketing a large picture of the road showing roadworks on one side and a traffic jam on the other, was a quote by the new Labour MP for the area, Shayne Neumann, who said last November "The people have voted for new leadership in Kevin Rudd and a full upgrade of the Ipswich Motorway.", and the headline itself screaming in size 200 font, 'Well, you've been DUDDED". The article goes on to report [carefully, without ever actually complaining] the government apparently denying it ever promised to completely overhaul the Ipswich motorway, and in contrast to earlier statements, would not be completing the development in three years, with a mid-2019 deadline proposed instead.

What intrigued me most was the way the article fomented criticism in a reader's mind without ever actually being critical. This was, in fact, a stroke of literary genius, a marvel of politically correct reporting. Indeed, indignation appears to be the prevailing trend of the whole report, for running all through it were juxtapositions of quotes from earlier statements upon those from more recent times. The language utilised was as critical as could be without actually becoming referential or personal, with lines like "However, this is in stark contrast to Prime Minister Kevin Rudd's comments last year when he said a federal Labor Government would deliver "the full upgrade of the Ipswich motorway"." and "The Government yesterday insisted it only ever committed to upgrading a key western section near Ipswich rather than the entire 19km route."

To me, this was a marvel of politically correct reporting. It was perfect, delivering its message of spite and achieving its aim of propogating anger and motivation amongst its readers without actually saying anything bad about anyone. No one could take offense at an article like this, for it was non-directional, and never once used aggressive, demeaning or patronising language. In fact, a less perceptive reader would have to read it twice in order to establish there was anger behind the article, without ever actually being manifested in the article. Comparing this to the limp, blatantly spiteful and often spineless journalism we encounter in Malaysia, this was a striking surprise to me. How different the attitudes in the two countries are, that here covert criticism of not just the problem, but the government as well, can be neatly laced into an article that graces the headlines of a major national newspaper, and how in Malaysia all attempts to replicate this form of reportage are either painfully diluted to remove all trace of blame, or wind up looking like nothing more than non-directed, airy-fairy moaning. Sure there are occasional articles that do strike at the conscience and make us feel pity, or occasionally move us to believing we have to do something, but nothing compared to this. Reading something as strongly worded as this, one feels immediately compelled to go "Sweet Jesus holy fuck, SOMETHING MUST BE DONE!"

Even more galling was the fact that the government would even contemplate allowing such an article to run, let alone be emblazoned across the front of a major national paper like the Courier Mail. Throughout my stay here the blatancy and in-your-face attitude with regards to freedom of expression have always left me in awe. The barbs exchanged amongst opposing political factions on TV ads, the scathing reviews and feature columns in newspapers, the incredible liberties taken in satirising political figures and establishments, and the protests and unions that freely take to the streets to voice their dissatisfaction and demands, all these indicate the incredible mental health of the citizenry in this country; everyone from Anonymous to Pauline Hanson can have their say, no matter how truthful or misguided.

Little things like this measure of press freedom suggest to me that at the grassroots level, the basis for a successful First World mentality is healthy in Australia. This country has been historically fortunate in not having encountered any of the major afflictions which plagued much of the rest of the world, meaning there is a true cherishing of the value of the people's voice. Political control exists everywhere there is governance, however it is a hallmark of a country's maturity that the people are allowed to speak out unopposed in this manner, developing a citizenry that is diversely polarised, quick in wit, solid in committment and [generally] able in judgement. One of the plus sides in allowing everyone to speak out is you can easily see who's making sound judgements and who's just being stupid.. The government trusts the people to be able to make the distinguishment and act accordingly. Such is the magnitude of which this freedom is taken advantage of, that no one even sees it as anything remarkable or in any way noteworthy. We would do well to make note of this system of governance and learn from it.

2008-06-09T00:58:00.000-07:00

Video killed the current generation

Youtube blogging had become a trend ever since the website was first invented. To this day a dedicated group of 'video bloggers' or 'vloggers' continues to utilise the site for this purpose. People would be given to believe that those most likely to use Youtube as a blog site are of the 'angry youth' demographic, and though this is largely true, personal experience has indicated that vloggers can be of any age.

To me, vloggers are nothing more than attention whores. There's a big and imperative difference between having a blog like mine, and one that you have to grab people's attention. My blog exists not so much because I want people reading it, but more as a place for me to put down opinions I feel are worthy of authoring. Technically it's essay practice, and though there is a slight element of hypocrisy in doing so, I see no problem in making my writings public domain, but not publicised. I doubt I have many readers, indeed for confirmed readers I have only two, the fact is I don't put up a blog with the express interest of having millions of people see my opinion.

All vloggers and many bloggers are not like that. People like these not only want to know people are reading or watching their material, they absolutely revel in it. Vlogging is worse because rather than put their opinions in an editable format, they have to think up whatever they want to convey on the spot. Blogging is a much more effective way of conveying an opinion because you get to measure what you're saying as it's put down in writing. For instance even though I know what I wish to write about and how I wish to go about it, I make innumerable edits to my posts, and I determine to do so so that I wouldn't have to once I press the 'Publish' button. In vlogging on the other hand whatever is spoken is recorded and is usually irretractable, unless the vlogger at hand were to edit their posts, and by far and large most of them don't. The allowance to convey an opinion moved by emotion [often blind], along with the need for spontaneity, has bred a generation of people who speak before they think and think it fine to do so; after all, these are the same people who labour under the illusion that their opinion is important, profound and therefore requires publicising. Below is a good example of the painfully idiotic, psuedo-intelligent rantings with which vloggers assail the consciousnesses of the public:

The reality is this: no one who matters gives a toss about bullshit opinions. Despite the obvious attempts at conveying individualism, an open mind and even God forbid, a measured opinion, very few vloggers actually illustrate any form of genuine intellect. These are the opinions of an impressionable, angsty, often misguided person who thinks that by acting rebellious or controversial they're breaking mainstream school of thought, and we're supposed to interpret them as being worthwhile? I certainly wouldn't even regard my blog posts as being worthy of public consideration, I won't expect that anyone younger than me speaking into a webcam and a dodgy microphone can deliver any measure of opinion worth publicising.

The worst part is many vloggers don't even try this. Instead of trying to convey an opinion or thought process, many instead choose to use vlogging as a diary tool, so we get William Winterton and Susan Smith telling us about how they ate an apple and found a worm ["Like, oh my God, was the grossest thing ever!"], or how Barbara Brown wouldn't be their friend for a day. If there was any attempt in conveying profoundness, it would pretty much extend to either a quick line about how much they associate with some shite band's lyrics, or how some random undertaking [looking at the clouds, sitting on a park bench, or seeing a rainbow] made them come over all profound in ways they "can't even put into words" as they marvel over "how beautiful and powerful nature is".

I'll spell it out here : these are not individualistically profound opinions, these are observations everyone has had, and we need to know about it as much as we would a person's first erection or the colour of this month's period stains. Apparently we've reached that gulf of intellect where rambling about awareness of mortality can be confused with deep thinking. Here's a thought: NO ONE CARES. I'm frankly sick of the people who think their opinions are so important that the world is just screaming out to hear them. The fact is they have it the other way round, such is their lust for acknowledgement and self-insecurity that it is they who wish for the world to hear their vacuous, pretentious and misguided opinings. Vlogging, by streamlining the method in which these people can convey their pseudo-opinions without allowing them the discipline of considering what they think before they say it, is one more nail in the coffin of intellect, and judging by the look of it, this coffin doesn't need many more.

2008-06-06T21:08:00.000-07:00

Akon pisses me off. His picture showed up as a side-by ad on Youtube, and there's something inherently irritating about knowing who he is and what he does that stirs a self-righteous indignation from within me. Before you read on, I must stress I won't say anything libellous or otherwise personally insulting about Akon. I won't call him a wanker, or indeed single him out as a pretentious mainstream vampire with a dodgy and contrived 'gangsta' persona, along the lines of Jay and Silent Bob, or that white bloke with cornrows in uni who's always asking people why we hatin', and has a predilection for mispronouncing rapper's names [I'm no mainstream cocksucker, but even I know better than to pronounce them as 'Chin-guy' and 'The Black-eyed Pissh']. Akon, for me, represents something more worthy than a personal slag-off; I intend on using him to illustrate the frustrations I have had with regards to his music and that of all the current music culture.

It doesn't need to be said that I've not so much done this topic to death, as resurrected it repeatedly from cryogenic suspension to the point where it's one nervous sympathetic twitch away from totally destabilising its cellular physique and exploding into a cloud of cold whitish powder. Such is the prevalence of today's current musical culture however, that the fury within me directed towards it is given constant stirrings and cause for revival. It is to the point that I am almost concerned about how little it takes to start me off. I am however, given to feeling a simultaneous sense of pride, looking at how far I have managed to dissociate myself from modern-day music, that I can treat it with more than just casual disdain. My inherently pacifist and considered personality will preclude me from becoming part of a more physically radical solution, however let it be known that if for some reason someone were to bomb an Akon concert or some other rap, pop, faux-rock or R&B 'star''s lip-synching suckfest I would feel very strongly that some measure of justice has been served. It's not the wishing-death-on-people part that interests me, I just want to see some terminus to the dubious craft that is modern music.

Akon for me, represents all that is bad about the current music industry, and here are my reasons why:

1) Sudden stardom. No one had heard of this guy five years ago. Suddenly, from out of the ether, some two-bit producer pulled this identikit black rapper out of his ass named Akon, launched the biggest charm offensive this side of the Milky Way and made him mainstream. According to his Wiki article the man spent half his life in Senegal and half of it in the United States. Recording mostly from home, his tapes found their way up to Universal Studios who duly pressed an album and launched it into the mainstream idiosphere. This is the way the world works these days, where any person with a two-bit recording system and an ounce of 'talent' can be made the biggest thing on the planet, at least for a little while.

Andy Warhol was a prophet when he said 'In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.', and it's true. What happens when tastes switch and trends change? The industry in a way, provides answers before this question is even asked. At the end of it all, record producers want to make a buck or million, just like everybody else. That's why the music industry of today can seem to be saturated with 'talent', precisely because the more names a studio can pump out and throw in massive numbers at a stupid public, the more money they'll get, hence their urgency in snapping up any person who even has a vague idea of what music is as an artform. Which leads me onto my next point:

2) Pretentiousness of the industry. Akon's Wiki article is highly stressful of his West African roots. As the son of famed 1970s jazzist Mor Thiam, who was known for incorporating ethnic sounds into the modern jazz equation, it is assumed that Akon grew up true to his roots, in a candyland of musical wonder, where modern and traditional sounds melded in a potpourri blend that oozed class and intellectual distinction. No wonder Universal were so quick to publish his records, such a character would be the perfect riposte to tradition-advocating purists like myself- it would be better than a Kenyan Colombian coffee blend!

The reality: Here are some arbitrary lines, a short excerpt if you will, that I gleaned from Akon's song Ghetto, from the supposed breakthrough album of 2004. As Russell Brand would say, ''And this is verbatim...''

Nigga[sic] don't make me have to step in the club
Wit [sic] my dogs show all you mutha fuckas [sic] how we ball
Nigga [sic]don't make me show you how I can violate the law
Get your woman go up in the bar

Dog how tha [sic] hoe [sic] love me
Waitin' to show me?
(Look bitch you just a fuck)
And that how she gon [I'm tired of sic-ing] be
But niggas want a hand of in L O V E

Ah, tradition. I'm sure Papa Thiam's very proud. "Sure it's vanilla-flavoured gangsta rap, but he played the djembe once when he was seven!" You wouldn't be dissing tradition more if you hacked down a fully-decorated plastic Christmas tree with a chainsaw, set it alight and fucked the trunk while wearing a zombie Santa Claus outfit.

This is from a guy who isn't even considered a gangsta-rap artist, by the way. Many people have made it explicitly clear, he's an R&B artist. It wasn't too long ago that R&B was once the domain of B.B King, latterly Whitney Houston. So to class this guy as an R&B artist doesn't just stretch the credibility of the genre, but that of the entire music industry. If this is a re-invention, why stop there? Why not call all pop classical? Why don't we make policemen lawyers as well? Why not, we have a re-invention of the law, that allows every-day lay-persons like myself to gun down errant people who produce records for artists and falsely market them as having adherence to some form of tradition?

The sad thing is I'd actually believe that Akon at one point showed some genuine adherence to his roots. Perhaps his rhythms had West African beats, or maybe were played on traditional African instruments. It's so like today's industry however to kill off any semblance of individuality that might earmark an artist for greatness. The artist is either re-invented from the start, or once s/he has established a foothold in the industry. All the machinations of the current industry is to homogenise musical tastes so every artist sounds the same, creating a trend which mindless consumers lap up like the 36 varieties of milk and 62 brands of ketchup. The fact is we can excuse such character assassination because we're too used to a convenient uni-patterned world. We ironically take pride in human culture as being diverse, when we seem to make every attempt to kill off any slightest attempts at heterogeneity, to the point that the only indication a culture ever existed is in remixed soundbites of crappy R&B 'songs' and those families who eat curry every second Tuesday.

3) Pretentiousness of the artist. As much as I'd like to blame the industry, I'm a firm believer it takes two hands to clap. There's a neat little concept called 'selling out', which has become increasingly definitive of current music artists. We'd like to think that artists are victims of the current trend, perhaps growing up with naivette and illusions that they might somehow be the ones to bring a fresh new sound to the music world only to have their dreams dashed at the big step forward, that the bigwigs who control the industry metaphorically [and perhaps literally] holding a knife to their throats and demanding they change for the sake of change. All indications are, however, that the artist is as much a voluntary player in the game as s/he is a pawn.

The logic is simple: If artists genuinely saw themselves as such, they wouldn't change what they did for the sake of earning dollars and fame and becoming just another identikit size 2 cog in the big machine of industry. Take Akon for example. His father, being a highly respected and influential jazz musician could certainly have pulled contacts to establish his son in the thriving world music or jazz industry. If his stance as an artist was as noble as the term entails, he could easily have walked away. The same goes for all the others; instead, 'Senegal-sound' Akon sold out for the bright lights and Promised Land of mainstream music, adopting a faux-gangsta/R&B/tough muthafucka personality that is as contrived as it is confused. And no, I'm not of the opinion that having spent time in jail for stealing a car makes one a 'tough muthafucka', nor do you have to rap like one.

The fact is, the industry creates frankly idiotic personas such as these that all artists have to fit into if they want to be part of the system. If you can imagine a persona as a coat, it's as much the boutique's prerogative to sell a person the coat as it is the person's to buy and wear it. In that sense, I consider every mainstream artist as having made a considered, conscious decision. They all know what they signed up for, and all the alternatives they could have taken. If they truly believed music was an art, they would not willingly sign up to destroy their careers from the rootstock up, to make cookie-cutter music that sells for a penny a pound, and to adopt personas that illustrate nothing more than the crass, violence-worshipping, lifestyle borne of the Sybaritic excessiveness of the First World. And who, might I ask, advocates these personas?

4) Misguided public who don't have a clue. I'll leave you to mull over that one. You know who you are.

2008-05-27T19:03:00.000-07:00

The Importance of Being Plastic

Given my extended absence, coupled with the nature of my last post, you all probably thought I was dead, and in fairness, I thought I was too. Unless you are a cynic and a staunch believer that any blog other than your own was probably ghost-written, the appearance of this latest little essay should provide assurances as to the preservation of my own existence.

I have sobered up from that last experience, and whilst I won't bother going into the cliche of the importance of moving on, I will acknowledge its role. Nature is dynamic, and everything moves. She now has her own loving boyfriend to speak of, nice chap, an unassuming bloke and from the limited exposure I have had to him, is as much as she deserves. I wish both of them well. The human life is like a crazy road map. In this ever-shifting world of paradigms and progressions running parallel, perpendicular, and radiating in odd angles away and towards each other, it's important to keep moving and keep up. I don't at all mean this in a materialistic sense, though again I will grudgingly acknowledge its paramount importance. A friend [obvious privacy reasons here] will be undergoing cosmetic surgery in the winter holiday, a fine example of keeping, ahem, abreast of current trends. The average human being is two people, the one people think they are, and the one they really are. Making the two match is pretty much the entire key to existence as a human.

In a way it's all natural selection in another context, if you aren't who the rest of the world want you to be, you're in danger of being left behind and going extinct, a proverbial dinosaur in the Age of Mammals. Nature has indeed replicated itself in human thought progressions, as natural selection manifests itself in the dynamics of civilisation as trends rise and fall, people's mindsets and judgements change, and the world moves, not forward as most like to think, but in an infinitely indeterminate direction along an equally varied number of tracks. Ecologists term it phenotypic plasticity, the idea being that a creature's physique can be markedly varied even within a single species, all in the name of adapting to stresses and conditions in the natural system. The difference of course is a creature's motivation would be to stay alive, whilst in the compartmentalised, cloistered, post-1950s world we have set apart for ourselves, unless you're an extreme fuckcase, you're unlikely to die or kill just because you think differently.

The argument of course is the compromise conformity has on individuality. This is to me, however, a delusion cultivated by the minds of those people who evidently are insecure about who they are, and like to think they've built up and maintained a persona thoroughly different to that of all the other people on the planet. To be diplomatic, this is retarded. The only way a human being can be thoroughly distinct from another human being is if s/he isn't a human being at all. No matter how far removed a person's ideologies and thought patterns are from the mainstream, s/he is still only gleaning from the same and only trains of thought it's possible for a human to have, and no matter how 'alternative' they may seem, there's a whole group of people who will definitely obey these same rules and patterns. It is akin to an artist trying to paint a picture with the ambition of creating one utterly different to all the others, but no matter what he tries, he will always be reverting to the same palette of colours as everyone else always has, and that's something he can't and never will escape from.

This is why misanthropy is a partially misguided [though paradoxically, rather well-justified] concept. Misanthropy to me is not setting apart a lifestyle different to that of other humans; rather, it is hating an aspect of humanity sufficiently to choose an alternative path. In that sense, misanthropy defies nature, as no matter how utterly stupid the world seems around a person [and believe me I think the current world is plenty stupid] adamantly being stuck in a corner of the Mesozoic precludes a person from being truly adaptive. And I'll make it clear here, adaptivity isn't just about moving with current trends, it's about discarding the mindset that things do not have to change. Adaptivity is about moving on, tweaking one's mind and body as a compromise or counter to what the cards of circumstance deal. Emotional plasticity coupled with a preservation of the right values is the hallmark of those people who are truly successful, those who can move with the times, yet remember and stay true to what is truly the right ideal.

2008-03-19T08:25:00.000-07:00

Train of thought

One of my brave boasts is that in all my life I've never suffered a hangover. Now that boast seems increasingly brave, much to the point of foolhardiness. I've never been this hungover before, and alcohol or any other substance had nothing to do with it.

It hurts when the affection you devote to someone goes unrequited. It hurts even more when you first come to that realisation. I've been stonewalled many times before, but this was different. This was an investment of emotion, and whilst I am lucky I escape with the friendship [for now], the remuneration seems grossly inadequate and disproportionate. It seems one-dimensional and cruelly calculative to view courtship from an investment perspective, and I guess taking this angle seems to make every maneuvre I've made this past year engineered and contrived. I must stress this was emphatically not the case; my feelings were true, my intentions genuine. It is wrong to expect anything from anything, but this was more than a passing fancy, even more than a lustful crush; this was an actual selfless devotion of emotion, one of the type that once one pulls oneself into, one is given a great sense of self-worth, hope, and self-revolution. I did more than court. I loved, and I want to be loved back.

It can't happen now. The crashing surf has betrayed my supposedly sturdy vessel for what it is: a shallow, leaky pirogue with one oar, now rent upon the unforgiving rocks and swirls, which scoff at the notion of anything designed apparently seaworthy enough to survive their power. The maelstrom has ceased, the lapping tide now gently carrying the shreds of my hopes and scattering them in multitude locations, eroding them into unrecognisable fragments before finally sinking them into oblivion. And I am the battered, weary, torn survivor of that capitulation, drifting lazily onto the sandy shore of some abstract salvation, of immediate peace churned with desperation and grief, and of the future who knows?

One never forgets these poignant calamities, their marks will always be indelible, the repercussions of their happenstance forever marring and watermarking every subsequent relevant decision made. Time and practicality may layer them over with incident, but they never completely fade away. A wound that deep never completely heals, and as I'm left kicking my toes, sliding my clammy palms across my face in a gesture of world-weariness for the umpteenth time, staring into some abstract heaven, the sharp edge of that shard of destitution pushes its way through all the overlying layers revealing its tip once more.

No one who doesn't ask or isn't told will ever completely know. She will never know. Unless I made it known. A step borne out of foolishness, the vain belief that no matter what a faint hope of reparation must be maintained, because a chance exists which if I so happened to be in the right place at the right time, I might be the one who will grasp it. But it is all lechery, the frightful teasing of the mind weighing circumstance upon circumstance upon rationale, feeding the fire of hope which ironically burns more agonisingly than the blaze of initial rejection. This has been the source of my hangover; I have been ill for a week and a day, and till now this abject sense of emotional poverty sees no sign of abating.

The urge is to pour my heart out in a desperate bid to turn favour my way. How practical this is is questionable to say the least. It could only impact so much considering the relationship we have is 110% platonic. There's affection in this relationship; too bad then it has only been one-sided, unidirectional. And so as I spiral unendingly in the chaos of my own mental turmoil, I am left to my own devices, to constrict myself in the savagery and nauseating hangover borne from that which is a love unrequited.

2008-03-12T00:24:00.000-07:00

Idiacanthus fasciola.

I held the aged, yellowed glass cubicle in my hand. It was roughly a foot long, by about four inches high. My hands were grasping the cubicle, but my heart grasped what was embedded within. I held the tapered black ribbon in my gaze. Everything about it was beguiling: the almost two-dimensional strip of its body, sequined by regular patterns of white speckles, but itself as black as a gash in space and time, the lines of dots giving the impression someone had tried to repair the rip with a lace of diamond dust. Most beguiling of all though, was the head. It rose, like a horse about to upend its rider, as if defying the pegs that held its otherwise limp physique in suspension within the gently sloshing preservative. Its teeth were needles, projections extending beyond the gape of its jaws held perpetually sagging by more of the devil’s spikes contained deeper within its treacherous maw. In a humorous divertissement of evolution, from the chin streamed a thin white tassel, a singularly incongruous filament which extended into an elegant ‘come hither’ swirl beneath the arresting head. The eye was a sapphire, a jewel, a Koh-i-Noor, set in regal glory upon the bevel of this devilish crown. It spoke of having seen great wonders, fortitudes, repasts and tragedies no human mind could fathom, yet it was Nature’s irony that this blind tailor could not see. Nothing but an endless realm of black dimensions, progressing through black time, which this creature knew no beginning of, and finally was gifted blessed vision, only to behold the portents of its tragic end, the spirit of its existence snuffed out by the monstrosity which swept it into the shallows, initiating the paradigm towards its final resting place. Now its assaulted, cursed form lay bare in the rasping glare of the irradiating fluoro, the magnitude of its beauty caught in a shaft of idle early morning sunlight.

I stayed with the block for what seemed an abnormal eternity, my mind, addled from two nights of sleepless tribulation, struggling to come to terms with the culmination of a lifelong dream, one which had transported me through ten years of struggle, in which I danced the tarantella of fate which were to drag me through to my final reckoning, along this self-determined path of paved dreams and esoteric fantasies. Such was the flame of my ambition, and now I was here, having attained this stage, having dragged all horse and cannon slipping, sliding, kicking, crying through the raging gunfire of teenagehood, immaturity and self-doubt. Yet my mind could not linger. Hands trembling, I set the black dragonfish down on the lab table. The emotional fissures from within finally manifested, renting the context of my soul and shattering its already tremorous stability into unidentifiable fragments of grief. I began to weep. Not for the joy of attained glory, not for the incandescence of ambition achieved. No, this was unbridled, unadulterated sadness in condensed form. My knees bent in physiologically violating angles as I gathered my composure and left the stuffy malodorous chamber, perhaps thankful that not a soul had noticed my momentary meltdown. Poignantly I beheld the object of my accursed indecision as I passed, having not previously beheld it for better attentions up to then, paid elsewhere.

Where, where had I gone wrong? It had practically been a year to the day when I first sowed the seeds of my gut-wrenching dissolution. Oh to lament the weakness of the heart, the disregard for the unwieldy handrail of cynicism and caution wiser men use to steady themselves in such periods of weakness, the cataract of romance blinding myself from the forgiving shelter of sensibility, as I crossed over from the realm of pragmatism into one of misguided folly. The conclusion had long been forthcoming; I was too deluded to see it. As the entrancing scent of bait lures even the wiliest fox from its hole, even I was ensnared, too consumed by my own selfish delusions to contemplate any antagonistic ramifications. How I belted logic and rationale with the whip of fantasy and misplaced confidence. Now as I look back I trace the bloody steps of my progress from sane and sensible man to the unearthly pit of self-pity and lost hope. Desire had consumed me, now I was entering its digestive system, my prone hapless form and soul macerated into disintegration.

Those were blissful times. I cannot begrudge anyone the time, effort and soul I vested in this ultimately futile endeavour. The assessment is frank: I had set it up as a goal to attain, and I have through circumstance and loss of nerve, failed. It has proven me a man amongst men, one who sought the extravagant chalice yet ultimately could not hurdle the obstacles in his path. My own self-wrought quest to facilitate romance has now brought about my own self-wrought downfall. This failure has brought me to my knees, rended me to the core. I can no longer say I am wholesome in mind or spirit; I have lost faith in my sense of direction. No longer can I invest full measure of faith in the decisions that I make, no longer can I wrap bloody swords in cotton cloth of purity. I am bleak inside. Chastening is always a stark happenstance, but I have learned. It seems an irony that even as I beheld the very symbol of my greatest hopes and dreams all hope slipped away from me. No longer can I pursue such trifling matters with faith or any degree of meaningful ambition. Like a dog who fears his abusive owner, I cower from any prospect of future engagement and contact with that which has destroyed my confidence. As Edgar Allan Poe’s raven did quote, ‘Nevermore, nevermore.’

2008-02-25T06:58:00.000-08:00

Interesting thought, the one minute thought experiment. I shall try this out for myself.

When is this one minute going to start?

Oh, just now. Okay, er. Hmm, Parasitology's great, hoping more in the same vein will be forthcoming. I wonder what Taryn's up to. Probably sleeping. Had to backspace twice here, made two typos. I like pie, but only if the crust isn't too thick.

And that's a minute. Hmm. Intriguing. Let's try this again.

The tawny frogmouth is a native Australian bird which camouflages itself as a stump. Which for some reason reminds me of cigarettes. It's just occurred to me that if I could type as fast as I could think I would have more thoughts down in this one minute space. What of the world oil crisis then?

Darn. Overshot by three seconds. Exactly as I said, if I had the ability to manifest my thoughts in words as quickly as they come, I wouldn't be curtailed by my deficient typing ability. Oh well, a third try.

Saw a plane today. No I didn't, that was yesterday. My rat's got some sort of respiratory problem, I don't know what it is. Gotta catch Kaela in the aquarium someday. Oh, and experiment was approved, it's always nice, crap I have to email Maxi.

This is ridiculous. It's somehow just not working for me. I'll try something different, I'll try and name as many friends as I can in one minute. Starting....now.

Aiman
Alissa
Azam
Gabriel
Fahad
Taryn
Kaela
Pete
Alex
Alex
Daphne
Lily
Nadiah
Jolivette
Mario
Chian Shen

Wow...I am DEFICIENT! This isn't so much train of thought as a cartwheeling carriage with five busted wheels. I give up. This experiment sods.

2008-02-25T05:49:00.001-08:00

Well, actually...

Not quite.

I was up at Heron Island the past week, for a field course. The island is in the Capricorn-Bunker group at the southern end of the Great Barrier Reef, off the town of Gladstone [interesting fact: every stirring stick used in cafes in Australia and many other places was and is made in Gladstone, which also happens to be Australia's busiest port. Okay, that's two semi-interesting facts.]

The reason we were up there was because UQ has/had a research station on the island. I say had because a large swathe of it burned down last year in an accidental fire. Though no one was physically hurt the less said about that tragic incident the better. I don't have any photos of the research station, mostly because there was nothing to see, just a stack of improvised buildings and cabins. As you can see from the pictures the island was more interesting, though for the first three days the weather played havoc on us, with a 30-knot gale blowing through and weather greyer and wetter than knickers in a toilet bowl. Collecting fish for dissection in that weather was not a pleasant experience; hauling them back in a large bin full of water for a kilometre even less enjoyable. I duly caught a chill which degraded into a sneezing cold and dry cough, needless to say the knowledge that it could only have gone uphill from that point was highly motivating.

As you can see from the pics, the weather did eventually clear and the sun came out, which meant deviating from the labwork which until then I had been so passionately immersed in became highly tempting, and eventually, inevitable. But then who goes to the Great Barrier Reef and doesn't have a swim? Granted I wasn't like one of those mad dogs or Englishmen who pretty much swam regardless of weather conditions, but once the weather broke I wasn't about to pass up the opportunity, and I wasn't disappointed. The loggerhead turtle with carapace alone as long as I was tall was a well-deserved panacea for ten years of expectation, the eagle rays fairly swarmed, there were blacktip and whitetip reef sharks, stingrays the size of an American economic crisis and a giant grouper named Gus who apparently eats eagle rays whole, this wasn't so much kid in a candy store as a sugar-deprived sweet addict being dumped in a marshmallow making machine and left to die. If someone had offered me a magic potion which would have given me fins and the ability to live on that reef as some fish/human mutant forever I would have taken it with a grain of salt and a shot of tequila; as it is I'll settle for a post-doc research grant.

Given the paradisical feel about the place it was understandably hard for some people to associate the trip with any sort of actual work, and indeed this showed on some of the group. It does sometimes cheese me off that some people who evidently have little more than a passing interest in the course material bother to subject themselves to the torture of actually having to take it. 'Cheap trip to Heron' was probably the major factor here, but then these people evidently didn't reckon with the real reason why they were brought to the island in the first place. I won't single out anyone on this particular occasion, but it was definitely apparent some people were more dedicated to their work than others. I personally know I dutifully enjoyed the work component of this trip as much as the fun, and I'm grateful to the two coordinators, Tom Cribb and Rob Adlard, not to mention the tutors and station staff available, whose advice and supervision were indispensable throughout.

All in all it was a great and most importantly, productive, trip, one that I would undoubtably remember till my dying day.

I am now back in Brisbane and have started semester. Updates will definitely be fewer and further between than they have been in the last couple of months, what with work, research projects and perhaps even a casual job to juggle, but I have some to-do's on this site, most importantly the testimonial for Chian Shen which I have been working on, but not very whole-heartedly, I have to admit. Sorry Shen if you're reading this and wondering where that's gone.

2008-02-25T05:36:00.000-08:00

Heron Island. Enough said.

2008-02-08T00:29:00.000-08:00

As you, the reader may have already seen from my previous post, I treasure my friendships. To be more specific, I treasure good quality friends, the ones with whom you strike up a bond that lasts just about forever, with great depth of interaction and adds something to both parties’ lives, and ones you’ll definitely remember to the end of days. I rate friendships [much as it’s perhaps ethically debatable to rate friendships, but let’s for writing’s sake] on several criteria, feasibility being first and foremost, followed by longevity and effort. If a friendship can last an age and a score, there has to be something about it that allows the relationship to be maintained, thus feasibility is the highest of priorities. A good friend is someone whom, to me, I can get along with in any weather. Moreover, that friend adds value to my life, through the depth of our interaction. While it is true that friendships come and go, there will always be a few which I will always make an effort to preserve and maintain, by virtue of their depth.

That little segue completed, provides a fitting lead-up to this next discourse on Aiman Azri. As far as friends go, Aiman’s up there with the closest of them. One of only two friends with whom I maintain a close and near-constant interaction with from high school, he has been a friend for the past eight years, though we really only became close in the last couple of years of high school. Aiman provides an excellent example of how a friendship can last by virtue of connection. I always thought he was an enigmatic sort of person, one whose interests evidently seemed focused away from high school matters, but then that’s Aiman, a very out-of-the-box sort of person.

One of the first things that caught my eye was his English prowess. You could be forgiven for looking at Aiman and thinking he was nothing more than your conventional game-fanboy Malay guy, until he opens his mouth. Anyone who knows Aiman would know of his acerbic spin on things, good when you wish to have a good laugh, bad if you wish to cross lances with him. A very well-read person, he relishes opportunities to further widen his prowess and utilise it, which makes him adept at amongst other things, Scrabble and public-speaking. Indeed Aiman was a school rep for both. Already aware of his gift of the gab, I got to see it in action at the ISKL SEA forensics tournament back in 2004, in which we both participated. It was also great fun [and painful] battling it out with him over Scrabble, which we still do today. Being a school rep he was always a tough cookie, and is still a killer player to this day. It is perhaps fitting at this point that I insert a sportsman’s salute for many a fine battle waged. The 500-point thrashings he used to dole out were the motivation which spurred me to develop my own game, and it is perhaps my greatest tribute to him that I now can almost match his game.

In a big way, connecting on these levels helped establish a firmer friendship between us than I have been able to with most people. Along the way we found we could associate on and share just about anything, making him valuable company all these years, that even when I’m in Australia I ensure I maintain regular connection with him. Not many friends can be said to have changed me, but Aiman is one of those rare few. Knowing him inspired my own confidence in a big way, providing me the impetus to opening up and being more self-expressive. As has already been stated, his consummate talent at Scrabble spurred on my own development, and he has been able to encourage me not to take a sweepingly generalist view on things such as gaming. In a slightly more emulatory vein, I could perhaps claim that my own occasionally acerbic views are partly due to my exposure to Aiman’s own firebrand humour, and there isn’t a moment where we’re together that isn’t enjoyable. I am happy to have a friend with whom I can connect on so many levels with, and truly appreciate his company.

Aiman is Alissa’s boyfriend. To view his blog, visit http://mistcakes.blogspot.com

2008-02-08T00:28:00.000-08:00

With less than a week to go before return to Australia, I will reflect upon a holiday somewhat distasteful in several ways, but also cherishable in others. I also realise that for the most part I have not mentioned any of my friends in any detail since having started this blog. Hence I have decided to eulogise the three friends I have remaining in Malaysia with whom I share bonds remarkable in their depth and longevity. First though, the holiday. All in all it’s been relaxing enough, but there have been many instances where incidents have soured my stay here. This has entirely to do with the uneasy relationship I have with my parents, and particularly my mother.

As a staunchly religious family, my parents are all-action Buddhists of the Nichiren sect. Considering my own epiphanies regarding humanity and religion, my laxed attitude towards the faith I ostensibly belong to has caused much consternation amongst them. I will probably rant at length about that later. The other thing that my parents struggle to come to terms with is my own expressiveness. I find this a little odd, as I know for a fact that I have never been the most yes-sir-no-sir type of person, though I will admit I have indeed become much more vocal through the course of my residence in Australia. Whether this is an effect of living in a much more encouraging culture, or part of the natural process of growing up, or both, I can’t be too sure, but one thing is certain, it is certainly no booster for a healthily happy family relationship, particularly when you have parents who seem to take any sign of dissent as a gross affront to their authority. All this has made for some highly fractious encounters between us, and I cannot lie when I say I am relieved to be headed back none too soon. Don’t get me wrong, considering the depth of my relationship with my family these are pretty minor infractions, and they certainly do not affect my judgement of them.

All in all it’s been pretty stressful for a holiday, and it is at a time like this that I have grown to appreciate the few friends whom I can seek solace in, whether as a shoulder to cry on or as a means to counter some of the dismal feeling by enjoying the privilege of their company. Being who I am, I don’t have many friends. I am not one of those people who go around collecting as many companions as possible; I am content maintaining a few close friendships with people whom I can associate with on a deeper basis. In Malaysia I have really only maintained such a relationship with two, recently three, people. It is here that I choose to eulogise the first of those people, Alissa Roslan. I don’t often write eulogies. Eulogies are usually reserved for dead or special people; this is a special person.

Alissa came into my life in late November last year. She’s Aiman’s girlfriend, and we were introduced whilst I was still in Australia, over MSN. Considering how conservative I am with regards to meeting new people, it’s a little amazing how well we hit it off, especially since our first face-to-face meeting was still nearly a month away. Nevertheless, the friendship struck up, and though I learned little, I managed to glean a few ideas as to her character and her history.

Alissa met Aiman at some inter-college sports function back in [one of the two of you correct me if you’re reading this and find it erroneous] July, and despite an initial rocky start to their relationship, hit it off really well and officially became ‘an item’ just a short while before I was myself introduced to her. Right from the off she struck me as a very fun-loving character [really, who doesn’t want a bit of fun in their lives, but this was different somehow], if a little shy and soft-spoken. Without going into details, suffice to say her family has certain previous, though nothing altogether unconventional [I am unwilling to flesh this out, don’t bother asking]. Whether this has shaped her into what she is today, I won’t theorise on that either, but what’s certain is she comes across as one of the sweetest and most unpretentious people I’ve been privileged to meet.

All this from just a smattering of MSN chats, it would be a grievous deceit if I said I wasn’t anticipating our first meeting when I returned to KL for my summer holidays. She and Aiman came to pick me up from the train station. I can only assume I left a hell of a first impression as they drove down the avenue to the arrivals gate, what with me in my green suit, blue leopard-patterned shirt and long hair tied back with a rainbow scarf, not to mention one of the first conversations Aiman and I struck up being about putting rocket engines on roti canai [yes we are that random, pretty often], but all my positive assumptions about Alissa were duly confirmed, and as time passed, our friendship developed. In addition to her cheery disposition, we shared common ground in several interests, most notably classical music, piano [she’s a Grade 8 grad] and clothes shopping [well, sort of. Doing it with her is fun though]. Though we both like reading, her preferred genres differ stupendously from my own, but we still share a common appreciation for each other’s differences in that aspect. Essentially she turned out to be very cultured and though perhaps a little low on self-confidence has no doubts about carrying her own dignity forward.

We often hung out together, if not with Aiman, as was usually the case, then it was my privilege to share her company alone. Our time would often be consumed slowly perusing the shopping malls, talking about life and engaging in stupid banter, which taken altogether, was really plain fun. [It might perhaps be important to herewith address concerns some readers may have that I have perhaps been muscling in on my friend’s relationship or attempting to do so; let it be known this is as far from the truth as it’s possible to go. We all know our responsibilities towards each other as friends, and I certainly wouldn’t want to jeopardise my friendship with Aiman, whom I will admit is the closest friend I have from high school, together with Chian Shen. I will make it a point to detail my relationship with these two at some later point.]

This entry was written on the same day we hung out together, alone, for pretty much the whole morning and afternoon. Why I write this is because my meeting Alissa has been one of the most special things to have happened in a while for me, purely for the way we get along as friends. Now, and for the first time in a long long while, I have one more person to look forward to returning to. It’s just as well that she is in a relationship with arguably my closest friend right now. Random readers who don’t know me would obviously not know that I really have only two friends to return to whenever I come home, three if you now count Alissa. The rest of them are either intermittent passings in the street, or absent altogether. These three friends, for me, represent all that is right about friendships. The reason I have so few is because these were the only full friendships that I could carry forward with full sincerity, without pretensions, facetiousness or awkwardness. When one has so little, he learns to appreciate what he has got even more; with regards to friends, I am one who dwells in abject poverty. I cherish the ones I get, and now with my newest friend, my time back in Malaysia, which at times is frankly closer Hell than Heaven, has been made all the more precious and memorable.

Shameless plug: Alissa’s blog can be read here: http://alaistar.blogspot.com

2008-02-08T00:25:00.000-08:00

I’ve copped a lot of flak in my time, from many angles. Many have brought into consideration my apparent sense of controversy, i.e the way I seemingly look for or create my own causes for debate, which when comes to fruition, I will make clear my stance in as eloquently insulting and pernicious language as can be found. I guess one could say I argue a lot. The facts are clear: I see a clear counterpoint where people see perfection, and I have a big lexicon to dig into. It’s sort of like when Grandma insists on pulling out a whole sheaf of photo albums to embarrass your parents with whenever your family drops by: a big arsenal, and potentially humiliating for the target if utilised. Today I intend to utilise this potent weapon and will aim it a rather familiar and oft-referred to target: the Malaysian establishment.

First of February. Happy pointless stupid public holiday. Specifically it’s Federal Territory Day, an annual public holiday in all the federal territories in Malaysia [we have three, for some goddamned reason] , and the third midweek or weekday holiday in three weeks, soon to be followed by a fourth. There was Awal Muharam two weeks previously, a worldwide celebration marking the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday. Fair enough, I guess, even despite my aspiritual predilections I still have utmost respect for people who wish to celebrate religious holidays. Still, you could see the first signs that the government would ensure it stays well among the leader’s pack in the international foot shooting competition by declaring Thaipusam a national holiday. Until now, the Hindu celebration of the gods was a limited affair, with public holidays only declared in a few states; Kuala Lumpur remained unconcerned by the event. Political cynics [this demographic comprises most Malaysians lucid enough to perceive something is deeply rotten in this country] will [ELECTIONS] have [ELECTIONS] their [ELECTIONS] own [ELECTIONS] varying [ELECTIONS] theories [ELECTIONS] as [ELECTIONS] to [ELECTIONS] why [INDIAN RACIAL PROBLEMS] the [ELECTIONS] current [ELECTIONS] establishment [ELECTIONS] would [ELECTIONS] suddenly [ELECTIONS] choose [ELECTIONS] to [ELECTIONS] declare [ELECTIONS] this [NEED I GO ON?] a [REALLY?] nationwide [YOU SERIOUSLY NOT GETTING THIS?] public [FINE, OKAY] holiday [ELECTIONS YOU FUCKING CRETIN].

In lieu of current circumstances there’s more favour being curried than the biggest nasi kandar cookout competition [certified Malaysian Book of Records, naturally], so in a sense the declaration of Thaipusam as a public holiday surprised no one and is actually somewhat understandable. Hey, after all, it is a hefty 8% of the population who actually make it meaningful. It is, however, a lot more inexplicable why when considering the aforementioned circumstances, the government still chooses to persist with as meaningless and impractical a holiday as Federal Territory Day. With Chinese New Year around the corner, this would mean four weeks would have passed consecutively with a weekday being allocated for a national vacation. When you consider that two of these are essentially pointless tomfoolery, it’s a wonder we haven’t yet lobbied the International Olympic Committee to make holidaying an official sport. We would after all win hands down. No other country I know has nearly as many public holidays as Malaysia. Every race and majority religion is afforded at least one holiday celebrated either nationwide or by one or several states: Id, Awal Muharam, Chinese New Year, Diwali, Thaipusam, Wesak Day, Christmas, Aidiladha, Ka’amatan, Gawai, not to mention Independence Day, New Year’s, the king’s birthday, and every sultan’s birthday which thankfully is only celebrated by the relevant state.

For the sake of racial togetherness and commune, perhaps allowing most of these holidays to stand is a good thing, but then what’s the deal then with something fucking pointless like Federal Territory Day? The holiday was founded with the intention of fostering appreciation of the country’s capital city and the roles it plays in the manipula…running of the country. A noble thought, perhaps, but then seriously, who gives a flying fuck, especially when there’s so many other more valid holidays to celebrate? The fact is we have frankly too many holidays. It’s a wonder we haven’t cottoned onto Easter and Armistice Day, and frankly Fed Territory Day is stupidly redundant and redundantly stupid. It might perhaps have worked if we didn’t have three of them. Celebrating the beauty and la-de-la of one capital city might actually be fine, but with three, no one could reasonably be expected to take this celebration seriously. In fact, Fed Territory day itself long ago ceased to be an actual celebration. Gone are the spectacular propaganda-style parades through the city centre [in fact I can’t even recall us ever having those for this holiday], there have been no initiatives taken by any branch of administration to rekindle some form of actual celebration, and the only hint of ecstasy faintly emanates from small localised parades held away from the city and the minds of most rightfully-occupied Malaysians. So low-key were the ‘celebrations’ I had no idea they even happened until a week afterward.

The only thing Federal Territory Day was good for was the fact it gave our family an opportunity to spring clean the house in anticipation of CNY, and I’m sure most other people living in the affected areas had their minds occupied by such things as concerns over the impact another fucking useless and irritating weekday public holiday would have on government expenditure and national wealth, or ironing out that important international business deal which would have had to be postponed because guess what? The Malaysian’s on holiday. No one I know takes Federal Territory Day seriously, so much so it isn’t even celebrated properly anymore. The fact that the current establishment persist in believing it is still practical to maintain a useless holiday such as this together with the 2,408 other holidays, and insist on doing so, shows what kind of facetious un-foresighted gits they are. Perhaps no one in a position of authority would ever read this rant [and given the dissenting tone of it and several other articles here, it’s probably just as well] but if they do, here’s me unabashedly speaking on behalf of the rest of the Malaysian people: Federal Territory is a fucking useless holiday, GET RID OF IT!

2008-01-29T10:47:00.001-08:00

I haven’t enjoyed a movie in a very long time. I’ve seen a few, mind, but none of them delivered on the promise of early reviews or trailers. Indeed a good number of them, such as I Am Legend, weren’t even promising to begin with. Yet strangely, I approached Sweeney Todd with no apprehensions, nor did I once doubt its potential prowess. In fact, I was actually looking forward to this movie. Movies I have such a feeling about are not so much few and far between as they are people in an Alabama KFC with a viable body cholesterol index: they do happen, but extremely rarely, and once one happens one it’s usually epochs before you see one again. Ocean’s Thirteen was the last, before that I can’t recall looking forward to a movie with expectation, and incredibly, though not altogether unexpectedly, Sweeney Todd delivered.

Knowing that literally tonnes of armchair movie critics [which isn’t very many frankly, given the usual bulk of the average movie critic, combined with their higher-than-average density] would probably have eagerly smashed their meaty digits over their keyboards deifying the Tim Burton-Johnny Depp partnership and demanding bronze statues of the two fellating each other be wrought as a consecration of their eminent symbiosis, I won’t bother going into that. Indeed I won’t even agree the Burton-Depp partnership was a major factor in this movie’s success; it’s not like every movie they made together was a good one [see Bride, Corpse and Factory, Charlie and the] and besides, script-wise it couldn’t get much better than a pre-prepared Stephen Sondheim musical. Genius served on a platter as far as the ‘story-writers’ were concerned for this particular flick. In fact the movie was a success for me due to nothing more than two factors: one, Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter turned in a brilliant shift, and two, Tim Burton was the luckiest director in Hollywood storyline-wise.

What can I say? Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter, spring chicken vestal virgins as far as musical performing goes, somehow pulled it off. There is no doubt the two are talented actors, though the melodramatic Depp’s flame has flickered significantly in more extravagant roles, this one was an ideal story to showcase his undoubted talent in looking bland. The lad pulls a great deadpan, so much so that one scene in particular, the montage of Todd and Mrs Lovett planning their future together [well it really was just Mrs Lovett planning both their lives together, but let’s not be unnecessarily semantical, I’m actually writing a positive movie review], became an almost apologetic parody of Depp’s prowess at facially evoking character despondence.

Less well-predicted was the leads’ ability to flourish in musical-movie roles, one which is sufficiently challenging as to be considered unfeasible by the largesse of the mainstream actors and hence the directors. Do not be fooled by the recent proliferation of musical movies, not since Julie Andrews and Audrey Hepburn could anyone claim to have adequately reproduced specialist musical acting in a full-scale movie setting. Depp and Bonham Carter stepped into the breech and came through unscathed, as their prowess in conveying the melodramatic carried into a radical new acting style. I’m in no position to be assured the vocals and sound editing team didn’t have a field day going through the singing parts, so whether it was natural talent or heavily glossed-over editing that comprised the major glory of the final product remains to be judged by the more discerning, it however left a decent positive impression upon this movie-goer.
Taken in its entirety the movie was a trademark Tim Burton; melodrama and whimsy ran parallel to one another all the way through, creating the prevalent mood. Most of the signature Burton film nuances were present: the ghostly pallor of the characters’ faces, the surrealistic scenery, backed up by splendidly atonal and abstract music, the vibrantly computer-generated graphics which somehow seem out of place, yet distinctly complement the otherwise oddly contrasting overriding melancholy of the whole film. You get the feeling something prevailingly sinister is pervading the entire context of the movie, even though the attempted imagery is unabashedly cheerful. The wry moments of comedy expertly inserted at well-spaced intervals are another key feature of a Tim Burton flick such as this one. All movies will somehow attempt this, yet none seem to achieve the same complementary effect as the humour moments in Sweeney Todd, or perhaps they’re just unlucky they don’t have the mastery of Johnny Depp to carry it through. All in all this was aces as a movie, the perfect way to begin a year, leaving the prevailing cynic in me pretty much assuming it could only go downhill from here in 2008. Highly recommended. A+ [and an extra couple of stars on top]

2008-01-29T10:45:00.000-08:00

Mankind is a species which has doomed itself because of its own intelligence, yet there are myriad people, in fact the largesse of the population, which fail, or are unwilling, to accept or believe this. Why I bring this up is because of a rather intense discussion between myself and my mother recently. Without going into too much detail, she basically criticised my apparent ‘cynical and fatalistic’ outlook upon life. Anyone who has read my posts will probably reckon with this. My Mom, a Buddhist so staunch Virgin Mary statues weep on instinct when she passes them, is still beholden to the human spirit, i.e she has faith that humans have something profound which elevates them above all other species, giving them control over their lives and ultimately the fate of the entire populace, evidenced by the fact that we have created for ourselves concepts such as religion, technology and wisdom: stuff we perceive makes us superior to all.

It apparently pains my Mom whenever I scoff at notions of the human spirit. To her, it is what brings about the tenacity to pull through times of great trouble, and basically what gives us ‘strength of mind’. This belief in our incomprehensible power is the mainstay of most of the eastern religions, and the overriding idea behind humanity’s drive to become absolutely superior beings. It’s the basis behind the ‘feel-good factor’ one gets from watching plucky-underdog-triumphs-against-incredible-odds movies. What I take issue with however is, why are we so arrogant as to believe we are the only ones capable of perpetuating a ‘spirit beyond our spirit’?

Why do we have the temerity to think that we are so superior? I’ll tell you why, because quite simply, man can make hummus. It’s as simple as that. Man can make hummus. Fuck, man can make pretty bloody well everything, and that’s the point. Humans have a superior comprehension intelligence brought about by the superior size of their brains, okay, fair enough. We have for thousands of years harnessed this intelligence to better our lives by making things. As a species we basically moved a step up beyond the chimpanzee era whereby we stopped sticking sticks into termite mounds and instead began piecing many different components together to create more complex implements. Everything we have created so far is a manipulation of hundreds of complex implements, themselves manipulations of even more simpler implements, to create an endpoint which suits our liking. Now Man has, and likely will, create anything and everything within the bounds of her/is comprehension. Hummus is just one example; doors, bicycles, roof tiles, tissue paper, glass panelling, maths theorems, Humvees, hard disks, fridge magnets, Levi’s jeans, shortwave detection satellites, humanity will make anything it godamn pleases, purely because it can, and it is this capability above anything and everything else that has made us arrogant.

Every thing, before it is made real or otherwise physically apparent, starts off as a concept. We operate on the basis that we can make concepts out of logic, and this ability allows us to create things and intelligence-wise, to be a par above everything else living on this planet thus far. The definition of intelligence then, is basically our ability to conceptualise on a complex level, and more often than not realise those concepts, or at least, as in the case of abstract concepts like political systems and religion, bring them to a near-perfect state of logic ostensibly comprehensible by all, and this is where man’s biggest failing lies. Our intelligence, our stuff, has blinded us to the fact that we are still essentially animals, governed by the same rules, dictates, and systems of nature. You have to be pretty blunt to have not realised this has fallen far out of our reckoning for centuries. Religions have always preached against it, Man has always been too ready to believe it, and all the while H/She has gone on to blur the line between himself and other species by creating ever more things.

We’ve reached the point whereby we’ve stopped fulfilling the things we need and are now [have been for centuries, really] fulfilling desires for things we want, unnecessary products borne out of our supreme level of consumerism. We are the only species that ‘needs’ another atomic bomb, or a handphone with a camera in the flip joint. We have now filled our lives, right down to the level of every individual, with hallmarks of our decadence. We have essentially created a Matrix world, one filled with everything we wish to imagine is real, an emporium of our creativity, a showcase of our industriousness, a world we revel in as we come to terms with our own stupefyingly superior capabilities of thought. The arrogance we have as a result of this false sense of self has degenerated into a cool disregard for the nature we forgot we were a part of, which is why it shocks our sensibilities every time a hundred thousand people die in a hurricane, yet it isn’t beyond our principles to move right back into the disaster zone in the aftermath in order to face the same rigmarole again next week. Why not? We could always rebuild, you know, MAKE MORE THINGS. Who cares that we are essentially missing the point about our own stupidity, or that we are destroying the very environment we live in as a result of our actions?

We are now at the point whereby the candy-pop la-la-land we’ve created is now pushing the real world, the environment, away and aside; we somehow forgot we were supposed to share this planet with everything else. It’s become such that every step we take can’t be taken without causing some harm to the world around us. Sure we can still create everything we want and need, but with what? Artificially-generated materials aside, we claim everything we need first-hand from nature. Under the guise of being ‘environmentally conscious’ (read we’re feeling pretty fucking guilty) we’re now apparently taking steps to put back what we took, replanting trees etc., not realising that no matter what we do now, it’ll always result in a net loss for the rest of the environment. Our consumerism has resulted in a plague of humans which has thrown the entire balance of the planet off. You need only see the average Malaysian at a hotel buffet to see what I mean. We are the only species that takes more than what we need at any one time, gone is the squirrel-reckoning we probably once had, of taking and storing only what is needed and leaving the remainder to whoever else might need or want it.

We’re so out of touch with the concept of natural balance we’ve now reached the stage where we have to fight amongst ourselves for natural resources. That’s always been a hallmark of the modern man; we won’t take what we need, we won’t even take what we want, we’ll take GODAMN EVERYTHING. We’ve already proven we’re not the only species that wilfully goes to war with others of the same kind [another one of those traits we don’t want to realise we share with the animals], but it’s not the fact that we’re fighting, but what we’re fighting for that’s absurd. We fight over oil, we fight over the land that might have the oil, we fight for every scrap of woodland, marshland, island or wasteland available; we’re actually fighting for our insatiable need to consume everything on this planet. Everything we do now at this point is borne out of a battle to consume resources; we don’t even know why we consume the way we do, we just want to do it. Every step we take to mitigate our actions, however sincere, is nothing more than a facetiously lame attempt to stymie the relentless assault we perpetuate upon our environment.

Mom tells me not to be cynical about humans. I proceed to observe: from where are you telling me this? From the inside of a luxury four-seater sedan car, a veritable gas-guzzler which takes fuel at a hundred bob a pop, on a drive home from Singapore, combusting five hours worth of said fuel, on a bitumen road, flanked by plantations, all of which cut through tracts of rainforest disrupting the biodiversity, displacing the wildlife and creating soil erosion, a winding stretching pathway leading to and from two cities the size of countries, where immeasurable sources of pollution converge. The car is padded with artificial leather, the production of which requires the synthesising of numerous plastics and polymers which will never biodegrade and will fill up the landfills and dumps long after we cease to exist. If an intelligent being left Alpha Centauri now for Earth, it can expect to trip on a plastic bag as soon as it gets here. We eat food generated by factories, farms or harvests direct from nature, all with their innumerable impacts upon the environment, cooked by restaurants which flush their waste into drains and tributaries, stay in houses or hotels which consume gigawatts of electricity powered by generators that consume tons of fuel creating even more waste gas to be pumped into the atmosphere; how can I afford not to be cynical?

I will inevitably be derided for being an armchair critic, spouting pointless vitriol without the sensibility to get off my fat arse (my arse is not fat) to do something about it. What these people will not realise is, returning to my original point, humanity has doomed itself and will continue to doom itself with every course of action taken. The progress along this trajectory has passed the point of no return; mankind is doomed simply because H/She exists. My advice to the rest of the world? Go out there, enjoy what there is to enjoy. Screw prevention, the only thing we can do now is minimise our negative effect upon the planet, so enjoy it limitedly, but let’s stop bullshitting ourselves about our so-called responsibilities for the planet. As far as we’re concerned, we’re just another species on this lonely lump of rock in this corner of the universe. We are small, we are insignificant beings. We have about as much responsibility for the state of the planet as all the other things on this planet. The only responsibility we have now, what with our ‘intelligence’, is fucking it up, soon nature will take its course and obliterate our species the same way most everything that’s ever lived on this planet has been. To quote George Carlin, “the planet is fine, the people are fucked”. Let’s stop thinking we’re above all that.

2008-01-29T10:42:00.000-08:00

A One-act comedy of errors

Scene: Some marble-floored, walled and ceiling-ed hall of buffoonery, home to an imaginary institution so pretentiously important its abbreviated name has an abbreviation. A class is in progress; it’s obviously detention, as only a handful of slouching teeth-picking idle-minded sods have showed up. An abstract teacher saunters in, dumps books too thick or complicated for any of these pupils to ever contemplate finishing on a commodious front desk, and begins...

“Good evening class, today’s lesson is going to be about ‘Freedom of Speech’. Now before I begin, does anyone here not understand what freedom of speech is?”

Malaysia [raising its hand idly]: No teacher, I do not. [A few other pupils follow suit warily]

Teacher: I see. Well, it looks like we have a lot to cover today. For the benefit of those who have just raised their hands, freedom of speech is basically the freedom of the citizens of a particular country to voice whatever opinion he or she may have, whither by publication, speech or mindset.

At this point, several students get up and leave the class. The biggest and toughest looking of them, the Soviet Union, is first, followed by several from the Arab region. China and North Korea dutifully follow, the last pausing only for a bout of temperamental fist shaking in the direction of the teacher, who is rather taken aback. Little Singapore, anxious not to be left out, scurries out after them.

Teacher: Well, they’ll never learn will they? Oh well, best continue with what we have. Now, I’m assuming you’re all here because you think that there is a right for countries to exercise stiff censorship of their citizens’ views, am I right? [a few nods from the class] The fact is censorship is all part and parcel of freedom of speech, now I’ll bet none of you knew that, did you?

Malaysia: I exercise stringent censorship of speech, but having a multiracial make-up, I do so in order to ensure the public do not offend one another. It’s a very fragile balance, is multiculturality, and is one I will try to maintain so we will continue to look good in the eyes of other countries, even if it means denying that I am cloistering those under my control.

Teacher: Ah, but you didn’t reckon with the responsibility of the people within your control, did you? You see, freedom of speech requires several key features to be operative. The first is discretion, more specifically the wisdom of how to exercise discretion when necessary. People may say anything and everything, but it is as much to their discretion what they choose to say or not to say, as it is for you, the listener to pay any attention. Thus the prerogative is on both sides to remain respectful of the other’s right to convey any opinion, without acting upon the urge to shut them down at the slightest hint of controversy. This leads to the second key feature, which is responsibility. Again this works both ways: as much as people may wish to say whatever they want to, they will have to learn to keep it respectful. It is one thing to have a vociferous opinion, and another to downright insult the other party. Having said so, some people due to sheer ignorance require a real kick up the arse, and this is where responsibility in the form of diplomacy must be exercised. A person may be admonished, but in terms that are restrained.

[At this point, Malaysia stands up, triumphantly waving a copy of a well-known newspaper, The Star, dated Monday, January 14th 2008. Always ready to please the superiors, he turns to the letters pages and points to the lower right corner of the right page. There is published a letter submitted by a humble blogger the previous week. At this point, the teacher interjects…]

Teacher: Ah, Malaysia. I see you have given due recognition to the blogger who submitted the letter you showed me last week. I highly recommended you publish his letter in its entirety, he did after all make very cogent and eloquent rebuttals to the idiot whose letter you allowed the previous Wednesday.

Malaysia: Indeed I published it, teacher. However I had to heavily edit it. He was to my mind, too heavy-handed, and might have offended the sensitivities of more than a few people if we had published the unaltered version. It was practical to do so anyway, as you can see I put it in a small red box next to another letter addressing the same topic to keep it contextual. It makes it look like I merely edited it to make it fit the allocated space.

Teacher: Come, bring it up here, let me see what you have done.

[Malaysia obliges. He brings the page up for the teacher to see. The letter sure enough, is there, and is published as follows…]

Wrong to say only a few good men out of 900mil

I refer to Africans must clear their own image (The Star, Jan 11). This is exactly the kind of blinkered and unfounded stereotyping that proves just how progressive and open-minded the average ‘modern’ Malaysian is.

At the end of his letter, the writer attempts to use Malaysia as some sort of counterpoint, stating that we are lauded and admired by many African nations “for good governance and improving the quality of life of the ordinary people”.

Fair enough, perhaps, but then it doesn’t justify the tar-brush he used to smear the African people.

As a Malaysian, I am as aware as any other of the types of Africans we are used to. We read and hear about the money-laundering and employment scams, and the occasional violence exacted by groups or individuals of expatriate Africans.

But I fail to see how it is in any way justifiable to use that stick to beat an entire continent over the head with. We’re not even talking about individuals or sub-groups here, we’re talking about 900 million people in 53 countries covering 6% of the entire surface of the Earth!

It is small-minded to suggest the most that can come out of 15% of the world’s population are a few “good men”. Negative stereotyping isn’t the fault of the Africans themselves. Africa isn’t what we see on CNN or read about in the news. Every country, region and culture has its problems. Each has its quirks and issues, we provide the stereotyping.

In Malaysia, a friend of mine cannot walk the streets in his Iron Maiden T-shirt without people gawking at him, any lad with long hair is a rebellious punkish troublemaker, and any young woman in a short skirt is loose or a China girl.

I have come to know many Africans from all over the continent in my time as a foreign student, and from what I can tell they are like many of the world’s other races, proud and confident about themselves.

It is one thing to maintain conservative values, and another to judge every other race on the basis of fear and what we derive from the news. What we see and interpret of Africans, and indeed all other people around us, is not necessarily what they are.

We would do well to stop taking everyone at face value and recognise that sure, they may not be what we are, and yes, some of them are bad, but then no two people are the same.

Multiculturalist, Kuala Lumpur.

[The teacher reads the letter thoroughly, and then pulls out a sheet of paper; it is a copy of the original letter. The teacher makes a lengthy comparison between the two, and then peers up severely at Malaysia, who is still standing and beaming from cheek to cheek…]

Malaysia: See, I published it, I gave him a chance. He was of course, way too controversial for our liking, so we had to do a little ‘butchering’. I even changed the pseudonym, just to show he can’t mess with me the way I expected him to.

[At this point the teacher stands up and admonishes Malaysia]

Teacher: Oh Malaysia, how could you? Butchery is a fine word indeed! You cut out all semblances of rebuttal and passion from the letter and have reduced it to a pile of non-directional rambling void of message or cogency! Not only did you change the pen name, you changed the title, the content of the letter, and even the order at which he wrote it! You have clearly not practiced proper free speech in this instance, you have clearly had only one thing on your mind, and that is sterilising the letter according to your own conservative standards out of your fear that it might offend people. See, this is the third key feature of free speech, and that is courage. Governments must have the courage to allow the citizens to exercise freedom of speech, if not they will become significantly more radical under the suppression, leaving them vulnerable to irresponsible outbursts. A government cannot in this situation be paranoid about people’s sensitivities; the onus is on them to allow the citizens to become progressive and accepting on their own accord. You, Malaysia, have evidently acted out of this age-old fear. This is what is keeping the citizens back, they are not allowed to truly express themselves, because you yourself try to sanitise everything in order to retain a sense of non-controversy. If you want a good example of freedom of speech, look at Australia. In this regard, he excels because he practices excellent free speech. Look at the flowering of awareness amongst the citizens as they are allowed to debate and maintain any point of view that they wish. Look at the number of protests held everywhere, people are allowed to protest government policies which they regard as dubious, and they know to do so peacefully because they are aware of their responsibilities as citizens. The government itself knows the prerogative of paying heed to its citizens’ calls lies above all with itself, so it can choose whether to act upon the initiative or disregard them totally. They have the confidence in themselves that they have, at the end of it all, the final say, and if they so wish, will not put it beyond themselves to actually address the issue at hand and give it due consideration. You, Malaysia, and all the rest of you other countries, would do well to learn from this fine example of freedom of speech.

[Malaysia, thoroughly cowed, shifts uneasily. But then a resolute glower flickers across his face. He is determined to show he will not bow to the outside pressure…]

Malaysia: You know what? I don’t have to care about what Australia or other people do. I am a shining light for the rest of the world, a beacon of modernisation and a model for all the others who aspire to become me. I do not wish to hold true to whatever you have been saying because I hold true to my principles and traditions, and none of you may ever contravene that. Freedom of speech is for those who wish to live dangerously, for those who cannot foresee that it will only lead to a total loss of control amongst the citizenry. For the sake of my image I will not loosen my principles for such infidel behaviour.

[Malaysia storms out of the hall. The teacher’s gaze follows him through the door, head shaking slowly…]

Teacher: I have tried to teach you the proper way to progressive happiness. It is clear, Malaysia, you will never learn…

2008-01-11T03:07:00.000-08:00

The following is a letter I wrote in response to one I saw published in today's The Star, a local daily in Malaysia. The latter was itself a response to one published on the 31st of December, pleading fairness in the locals' judging of Africans. For those not in the know, African expats in Malaysia are given pretty unfair stick by the locals. In fairness some of the bad rep is warranted, as many have resorted to crimes such as employment or money-laundering scams to get by. Incidents of thuggery in the city centre have also been reported, however in classic Malaysian tactful moderation many have chosen to slap a label on the entire continent, a fine example of which appears below:

Africans must clear their own image

I believe the majority of Malaysians will not agree with Stephen Ng who pleaded that "...we have to avoid stereotyping Africans..." (The Star, December 31).

There may be good Africans like students Ile Pius of Nigeria and Emmanuel Muheka of Mozambique. Unfortunately the good men of Africa, like President Nelson Mandela, are the exceptions rather than the rule.

Negative stereotyping of Africa is the fault of the Africans themselves. Mention Africa and nothing positive comes to mind. Africa is synonymous with corruption, misadministration, power-crazy leaders, inept civil service, war, poverty, famine, disease etc.

My own experience with Africans in Kuala Lumpur cannot rid me of my negative opinion of them. In fact. those spoke to agree that good governance is lacking in their respective countries.

Until and unless the Africans themselves set their house in order, no amount of defence from Stephen Ng can change the negative stereotyping by Malaysians of Africans.

At one time, the world stereotyped Malaysia as a backward and hopeless country. Today, Malaysia is looked upon as a model for many African countries and has received accolade [sic] from the World Bank and other multilateral agencies for good governance and improving the lifr of the ordinary people.H

Hassan Talib
Gombak, Selangor.

Now that we've got that idiocy out of the way. You'll notice of course, its sheer class and eloquence relative to the above drivel. Not to mention it actually makes a cogent point. You'll notice I carefully plagiarised his title, just to be deliberately contrary. Careful psychological analysis will also show the pseudonym to be an ingenious piece of mental play: succinct enough to adequately state my role as moral crusader extraordinaire, just long enough to dissuade people from wanting to type it out for themselves and thus formulate a [probably stupid] response. I'm just stupendous that way. After a while, you'll begin to feel it even looks better, even though both have been typed in the same font. Sometimes I think I'm just bloody awesome.

Malaysians must clear their own negativities

I am writing in response to Hassan Talib's letter titled "Africans must clear their own image" (yesterday's letters passim). He writes "unfortunately, good men of Africa...are the exceptions rather than the rule.", and goes on to say "Mention Africa and nothing positive comes to mind.". This is exactly the kind of blinkered, lazy and unfounded stereotyping that proves just how progressive and open-minded the average 'modern' Malaysian is.

Mr Talib has the audacity to generalise, not one country or two, but an entire continent. By Africans I assume he means Nigerians who are to us nothing more than scamming thieving gregarious thugs. Perhaps Mr Talib would like to take a look at his or somebody else's wedding ring, studded more than likely with a diamond which originated from South Africa. I assume Mr Talib has never been on safari in Kenya, or for that matter heard of Egypt. Maybe someone would like to mention to Mr Talib sub-Saharan Africa's role as the cradle of all mankind according to evolutionary theory, or point out the number of African football players currently playing in the English Premier League we Malaysians worship so much. But no, I guess it's true, no good does come out of Africa, those corrupted, mis-administrated, power-crazy, inept, war-mongering, dirt-poor, starving diseased people.

At the end of his letter Mr Talib attempts to use Malaysia as some sort of counterpoint, stating that we are lauded and admired by many African nations "for good governance and improving the quality of life of the ordinary people". Fair enough, perhaps, but then it doesn't justify the tar-brush Mr Talib, and I assume many other Malaysians, use to smear the African people. We, 25 million of us, with our cooking oil crises, snatch thieves, deforestation, 5.1% poverty and a broadband connection so shaky my Internet died twice before I could send this letter, have some cheek mis-labelling the entire continent of Africa. We have environmental issues. We have poverty issues. We have crime issues. We have political issues. We have a 0.4% AIDS prevalence rate (2005). In short we have everything the continent of Africa has, because that's what we are, another part of the world, another country. Yet we dare make comparisons? On what basis, that we are somewhat more well-run, developed, and pretty than most of Africa? That's short-sightedness.

As a Malaysian, I am as aware as any other of the types of Africans we are used to. We read and hear about the money-laundering and employment scams, and the occasional violence exacted by groups or individuals of expatriate Africans. But I fail to see how it is in any way justifiable to use that stick to beat an entire continent over the head with. We're not even talking about individuals or sub-groups here, we're talking about 900 million people in 53 countries covering 6% of the entire surface of the Earth! It is small-minded in the extreme to suggest the most that can come out of 15% of the world's population is a few "good men". How is it fair to assume that the whole of Africa, or even the entire country of Nigeria, for instance, is populated entirely by money-grabbing thieving hooligans? How do we expect to be able to progress or even call ourselves a globalised nation when we continue to harbour such blinkered views of the people around us?

Perusing the papers or the news channels we would of course hear of the bad hats, the criminals and evil-doers, and less of the kindred spirits. To assume against the entire populace based on that one perspective alone is frankly nonsensical, to say the least. Indeed without going into any implications, I find it deeply ironic and contradictory that Mr Talib can claim that he has spoken to Africans, obviously 'good' ones, when he concomitantly admits to harbouring a "negative opinion of them" in the very same sentence.

Let me make one thing clear, negative stereotyping isn't the fault of the Africans themselves. Africa isn't what we see on CNN or read about on the news. Every country, region and culture has its problems. They have their quirks and issues, we provide the stereotyping. The truth is we have a propensity to judge the world around us with coloured lenses. The fact is that in Malaysia a dear friend of mine cannot walk the streets in his Iron Maiden T-shirt without people gawking at him, that any lad with long hair is automatically a rebellious punkish troublemaker, that any young woman in a short skirt is loose or a China girl. I have come to know many Africans from all over the continent in my time as a foreign student, and from what I can tell they are like many of the world's other races, proud and confident about themselves. Perhaps we balk when we see a group of Africans in their hoodies strutting and talking loudly because we fear their confidence, just as how we so readily sneer upon similarly self-confident people.

It is one thing to maintain conservative values, and another to judge every other race on the basis of fear and what we derive from the news. Quite simply, the cover does not reflect the book; what we see and interpret of Africans, and indeed all other people around us, is not necessarily what they are. We have to stop this negative stereotyping of other people purely on the basis of what we think we know. I would even go so far as to say if I was accosted by Africans in the street I would not harbour resentment, purely on the basis that it simply does not represent the run and rule of the entire populace. We would do well to stop taking everyone at face value and recognise that sure, they may not be what we are, and yes, some of them are bad, but then no two people are the same. Perhaps then we can really progress as a respected nation, and not the "backward and hopeless country" the world apparently thought of us.

In Defence Of True Multiculturalism

2008-01-11T02:04:00.000-08:00

We did something different this Jan the first. Fans of gregariousness would no doubt look fondly upon the fact that I have as of now lost my virginity for New Year's mass celebrations. We attended the gathering at KLCC this time, as paying guests of Mom's friend's restaurant Chinoz. The restaurant provided good views of the fireworks come midnight, and the pre-match entertainment was satisfactory, the sketch The Idiocy of The Average Malaysian well played out by Those Blokes Who Fired Firecrackers Into The Crowd At 11:43 and the Fat Rela Man Who Chased Said Blokes being well-received by the likes of myself who had a privileged seat. What with the added drama of the rain clouds gathering and teasing the crowd, it was easy to sit back and enjoy watching the chaos unfold. The crescendo of the comedy duly came as the resultant smoke from the fireworks drifted over the penthouse viewing deck of the Trader's Hotel at the other side of the park, casting a choking pall over the people gathered at what was supposed to have been the hottest spot in town to view the pyrotechnics and thoroughly obscuring their view within a minute of the show starting. One couldn't help but grin.

Watching as the fireworks shot into the sky and looking at the assembled masses however, a deep sense of melodrama enveloped me as I couldn't help but develop a feeling of deep cynicism at humanity. As if I haven't yet received enough affirmation that mankind's every move leaves a black mark upon the Earth, we have the audacity to utilise pyrotechnic celebrations and preach about environmental protection in the same breath. The facts are laid bare: in one 24-hour period millions of tons of toxic gasses, carbon and other aerosol pollutants are pumped into the Earth's atmosphere. The resulting pall which covers the whole Earth surely cannot be good portents for the current climate shift. The amount of garbage generated by New Year's gatherings worldwide must be astronomical, and then there is the immediate malice of light and sound pollution. It seems that even our greatest expression of celebration can't be done without perpetuating an ill upon the world, and I ask then, what next for the world? Definitely not salvation, on current record.

2007-12-06T07:41:00.000-08:00

What do we want? Do we wish to remain as individuals of our distinct races, proud of things, incidents and phenomena we call 'culture', use to distinguish ourselves from others unlike us, instigate discretion of each of our kind from the other, and create factions of people rivalling one another by virtue of their pride towards their 'heritage'? Or do we wish to integrate every one of our species into a single homogenised unvariable kind with no individualistic distinction, masked by a mutual appreciation of each of our similarities as a mark of our favour that that the next person is just like ourself, without disparity or inconsistency? Out of morality and the political correctness which is the hallmark of contemporary thought, we say we want a balance of both. Humans can be so stupid.

2007-12-05T23:18:00.000-08:00

Haven't posted in a while, I guess it's a feature of the busy person that priorities take precedence over things like blog-writing. As it is it's been a whole semester past, another semester of underachievement and resignation. But we won't dwell on that, we have other more pressing issues to counter, like the Australian Idol finals from a couple of weeks ago.

Is it just me or has anyone else realised by now that all the Idols sound the same? I don't pay any real attention to the programme, but the way it's forcibly shoved down our sensory organs every thirty seconds on conventional Australian TV means everyone, including myself, is at least basically clued in on the identity of the finalists. I don't even know their names. To me it's just Pretty Boy and Pretty Girl. For purposes of substantiating poor research [read: no research] and fulfilling stereotypes let's just call them Jock and Sass. With that in mind, let's proceed onto my reasons why the Idol concept is a gimped one.

Firstly, there's the filtration process, all the way up to the final product. Take Jock and Sass. These two have survived elimination for months whilst other ostensibly less talented individuals get the boot. It's proceeded as such all the way up to the final, where in a showdown of gladiator [red-eyed tree frogs with toothpicks] proportions one surpasses the other to become the nonpareil, the head, the Idol. But are Jock and Sass really all that much more talented than the tens of thousands of other contestants who participate? The answer is no, definitely not. Rather, they are talented enough to fulfill a mainstream purpose, but in terms of being true artists, they are anything but talented. The reason for this in turn is the type of talent actually desired of them.

If you take a look at every Idol who has ever won this competition, they've become what everyone wishes them to be: mainstream. Every album ever released, every song ever sung, all have been made at the sacrifice of any truly authentic pre-possessed talent. This is why every Idol sounds the same. In order to fulfill the demands of every mainstream cocksucker the competition and record labels involved expunge every last hint of identity the finalists have, and every person not in obeyance with their standard is eliminated. In fact the whole idea behind Idol is to gear the contestants towards sounding exactly the way the competition wishes them to sound, not the way the contestants themselves want themselves to be. The catchphrase from two seasons ago was particularly poignant: This season Idol is GONNA ROCK! It was the mantra for the whole pre-season, the trailers all carried it, along with clips of hosts and contestants on electric guitars, the images vaguely promising some form of alternative unorthodoxy and a deviance from the mainstream sugar-pop. As supporters of alternative mainstream our house watched with some interest only to see the same old pattern manifest, as people who truly tried to be different, even the good ones, fell by the wayside. One contestant eventually made it up to the competition proper, but not before he lost all semblance of his former identity as a metal and punk rock fan in favour of...Evanescence. And true to form, who else but the most mainstream-sounding Jock and Sass made the final run; one became eventual champion.

Many people enter the Idol competitions in the hope of lending their own unique ability and flavour to the contest. In the end they become minions of the mainstream, their only hopes of progressing lying in how well they shed their previous identities in favour of feeding the preposterous crowd of convention. A recent article highlighted the poor record sales of the previous year's American Idol, competing somewhere between Santa's Techno Birdcall Christmas and Hanukkah Carols as sung by the characters of Toy Story to Woodwinds. This purely illustrates the idiocy of the mainstream. There is an evident ennui about the mainstream crowd regarding their music, yet they can't see beyond themselves to change their approach. The fact is that most people are stuck in the rut of catchy tunes which pander to their mood, which means all the artists and all the record labels are only too happy to keep pumping out the same flavoured garbage to the masses who despite their own boredom with the music scene are happy to take on more of the bullshit precisely because it caters to their immediate comprehension.

All of which leads me on to the shallowness of the mainstream. There's something innately unnatural about a person or people who won't budge themselves even though their in obvious discomfort. This is that large demographic of people who won't move away from the mainstream even though it evidently bores them. My regard of mainstream music [a lie, in fact I have no regard whatsoever for mainstream music, but for author's sake] is that if we have arrived at a point where there's a surfeit of identically-sounding people, it's high time we moved on. The current generation in fact have stymied the evolution of music purely because of the idol concept, that people can't see beyond the stars of the current nor are they willing to accept any potential paradigms. Cynical as I am myself towards many of these attempted 'paradigms', I feel there has to be something beyond what we have now, if only we were allowed to gravitate in that direction. Someone once quipped 'My father hated radio and couldn't wait for TV to be invented so he could hate that too'. I certainly feel that way about current music and what it may lead to, but if the fashion world is anything to go by [it really isn't, but again for author's sake] we are suckers for trend revisitation. Who knows, maybe classical is overdue a return. Not that I'm hoping too hard.

My end point is that we have to stop living for the now when it comes to music, and indeed with other things. This superficial way of looking at life breeds repetition and is precluding our evolution. It is paradoxical perhaps for a classical fan to be writing in this vein, but it is my hope against the world that we can at least move out of this rut of unintellectuality and discover some intelligence in order to save ourselves. If the person who said music reflects, supports and carries the people's thoughts is correct, let's hope for our sakes we do this soon, before we plunge our cumulative intelligent beyond the brink of rescue.

2007-07-19T00:53:00.000-07:00

That's it. Our tournament's over, forever to be remembered by Malaysians for the one team that managed to truly disgrace itself: our own. The final stats show twelve goals conceded and only one scored. We were Malaysian, we may as well have been the Philippines. Standing in Queen Street Mall watching the Malaysian players aimlessly amble about was like getting dental. They didn't so much tackle as sail past on an assymptote. The defence, again and again, was exposed for what it was: a shambles. Having lost 5-1 to China and 5-0 to Uzbekistan, the only thing coach Norizan Bakar could hope for was the players to not humiliate themselves again.

In the event we lost, 2-0 to Iran, putting on as tigerish a display as is possible with six defenders and one defensive midfielder. All the same, it was a much-improved performance, the midfielders snapping successfully into tackles and for once managing to string good passing moves together, albeit to the general direction of nowhere. The question begs to be asked, how is it we can lose 5-0 to Uzbekistan, all respect to them, and only 2-0 to Iran? The same Iran team which is currently, in terms of players in Europe, general track record and World Cup experience, the most successful team in Asia? A team which, even without the great Daei, still had the likes of Karimi, Kaebi, Zandi and Rezaei to cause any team no end of problems, let alone a walkover team like ours?

I think personally it was all down to mindset. Apparently Norizan knew before the Iran game he was sacked. The players knew it too. Beforehand there was much talk of pride redemption, staying strong in the face of the criticism which admittedly was much-deserved, and responding in the best possible manner. Sure we'd lose, but not in the way we lost the previous two games. It got me thinking, if we could sufficiently psyche ourselves up to lose with dignity in one game, why can't we for every game? Certainly we weren't expecting to progress from the group, but if we had put in as much effort into both the previous games, who knows? The fact remains that all the other hosts have acquitted themselves well with supposedly bigger names, and even the Vietnamese, traditionally one of the weaker teams, have made the quarterfinals.

Malaysia are thus far the only country I know to have demeaned host advantage into insignificance. If the players, and the administration, were smart they'd take a few cues from the Vietnamese and the other hosts, even the South Koreans in their run to the semifinals of the World Cup. Instead we were atrocious to the point that we couldn't even rely on fortune or a biased referee to save us from a pasting. We probably wouldn't even have been able to buy our way out of trouble. We couldn't have bribed a ref without making it look unconvincing. Indeed a ref'd probably go "Fix the game? What with this bunch? They're barely playing anything near enough to merit it!"

The whole situation just points to the ultra-defeatist mentality of the footballers as well as the administrators. It was evident no one was even bothered contemplating putting in a good show. The problem was Malaysia were bad and knew it, so they played with no motivation. Consequently they were unable to gloss over the years of flawed administration, poor player development and inadequacies of the system they were unfortunate to be part of. When it came down to it, every attempted airkick clearance, misplaced pass, misfired shot and late dive told the story of a country whose football, and in many ways, the society around it, has, and is, going steadily downhill, with no one and no system available to stop the rot. In a way, this debacle, this humiliation of preposterous immensity, is exactly what we need.

2007-07-10T11:27:00.000-07:00

We were shite. That's all it was, a shite job by a group of players you could only pity the same way you pity a peg-legged bum in the street: cold head-shaking, with the knowledge that they couldn't do anything more, that despite all your pontificating, ranting, even token coin-dropping, you couldn't change things, and no one ever could. Malaysian football is in a sad, sad state, and tonight summed up everything about us in an inglorious rotten nutshell.

We were great once. So were many countries, they had great players too. France had Fontaine, Papin and Platini. Did they roll over and die? No, they put in a system designed to utilise a positive progressive mindset and groom superstar players from grassroots level, blooding and breeding players like Zidane, Henry, Makelele and Vieira. Uruguay had Franscescoli, today they have Recoba. Argentina had Kempes, Maradona, Passarella; today they have Tevez, Messi and Mascherano. England had Moore, Hurst and Greaves, and today Rooney and Neville grace the scene. Even Northern Ireland, who once had the likes of Best in their ranks, have produced at least one decent player in David Healy. Have Malaysia moved on up from the days of Mokhtar? No. Of course not. We've moved down, endlessly spiralling into oblivion, shoulder-rubbing with Kyrgyzstan, Bahamas and Seychelles in the FIFA rankings while the likes of Equatorial Guinea, Azerbaijan and Mauritania have climbed above us. Even that little self-ingratiating pimple on our sorry sore rear end, Singapore, has risen to 131st in the world, a full 19 places.

We used to trash Singapore, now we revel in even getting away with a 1-1 draw at home. We enjoy home advantage in a tournament we have no decent right competing in and got hammered in our own citadel [more like Barbie's Pony Castle] 5-1 by a Chinese team featuring three Premier League scholars and various European-based upstarts [our definition of 'internationally experienced' is two guys in a German second division team and a crocked striker who couldn't get a reserve game for Strasbourg]. Coach and players alike talked big about causing an upset, and had two goals scored against them by a guy named Wang [talk about getting your first-class dicking]. We were outplayed so comprehensively the Chinese coach could afford a sarcastic backhand by suggesting his team lost discipline in allowing us to score our one goal.

Don't blame the players, blame a poorly-run, defeatist system, for two decades administered by self-obsessed fanboys who couldn't amble up a gentle incline, let alone run a football association. Relatively speaking the players aren't all that bad, some're almost half-decent. None of them however are competitive material. If China's players were stainless steel, Malaysian players would be wooden boards, part single-ply matchwood, part amalgamated sawdust.

We speak of the glory days of Mokhtar Dahari, Santokh Singh, Soh Chin Aun and R. Arumugam, and long for the time when names of such stature would ever rise again. As a member of the current football-watching generation, I can only advise this: stop hoping. Malaysia's football is a shambles, a hopeless wreck cast away into an eternity of false hopes and languid periods of cynicism and fatalistic underachievement. The current management would do no better than to take us to the very bottom, at least with the knowledge that from then on the only way left to go is up, if even that'd ever eventuate. Bring on Guam, Cambodia [can we play you every week?] and American Samoa. Malaysia officially did worse than a team of literally nobody [who lost 1-0 against Chile in 1973], the national football team sucks, big time, no one is available to stop the rot, and frankly no one cares. Forget the spirit of Supermokh, he's forgotten us long ago, up in Heaven, bless his soul, playing kickabout with people worthy of being called true footballers.

2007-06-30T14:03:00.000-07:00

Since that last post went up I've been in discussion with a few people, whom I'll classify loosely into two groups, the whingers who like an acapella seem to sing to one line [I thought I was your friend?], and those who just thought I was/am emo. An Asian emo....get the fuck out. Well alright I've got the shit hair and thick glasses down pat, like I'd ever stoop so low. I'll admit this much though, the ending of that last post does need a little clarification, hence this segue before I begin the current post in earnest. The previous post was written with a healthy dose of realism, and think what you may, it's a truth that cannot be denied. In uni you are expected and manipulated by the system to compete, much as we have little or no choice in the matter. It doesn't just happen in uni, it happens from school life onwards, it's just that in school the system in operation is a little laxed. You don't get three hundred people fighting over four or five honours positions, everybody graduates from primary to high school to college or whatever it is that awaits people.

I'll probably sound like a prat for stating this, but I could actually consider the few friends I have left from high school, and perhaps most of the friends from Foundation and first year, truer friends than the ones I made in second year uni. There was at worst inconsequential competition between us, and our friendship operated with the idea that there was nothing holding us back from continuing for as long as possible. In uni major, everyone's fighting for essentially the same thing, that is to get the one up on everybody else, and even the best performers might not even get rewarded. It sounds begrudging and resentful to allow academic rivalry to compromise a friendship, but readers, please, wake up and be dreadfully honest with yourself, could you ever totally forgive the person who's going to run you out on your sorry ass even though you know you tried your best and were probably equally deserving? Probably not. It's the same reason why you wouldn't make friends with the boss who fired you, sure you worked together for ten years, and the relationship was amicable enough, but it only lasted until you were deemed redundant and you ended up unemployed with your shit ruined. I recognise the concept of causality and that everything that occurs is partially my own doing, that is why rather than chomping down in the hippy-pie that is lurvy-durvy friendship, I'll be content making sure I can single-mindedly aim for academic excellence whilst maintaining what is at best collegial relationships with everyone else in second year. Sure there'll be a hell of a lot of guilt involved, but hey, c'est la vie. At least I know, unlike having to euthanise my pet dog, I'll be getting somewhere without having any emotional bonds being severed, and unlike those soppy tight-clad prats who woke up one morning and realised just what shit was coming down on them, I won't don eighteen layers of mascara and cry into it.

Which brings me to the main topic of this post: emos and Goths. Dare I give this subhuman bunch of charlatans any undeserved attention? Well lately I've been rather more exposed to this pseudo-subculture than any well-meaning person with a life would ever deem necessary, so I'll choose to vent my spleen here. For those not in the know, Goths and emos can be readily recognised from other people by one big distinguishing characteristic: they're patronising pieces of shit. The difference is in the plumage, both dress somewhat similarly except Goths manage to look impressive as only turkeys can, whilst emos just look like they need a kicking. Nadia Comaneci would be kicking herself [and knowing her, probably effortlessly in the back of her head] if she saw what people in tights were up to these days.

There is no real definition of a Goth, on physical stereotype they wear thick black coats, even in midsummer [Goths stink in more ways than one], plaster their faces with layer upon layer of acne-concealing make-up and eye-shadow so thick you'd half expect it to cake up and fall off their faces, dislodging a few eyes in the process from the weight, all in an attempt to quite literally look like walking corpses. The whole concept of being a Goth, in fact, seems to be centred around morbidity, incorporating other such tacky fashions as fishnet stockings with holes ripped in them, bourgeois Tudorian gowns which I'll admit is long overdue a return to everyday fashion, basically anything which helps them project the image that they're in touch with the gloomy/dead side of life and wish to look the part. Emos on the other hand look like lame prepped up versions of Goths, usually dressed in tight shirts and pants labeled with some band they consider fashionable, and hairstyles which would result in Martian invaders looking to subjugate intelligent life for their nefarious purposes being forced to look elsewhere. Tacky accessories include black-and-white striped armbands and socks, black[inevitable]-painted fingernails, and duffel bags anointed with more little badges than anyone who's actually rushing off to do something important would ever care for. The fact that many members of either group seem to find these characteristics interchangeable, and that none can ever come up with a single universal definition, serves to illustrate the shallow idiocy of the concepts.

Both groups are essentially musical subcultures, emos more so than Goths, which seem to prefer to connotate themselves to anything dead. The ridiculosity of that first idea is facilitated by the plain idiocy of the music, which essentially can be boiled down to incessant whingeing about the most banal issues whilst conveying the impression that it's somehow encountered something profound. Boohoo my cat died, I've stared death in the face, I'm somehow enlightened to the fact the world is a sorry loveless and tragic place, sod the people who do not accept this understanding, because they know nothing, especially my parents and/or the girl/guy who dumped me because they're not in touch with my feelings, no one understands how deeply I feel, and are merely affirming my stance about there being no love in the world. This why I wear what I do, because I want to outwardly project the fact that I'm dying within.

Here's my message to all Goths and emos: fuck you. As a matter of fact, it's true, no one does give a shit about you, because while you're too busy aggregrating yourself in a musical subculture, slapping on dead-face make-up and lamenting your non-lives, sensible people caught the clue train and either made do with what they had, or worked towards somehow bettering the situation. Sitting and whingeing whilst simultaneously looking dead makes pussies out of society, and benefits no one. Someone barely sensible will probably comment and write 'We're just voices that want to be heard.' Oh really? Well here's a tip, shut the fuck up. Stop trying to 'get heard' and start doing something. If you haven't lost your entire family in a firestorm, aren't stuck in a country where the terrorist militia only come knocking every second Wednesday and there's been famine for thirty years, or been rendered redundant by an economic system which fed your soul to some billionaire fatcat, you've got no right to complain. Everyone's going to encounter some form of negativity in their lives, deal with it.

The only thing that holds up your fragile network is the music you listen to. How anybody can form an entire supposed subculture out of any genre of music, let alone this piss-poor excuse for strung-together crotchets and quavers is beyond my sensibility. The main excuse I hear is that people feel they associate with the music and can see a deeper meaning. For all those emos and Goths out there, grow some cognitive skills. There is NO deeper meaning. A band sings about antagonism and sadness and suddenly everybody's a philosophy professor. Emo music is just every negative-connotating word strung together in a CAFG chord-progression sung by ambiguougly gay frat boys who failed both sports and science whose voices have yet to break at the age of 32 trying to pass it off as mainstream-rejecting punk. Association with the music? Well I'll name one important group of people who aren't feeling particularly associated with the music: the musicians. Whilst spoonfeeding impressionable young minds like you sopshits with their negative lyrics and stanzas of 'heart-written' dark poetry which makes it look and sound like they care, they're siphoning off millions of dollars and doing what none of you idiots have ever managed to do: move up in the world. That's right, they're moving on up, content taking all your money from merchandise sales [and I've seen the prices for emo CDs. LUDICROUS!] and concerts so they can continue their mindless brainwash campaign and participate in seizure-and-nosebleed-inducing shows such as MTV's Trippin' [having seen an episode I can agree with Maddox that this is the most patronising, mind-numbing piece of shit to have ever graced television, and considering it comes from MTV that says a lot]. The only redeeming factor of emo music is it rejects rap and hip-hop, and judging from the impressionability of these asswipes it wouldn't be beyond someone to introduce something along those lines [emo-hop?].

The point is, how can anyone make a sub-culture out of any form of music? I can safely say you don't see shit like that coming from the classical world. You don't see classical lovers dressing up as Bach or von Suppe every weekend and invading public spaces, or locking themselves in their rooms crying to Albinoni. Hell I'd like to see what sort of shit might happen when a military piece comes on, perhaps the Royal Society of Strauss Enthusiasts might invade Munich to the tune of the Radetskymarsch. Anyone who affiliates themselves to a clique the way emos and Goths do, purely based on a genre of music alone, is probably clingy, dependent, and self-insecure. If you like your music, share it by all means, enlighten the crowd, don't go looking for some deeper meaning in it like you've got some professorial understanding of the human psyche. Or better yet, toughen the fuck up, stop catering to these 'musicians', and see to your own shit, and stop trying to lean on the backs of all the similarly parasitic spineless dimwits like yourself to gain self-assurance and simultaneously pass yourself off as profound.

Every weekend I pass through the CBD of Brisbane, and it's full of emos and Goths on ludicrous dress parade [Note: you don't often see the Goths. They're lurking behind the trees in one of Brisbane's spacious well-foliated parklands. Goths are mysterious.], hundreds of mainstream-rejecting [oh the irony] soulless people who block up the plazas and walkways with their gatherings in which they indulge in such mind-provoking activities as water balloon fights and discussing their epiphanies on the deeper meanings of life, as only a 14-year old high school student who's barely started involuntarily bleeding from her crotch can. They come from far and wide, I once was on a train to Cleveland [look it up] and managed to trace an emo all the way back to Ormiston, meaning this pink-streaked lump of pork fat had caught a one-hour train ride just to look for self-assurance. Apparently an outgoing lifestyle for a teen these days amounts to dressing up like a twat and meeting in the city to sit around and whinge about teachers. The fact that parents are willing to allow their children to behave in this manner is beyond sensible comprehension. Parents, know this, your kids are whingeing spineless puussies, shoot them. Since that's unfortunately illegal, beat the crap out of them and send them for psychiatric brainwashing and wash the turds out of their skulls, afterwards propagate them on a diet of Strauss and Mendelssohn so that they can finally affiliate themselves with a musical genre that is actually a culture. Then afterwards beat yourselves for allowing yourself to even dare encourage such idiocy. Be an emo? I'd rather fuck Paris Hilton.

2007-06-28T13:20:00.000-07:00

The inactivity here has been spectacular. Seeing as I've missed a lot of fine details over the preceding few months I reckon I'll just cut to a pertinent issue I found plagued me throughout the last couple of months. Currently I feel as comfortable as lichen on a rock, going nowhere fast, comfy in the security of a house with good housemates and a great city. Anyone who's ever been to Brisbane probably thinks I speak with the sanity of a man who's just poured vinegar down both his ears when I say it's a great city to live in, but for me living life in different places is all about jiving to different grooves, and I am personally glad I can dance to the samba of KL and waltz to the swoon of Brisbane with equal adeptness.

It may come as a surprise to many a reader but I personally had found friends hard to come by in uni. Granted I maintain quite an exclusivist policy when it comes to points of conversational interest, which I reckon does subconciously affect my ability to socialise, but one would have thought that in a relatively enclosed society of 40,000 people I would at least have found a clique of people to know on a hi/bye basis. I had earlier lamented this paradox, but having entered second year it seems company is finally availing itself to me, and I now have a few faces I can grit my misshapen teeth at in the corridors.

I cannot however, help but greet this refreshing avenue of potential company with the big foam hand marked 'CYNICISM'. The reality hit home last month with an end-of-sem lecture regarding the deepsea expeditions which UQ will undertake in a year's time. For those who aren't in the know, a good man with more money than you or me [and possibly the both of us combined] bought a ship, outfitted them with two research submersibles [also his], did such boyish things as dive to the bottom of the Arctic Ocean and plant a flag on the North Pole to become the first man to truly do so, because Man likes planting flags into random 'significant' patches of ground to signify his ownership of said terrain, got bored, as men often do, and flogged his Extreme Battleboat set off to this prestigious institution at a cut-price rate, in a sale which I presume did not involve scantily-clad models perched on various promontories of the ship's outrigging seductively directing 'come-hither' glances at the uni's directors. Anyway this wonderful set of toys is now ours to play with, tinker, knock about, stuff intothe sweaty crotch between our legs and genitals until our groins itch, and set fire to in true Aussie bogan style, and should arrive, newly renovated, by the end of next year, after which this Intrepid Institution of Theologians and Thespians shall undertake a series of Intrepid Expeditions to hitherto-unexplored locations wild and pure [okay, the East Australian Seaboard] in order to fathom their biodiversity and with much faux-professorial rubbing of chins and stroking of brows attempt to explain why there is no Cthulhu, and all that marine jazz.

[Hill-billy annotated version of above paragraph for most readers and all Americans: We got us a boomin' big boat and we're gonna catch us stuff n look at 'em reeeal close through our peeposcopes.]

In all seriousness however, it was announced that quite possibly, some highly limited space [and we're talking realty of the Bill Gates' suit cabinet variety- a big thing, but really not very much at all] would be allocated for Honours projects involving this expedition series. Now as stoked as I was upon hearing the good news I looked around the rest of the classroom held in an awe so dumbstruck it'd put shame upon a nun's 25-year vow of silence, by images of anglerfish and bioluminescent critters flashing across the presentation screen, and two things occurred to me: first, there were 112 other people watching this presentation, and second, I was now in direct competition with all of them. These were the faces whom I ambivalently smile at every day, the people I found no shame in fraternising with; I couldn't look at anyone else in the eye for the rest of the day.

I had found the true cruelty of the workplace, that from this point on, there really were no friends, only competitors, people who know each other on a seemingly amicable basis but behind each other's backs are cutting at each other's throats with blades, boxcutters and those cheap Japanese-made single-sheet plastic files everyone in second year seems to keep their documents in, anything sharp they can get their hands on, pitted against each other in a war a la Battle Royale in which only the really adept and jaded will eventually crawl from, exhausted from their endeavours in which they had to downtread and supercede friends, relationships and potted plants, to achieve their own ultimately selfish ends, and I am one of these people. Whether I am one of the victors or one of the fallen remains to be seen. I do firmly believe I write my own destiny, albeit influenced by the outside actions of others, but it seems now I can achieve no end without ending up hurting someone, and almost inevitably the people whom I have grown platonically accustomed to.

Perhaps I am over-complicating matters. Maybe, after all, we could all just get along, despite the distinct competition. People after all have morals, and surely we couldn't all be so devoured by our materialism and the rat race to the top that we'd end up compromising the friendships we built. When I think about it however, I realise that certainly I am not the only person to have had this epiphany. People at my age group and education level would do well to look around at the number of friends who have already shown the signs of promise, the ones who've taken up research and advanced study programmes and in that manner have already been earmarked for greatness, yet still find time to work three jobs in a week and possibly fund their own education. Then you realise that the logic, like a dandelion seed in a tsunami, just won't stand. You realise it's happening already, and as Nick Hornby wrote in his excellent book Fever Pitch, with relevance to Gus Caesar, that maligned Arsenal player of the 80s, that you may be great, you may be awesome, but sometimes in life, even your best is not good enough, and all you can do for the rest of your life is to continue combating, fighting against the crowd which collectively seems to already have an opinion against your success, and finally at the end, jaded and weary, with half your life gone and your sperm count down to near-zero, you realise that you have no real friends, you never did, and you never are going to, that all the smiles you made at that hot blonde in class came to nought, that all the contacts you exchanged in the hope of 'widening your network' never helped, and you retire, cold, and alone, with the cold snow of your life's achievements fluttering to dust around your head, as you realise death is nigh in the cold zephyrs, and you finally muster the strength to question, 'For what was all this for?'...

2007-04-08T01:03:00.000-07:00

A return to Brisbane, and a return to my slack blogging ways. I've been back more than a month, and in truth I have been writing, but I haven't had the dedication and motivation to list them on this site. So, an apology to whoever bothers reading this. I'll paste the articles I've written below and in subsequent posts.

As I've said, I've been back for about a month, back in the house and back in uni life. I didn't so much scrape through as drag myself on defleshed knees through my first year, but I made it to my major, and Marine Biology calls. Here's where the subject matter gets really interesting. Already I have had a field excursion and will have three more coming up. The driest subjects appear to be Ecology and Marine Science, with all the systematics statistics and calculations. Indo-Pacific Marine Biodiversity and Invertebrate Biology on the other hand have already turned out to be heaven-sent, with all the concentrating on the nifty little marine minuta and microfauna, and best, scientific names and phylogenetic classification! =D [Can't resist appending the cheesy smile, even though it is usually against my writing principles] I share a couple of classes with Gabriel and Anna and one with Nadiah. It feels nice to have patched up the issue I had with Anna, it seems to be firmly laid to rest and we've been getting along really well.

2007-02-20T10:12:00.000-08:00

There's one thing you can't go wrong with on Chinese New Year: it's fun. To most of the world, we Chinese are a bunch of crackpots who celebrate New Year in February. To those in the know however, i.e those with more than the miniscule grain of culture that happens to blow into their cranial orifices like pollen, Chinese New Year [CNY] is a perfectly reasonable and downright superb celebration.

As the writer it is my obligation to educate the readers as to the purpose of Chinese New Year. Much as the name sounds obvious, it doesn't sound sensible to the logically supressed that much of the world never actually followed the Gregorian calendar. There is a reason as to why CNY is celebrated in February, and why the date changes annually. It is because to the historically agrarian Chinese, the advent of New Year is tied to the lunar cycle. The New Year isn't so much January the 1st [though the Chinese did indeed have the concept of a twelve-month year and a twelve-year zodiac] as the advent of spring, which is why in China CNY is actually referred to as the Spring Festival, and as it is to any agrarian culture, spring heralds the planting season. Spring Festival is a time to offer thanks for last year's harvest [or curses if it was a bad one], in any case offer hope for a good one this time round, and re-establish family bonds, which is why families will get together and meet; this is often the only opportune moment to do so all year.

Now that the whats and whys have been seen to, several rites and trends of CNY will be explained. As mentioned before, families for their own particular reasons find it difficult to unite during other times of the year. Much importance is therefore placed on the family's reunion gathering, done on New Year's Eve. The reunion dinner is a symbol of the family's togetherness; it is a gesture of politeness as much as it is an obligation to turn up. The dinner is usually held in the home of the family patriarch, as a mark of respect for the family's leader, and this home will be the focal point of most of the subsequent celebrations. For wedded couples, it is the husband's side that holds priority; a wife will therefore usually spend the reunion dinner at the in-laws'.

The Chinese festive dinner is literally a litany of lucky wishes. Due to the repetitive nature of Chinese pronounciation, the name of certain food items is taken as connotations of something auspicious. For instance, fatt choy, a kind of desert algae which resembles wads of unconditioned hair, has the same pronounciation as the Chinese word for 'increasing wealth', and is thus considered an auspicious food [the harvest of this algae is sadly an illegal trade, much of it being taken from the dunes of northwestern China; the ecological impact being the dunes' surface not being held together and erodes. Efforts to halt fatt choy harvesting have been as successful as a lunar attempt on Apollo 13]. Pineapples [ong lai] or cheap tacky plastic representations thereof are often hung in doorways as their name corresponds to 'gold arriving'. Though essentially a Malaysian tradition the tossed salad or lowh sang was in fact started by the Hong Kong-ites; the Singaporeans just love taking the credit. The tossing action is complemented by blessings uttered as the salad is tossed higher and higher, and is usually done to reaffirm family and social ties. A fish [yeue] is often represented somewhere in the house as its name corresponds to the Chinese word for excess; a gold fish [kam yeue] in figurine, sometimes live form, is usually used as it connotates an excess of gold. In addition to the significant foods, items which are just plain expensive like shark's fin and sea cucumber are also served.

If you hadn't guessed by now, the Chinese are a superstitious and materialistic bunch. During CNY, it is believed a deity of prosperity [Choi Sun] will arrive on Earth to give His blessing. As such prayer altars are erected and incense burned by Taoist and esoteric Buddhists to herald the deity's arrival. Worship of other deities and temple visitation is also practiced by these people as requests for blessings, and offerings include the brilliant pink fatt koh [fortune cake, also the pronounciation for 'high wealth']. Another famous offering is the lin koh or sticky cake. Made from palm sugar stirred for hours over a fire and wrapped in palm leaves, this is sweet and is 'served' to the immortal Choi Sun to gum up His mouth so He may not send a bad report against the visited household. How's that for Chinese humour? It is more typical these days for families to eat the cake; it is best sliced and fried in egg or grated coconut.

The famous lion and dragon dances are performed in the belief that the domineering cacophony as well as the hood's fearsome visage will drive away evil spirits from the household. Fireworks and firecrackers do more than just gladden the heart, they perform the same purpose as the dances, creating bright light and loud noise to deter unwelcome spirits [Caution: may lead to subsequent pyromania, a lust to start bonfires and a yearning to burn everything]. Spring cleaning the house is done not only to prep the house up for the festival, but to ensure the house is thoroughly cleansed, for during the first days of CNY it is inauspicious to clean the house for fear of 'sweeping the luck away'. Calligraphy bestowing blessings upon the household is stuck up on walls, the most auspicious one, the Chinese word for prosperity, 福 [fook] is usually stuck upside-down on doors, as the character when upside-down appears to depict a smooth flow of wealth through the house's front door.

On the first day of New Year the traditional tea ceremony is conducted, whereby children will offer tea to their parents and offer well-wishes. This is done primarily to reaffirm the family hierarchy and ensure the children continue to show respect to their elders. In exchange the parents and elders feed the children's materialism by dispensing packets of money. In olden days this was usually a token gesture, with little money involved. In modern times bigger pay packets and the general materialism of society mean this has, like presents for Christmas, for better or worse, become the keystone ceremony of CNY.

It is always a tradition to wear new clothes on the first days of CNY, in keeping with the theme of 'out with the old and in with the new'. Inauspicious colours are black, dark blue and white, as these generally signify death and gloom, and particularly in the case of white, funerals. The Chinese fixation with red can be explained as thus, red being a bright 'happy' colour is the most auspicious, along with gold. Ornaments and embellishments such as flowers placed in or around the house are usually of these two colours. Much emphasis is placed on depictions of happy children, for it is believed that children are downright cute and their youthful smiling faces are the ideal depiction of a happy start to the year. It is highly inauspicious to show anger, sadness or mention death during the first few days of New Year and is said to have a negative effect on the rest of the year. Throughout the first few days of New Year it is tradition that families and friends visit each other dispensing gifts and blessings.

The eighth day of New Year is auspicious for the Hokkien peoples, and is celebrated with as much verve and cheer as can be expected on any given day of CNY. The Hokkiens have several deities specific to their linguistic sub-culture and worship of these is carried out on this day. The other auspicious day of New Year is the last. Known as Chap Go Meh it is the 14th and last day of CNY and heralds the end of festivities and the resumption of the year's labour. On this day young girls hoping for love throw oranges into the rivers, having quietly made a relevant wish.

2007-02-08T00:23:00.000-08:00

I love bee-eaters. I love everything about them, the way they look, the way they fly, the aloof manner in which they puff their feathers when they perch, thus forcing their heads into an upward position. Even the way they eat endears them to me, albeit in a slightly more morbid sense than mere innocent endearment. More on that later.

As you might've guessed by now, bee-eaters are birds. For those who don't know what a bee-eater looks like, this is it
Picture NOT used with permission by National Geographic. It was a desktop anyway. That's one species of bee-eater from Africa, there're many more species scattered all over the Old World, most in Africa and North Asia. We in Malaysia only get them as migrants, with the exception of the rather dumpy-looking [but exceedingly cute and winning nominee for Animal That Should Be Made Into Soft Toys award] Red- bearded Bee-eater, resident in our primary rainforests. The altogether more conspicuous species more observant people might recognise are winter migrants from north Asia, Malaysia being one of the stops on their way down to Australia, though there are a few which seem to prefer staying here till the flight back. The two most common are the Blue-tailed and Blue-crowned bee-eaters, though there are a handful of Red-crowneds and the occasional Rainbow. Apparently they migrate in flocks, but I've only ever seen them in pairs or individuals.

The most conspicuous thing about bee-eaters is their bright colours. Nearly all species have wonderful multi-coloured plumage; the Rainbow literally lives up to it's name. It is strange when you consider the family is closely related to the not altogether very colourful hornbills, but more explicable when you discover they number rollers, kingfishers and hoopoes amongst their other relatives. A stupendously diverse family. The next thing one might notice about them is their long bill, which is understandable given that they live up to their name. In truth bee-eaters eat just about any kind of flying insect, but when bees, hornets and giant wasps number amongst your high-favourites, it is wise that they be kept a comfortable distance from your body before they are dispatched.

The bee-eater's method of feeding highly endears them to me. There's something slightly morbid and thrilled inside me when I'm watching a bird bash its head against the side of a branch repeatedly. The beating motion serves to smash the sting and life out of the prey, rendering it safer to eat. As stated above, bee-eaters tend to use the branches that they perch on for this purpose. Metal might be just as suitable, but apparently the birds haven't really gotten used to that yet. Many a time I have awoken to a tinking sound outside my window. Upon investigation I tend to find a rather fluffed and dazed-looking bee-eater struggling to regain its composure having bashed its pithy meal against a solid metal TV aerial.

The bee-eater comes across to most people as a very sleek bird. It is indeed a very slim-cut creature, the fighter-jet equivalent of the bird world. Its streamlined build is tailored especially for the sharp turns and quick dashes it makes when making brief sallies from its chosen perch, maximising its aerodynamicity and speed. Bee-eaters spend so much time on the wing it seems surprising most people see them at all, indeed they are most conspicuous when perched, and it would be difficult to observe them otherwise. Handily they choose to sit in conspicuous places like in dead trees and atop roofs, so viewers will nearly always get a decent eyeful of the pretty bird. As a bonus, they are for the most part, non-nervous and acclimatised to human presence, so observers will usually be permitted close views.

When bee-eaters are resident [with the exception of the Red-bearded, which is a loner], they tend to mingle in flocks which can number several hundred, and when bee-eaters get together, they do everything together. One of the more spectacular birdwatching sights in Africa is a flock of bee-eaters nesting communally in a riverbank or sandflat, occassionally making brief forays from the cliff face or beach en masse and returning to their nest holes at the same time. It is a lifelong wish to see this sight which will only serve to gladden more my heart and eyes, which for now, continue to be teased by that delightful little green and blue bird, right now flitting to and fro outside my bedroom window, and coyly fluffing its feathers.

2007-01-27T10:02:00.000-08:00

If there's one thing I admire, it's the Malaysian process of logic.

"It's our 50th year as an independent nation, to start it all off we need a new attraction, one that fully encapsulates the entire proud multicultural and historical heritage of our nation, one delightful package that other countries will look upon in awe and heightened respect. What should we get?"
"How about a ferris wheel?"
"I love it!"
"Not just any ferris wheel, one with air-conditioned gondolas and a brilliant view of the city's most congested highway!"

Policemen taking bribes, structurally unsafe schools, people flooded out of house and home, what do we do? Send a man into space. And blame the floods on the weather, now there's originality for you. I'd love to meet the poor government spokesman who had to deadpan that one out. "It flooded, the weather was bad." "Oh." Various relevant government officials were unavailable for comment as they were too busy stepping out of their posh cars and into KLCC for the Il Divo concert.

Now I'm not trying to be critical about our political proccesses, I mean, Lord knows every country needs a man in space, but what I'm trying to get at is there is always something wrong with the way things work, in every country. In Australia, the solution to the long-standing water problem in Queensland is, apparently, an ambitious new dam system on the Mary River which is so innocuous it'll only put a few hundred acres of land underwater, flood out about 1000 farms and cause the probable extinction of three native species. Yes that ought to solve the water crisis properly. I mean, there isn't much of a crisis if there's no one around the area now is there?

Clearly mankind can't do very much anymore that isn't either pointless or outright destructive to something else. Indeed it is my firm belief that mankind is proof there is no God. If there is a God, then He'd know by now that mankind is really a horrible experiment that should've been prematurely ended long ago, tossed into the dustbin of Creation together with the flat version of Earth and tetradic lifeforms. Just something I needed to get off my chest after seeing Malaysia lose to Singapore, really.

2007-01-19T11:02:00.000-08:00

There are a number of events directly causational to the authoring of this post. The first has been a so far ongoing phenomenon which started when I returned to Malaysia for holidays. Quite unlike last year's break, I have devoted significant amounts of time to looking up the few school friends I maintained relations with and hanging out with them. There may be only three or four of them left, but I regard that as Nature's way of weeding out who I would now be able to consider truly sincere friends.

The second incident occurred when I was leafing through my old yearbooks, and especially the one which in my short tenure as a photographer with the school's Editorial Board, I helped produce. I've always felt a deep connection to that issue, which was my final year's, which is understandable given that a lot of the photos in there were mine, and that I personally knew and associated well with the vast majority of people involved in it's production, including, it must be noted, the late Eunice Lee, who was the Chief Editor before her sad passing from illness in 2005. In fact I would confess to a feeling of affection for the Ed Board as a whole, so even though I do not presently know many people there, I still try and offer some semblance of support.

The third incident may be divided into two 'sub-incidents', the first being the retirance of our school's principal Aziah Abd Rahman, and the second being an email arriving regarding the potential formation of a Hartamas alumnus. The fourth and final one happened just today, when I stumbled across stacks of old papers my loving mother kept and stored in envelopes. Leafing through them I found myself reliving all sorts of quaint memories; of winning Class of the Year in Form 3 as Head of Cleanliness; devising all sorts of bizarre puzzles and maths theorems with my friends; inane chalk fights with my closest friend Chian Shen after-hours in which we'd throw stubs of chalk leftover from the day at each other at full-strength; desperate and frankly absurd debates with my English teacher for one extra mark in essays; participating in the prestigious ISKL Forensics and going all the way to the finals; my first ever crush on anybody; some readers might know who that is, but for her sake I won't mention her name here. Reports, essays, photos, trivia sheets, model test papers, notesheets with incredibly random doodles and afterthoughts penned into them, they were all there. These incidents all culminated in me asking myself the question: just what legacy have I left in my school?

This question had occurred to me previously; this time last year I had written an article about myself for the yearbook, in which I penned [paraphrased]: I would like to be remembered as an eccentrically intelligent yet positive-minded boy who while was never the best academic-wise, was diligent enough to earn his merits for himself as well as in the name of the school.

A few weeks ago, I was involved in a discussion with Chian Shen about just what kind of people would leave a legacy in the school. Who exactly would be remembered, and most importantly, would the school want to remember? I managed to categorise these people into four groups. The first group was the people who were basically the all-rounders who excelled in being as such, the ones who were Head Prefect and President of all the clubs and societies and still managed to obtain stellar academic results. Excelling in academic as well as co-curricular activities, who wouldn't like them? I loosely term these people 'The Professors'. The second group would be those who, while were at best maybe above-average in their academic results, did enough in the name of the school to be forever remembered, maybe have future school wings named after them. These were the record-breakers, the star athletes and master-class essayists who participated and shone in competition after competition. These I call 'The Sprinters'. The third category was for people who might've been anywhere above average in terms of their results, but were charming enough to be the 'teacher's pets'. These were 'The Apples', the people who one way or another would always lighten the otherwise grim expressions of the faculty, who had the charisma to get away with probably not doing particularly much, being unremarkably consistent in their academics and co-curriculum, yet still be remembered fondly with reminiscing sighs and glazed expressions. The last group I call 'The Rebels'. These were the people who probably wouldn't be remembered for much more than basically breaking the mould, the ones whom no school rulebook could successfully contain. There was however, a certain charm to being a rebel, something special about them that they would always be remembered by the staff and students who were there at the time.

It occurred to me then that I didn't actually fit into any of the categories. Sure I was eccentric and perhaps successful enough, I was the first [and still probably the only] person to bring a camera to school daily in order to feed my passion for photography. I was elected Head of Cleanliness for two straight years, during which we were Cleanest Class of the Year consecutively and Class of the Year in general once. I scrapped about in the ISKL Forensics Tournament before reaching the finals, performed in the SEA Games opening ceremony, reached the Presidency of the Science Society and the secretaryship of two other clubs including the school's Red Crescent, had near-misses in prefectship in which I was nominated thrice consecutively but never made the cut, and was a member of the Ed Board in my final year whilst maintaining throughout an academic position anywhere between 6th and 19th during my time there.

Given that I never actually won anything personally such success is relative, but I reckon I did myself sufficiently proud. Yet it is possible for people with some degree of success to remain somewhat unpopular. I know that whilst I may be remembered in my alma mater, it would not be with any large degree of fondness. It may be that I will be remembered for what I did more than what I achieve, and it is for this that I put myself into a fifth category, 'The Drifters'.

To sufficiently reason this I will admit that I was certainly a controversial figure in my time at SMK Seri Hartamas. Eccentricity isn't for everybody. Maybe I was subordinate for too long, but in my final two years there I became increasingly outspoken, most notably against several members of the faculty. Whilst there is no real indication of a vendetta against me, there were certainly enough signals by the end of my student tenure to suggest I did not cut a popular figure among staff circles, details of which I will not go into for now. Answering back was certainly a feature in my last years in Hartamas, and maybe a certain desire for respect which they perhaps felt I didn't accord.

Going through my entire tenure as a student without achieving any notable academic success would certainly be a contributing factor, and though it was not outwardly displayed, I could definitely perceive a degree of pessimism and sarcastic acceptance towards some of my 'weirder' habits, which ranged from my non-belief in God, to my close affinity to nature which involved me doing things like picking up snakes and insects, and having an encyclopaedic knowledge of various species. Rather innocuous, one might think, but it was certainly not something that was encouraged by my teachers, nor indeed by a fair number of my peers. What with popularity being hard to come by, I became more of an intellectual introvert, whilst being affable enough to accord friendly attention, was more morose and withdrawn. In short, I perhaps had a bit of a 'Rebel' streak in me, but in a more charmless and individualistic manner than was deemed respectable. All this isn't to say I particularly care anymore, but as I reminisce about my school days, I cannot help but feel that I will forever be remembered for being a 'Drifter', an averagely successful student, remembered not for what I brought to the school, but what I did to the people around me, and this is no legacy.

2006-12-17T03:22:00.000-08:00

Sorry for all my readers [do I actually get anyone in here?] for the delay in my updates. This is caused by a mixture of the failure of technology in its exchanges with Mother Nature, and the failure of the user involved, i.e me. This post was originally supposed to have been logged a couple of weeks ago but I have been stalling.
* * *
Just got back from Vietnam. But you didn't know I had gone. In fact very few who might actually bother reading this blog even know I returned home. So, let's clear up the backlog of brief personal data which might be vaguely relevant to anything you readers care about. I came back to Malaysia two weeks ago Saturday, left for Vietnam last Sunday, came back yesterday, and will leave for Singapore next Saturday. This will mean I will have been in four countries in a month, quite a personal record. I might say it is of almost journalistic proportions. Now, on to more interesting things.

Chambord. It's a drink, but the kind you'd rob a priest in a dark street and take his wallet in order to pay for. The kind you'd steal from the poor box every weekend in order to save up for, so you can buy a precious bottle. Who knows, it might even be the kind of drink I'd work for. I think you get the idea. Chambord, full name Chambord Royale, exquisite in taste, colour and price. Actually scratch that last part, Chambord is deliciously cheap for a liqeur. Whereas petty tycoons and materialist goons tear each other's hair out in auctions hurling thick wads of cash on overpriced dusty bottles of dessert wine which they probably won't even drink, I however am fully comfortable with my little after-dinner glass of digestif, bought by the bottle for the relatively modest price of $26.

For those of you wondering just why I wax such poetic lyrical on the drink, let me explain first and foremost what Chambord is. Basically, God pisses Chambord. In reality God bottles up his piss in little berries, namely raspberries and blackberries. In the height of the berry season, God's piss ripens. Then eager Frenchmen and women, the same miracle-workers who extract God's fizzy sweat champagne from grapes, pick these little berries, and macerate them in alcohol to release the heavenly juices. God's piss then undergoes several descriptively inane yet significantly important processes and is then bottled for humanity's enjoyment. The resultant liqeur is sweet enough to kill most small rodents by taste alone, thus proving my point regarding its divinity. If you can picture undiluted Ribena cordial in 20% alcohol over ice, just as sweet and about as thick, only infinitely more enjoyable, you've got the idea of Chambord. As to its availability, I'm happy to say Chambord is rather easily available in Australia. It however seems to be exceedingly rare in Malaysia, which is a crying shame. If anyone does come across a bottle and is interested in trying a sweet liqeur, this is the one.

2006-11-16T07:25:00.000-08:00

It's been a long, long time since the last update. All due to exams, really. I've been in lockdown over the last couple of weeks, and I finished yesterday. I'll be honest, I hate exams. To me however, exams are like income taxes and mothers-in-law, a bitch to have around, yet necessary. Exams are a discipline, what keep us students on our toes and ensuring we have a way to remember material which is actually important to our resective academic fields. Exams, are what will allow a doctor to remember where the heart is as much as he will remember the steps to an angioplasty procedure. I'd start ranting on how people who teach and set exams have lost the plot, and indeed they have to an extent, but I won't, because this article is dedicated to something else.

Today was Azam's gradshow [for those who haven't been following the progress of this humble experience-accumulator, Azam is my housemate] exhibition. The incident was special as it represented a huge rite of transition for Azam: this was his final act, barring actual graduation formalities, of his university tenure, an end in itself, and another avenue of progression forward. Azam took a dual degree in I.T and Creative Industries. His first love however was always the more creative side of these fields: graphic design, digital art, 3-D manipulation. This he undertook, and indeed continues to undertake, with the passion of a person who truly feels an artistic affinity with the skills involved, always determined to better himself yet is proud to reflect his prowess in the finesse of his masterpieces.

To my dying day I will remember the times I used to sit next to him and watch him masterfully manipulate his latest design on Z Brush or Photoshop layers, admiring the effort involved without ever being able to fully comprehend their technicality. For the sake of fulfilling advertising purposes Azam's website is azam.syphilization.com. Many of the pieces displayed are images I watched him design, pour his heart into, and the work any viewer will see is work worthy of award. And so it was at the grad show, specifically an exhibition showcasing the work of the various Creative Design students and providing them potentially valuable contact with the people of the industry, that all of Azam's work, borne out of soul, bore the creator its first tangible reward, an award for Best Art in Communications' Design, awarded on behalf of the Queensland University of Technology by non other than John Wiley & Sons Publishing.

There was a general consensus that Azam's work was stand-out, bearing all the hallmarks of a true artist and his love for his work. Seeing Azam collect his thoroughly deserved award, I could not help but feel that tonight's happenings reflect upon the challenge that lies ahead of me, how a person, chasing the dream and undertaking a course which befit his craftmanship, put heartfelt passion into his endeavours, could in the end come away with a deserved accolade and achieve recognition in his field. I look ahead and I realise I am still so far from achieving that finality, that I still have so much work to do in order to be able to live the dream in my own undertaking. This has renewed my determination to engage myself in my passion, that is, a scientific love for nature and the environment. That isn't to say that I am driven by reward. To me, a reward at the end is an indication that achievement has been fulfilled. When I see life, and maybe even people, reward myself, I will know that I would have done my part to deserve it. Until then, I am driven on to achieve excellence in my field and future undertakings.

Yesterday's exam represented an end to my first academic year in uni. It has been a tough year in which I cannot but admit my academic confidence had on more than one occasion been shaken. This semester in particular saw my undertaking four subjects, three of which I felt no passion and affinity for, was only doing out of prerequisite, and will probably not do more than pass in. Some may say that is enough, but until exam time I hadn't lost hope that somehow I might still aim for excellence and achieve distinctions. It shames me to know that after a year of high hopes and expectation I could again aim for no more than average mediocrity. Nevertheless, seeing Azam succeed in his field has given me hope that next year when I am doing my major I will finally be doing what I really enjoy, and then I will be able to look forward to real distinction.

Congratulations Azam. May this be the sign of so many more better things to come.

2006-10-30T19:18:00.000-08:00

The main cause of ignorance is a lack of knowledge, and for me, a lack of knowledge is inexcusable. Now I know it seems ill-willed to judge a person prematurely just because he or she doesn't know about something, it may be that it just didn't pique their interest. I myself will never hold my ground in an I.T convention, nor will I ever be able to fully discuss quantum radiation dissociative constants with, well, whoever uses them. But the key to success in this world is realising one is, and should be, capable of expanding one's horizons, and furthermore, will go about doing so. A quest for knowledge was what, after all, drove our predecessors to explore the world, and it is what will continue to add direction to humanity for as long as it may endure.

So it seems strange and in all honesty, a little pointless, seeing as how many people in this world seem to not want to expand beyond a certain comfort zone. It's almst as if people are scared of knowledge, scared to be informed and to know things. Or maybe they regard knowledge as pointless? I will not begin to count the number of times I've posed an innocent trivial statement only to be rebuffed with a cold and cruel 'So?' So? So you're an idiot. Do you not care to know and learn about something so you may discuss it in a sociable context? Are you small-minded enough to feel patronised by a simple factual statement? It seems a little ironic that in a world where holding social ground is a valuable commodity, most people don't even want to utilise what should be the best initiator of a conversation.

There are only two reasons I can put this down to. Firstly people somehow feel inadequate in the presence of knowledge, so paranoid are they about someone showing them up as being shallow and uninformed that they are ready to denigrate and typify those who actually know stuff as nerds, and laugh off all semblances of intellectualism. It is a measure of present-day society when people who know stuff are a group to be laughed at. Secondly poeple will always ask this question:"What's the point?" Simple question which we'll always find ourselves posing at one point or another. What's the point? What's the point of knowing this? Does it help me with anything? You see, that's the thing with people these days. Everybody is a mercenary to society, no one wants to know something unless they can see that it'll have a tangibly beneficial effect on their lives. It shows that there really is only one motivation to living these days: money. More and more money, so we can all buy big houses and expensive stuff to show off to all our friends, so we may bask in the glory that is their eternal envy and grudging respect, if it doesn't swell the bank account or pay the dividends, it's not worth knowing.

It is so like humans these days to put a 'point' on everything, that there is a point to learning one thing and no point in learning another. The fact that we are willing to denigrate one facet of knowledge in favour of another is testament to how material-driven the human species has become. We are willing to sacrifice what may have helped our ancestors survive for thousands of years in favour of a new bank plan, or how to manage a stock portfolio. Rather than preserving its legacy and making it important for people to have an appreciation of its finely tuned beauty, we let it all go to waste. This isn't to say it isn't important knowing how to manage a stock portfolio or balance the bank accounts -it is after all, what is most 'important' to most people- but to label one facet of information as worthless at the expense of another is unjustifiable. If you don't want to know about something that's your issue, but don't try and justify your lack of desire by labeling something as pointless. All knowledge is a bridge to truth, and this 'informational discrimination', if you like, is a sign of selfishness and a hallmark of someone possessing issues with his or her own existentiality.

2006-10-19T05:24:00.000-07:00

First I was an inconsiderate sod who imposed ideals upon others, now I'm accused of being an arrogant self-absorbed offensive prat. Funny how the mindsets of society change over time...

Apparently the nadir of my latest diatribe was the point where I labeled myself an intellectual and underlined my confidence in that statement. I have received 'advice' to drop the statement from the last post and stop lording it over the shee...sorry, people who read my blog. Apparently this offends people and places designation on their intellectual status. My reply, emphatic as it should be, is no, I will NOT remove anything from anywhere, and I will NOT stop writing essays in which I make myself out to be better than other people. Not while I know first and foremost that I am right, and not when I know people are offended without truly trying to understand the point of my essays.

If people had truly read my rant on previous music, they'd discover that as far as respect goes, I have little for the decision of people who choose to actually defend and uphold mainstream music while at the same time decrying other forms of music which actually mean something, not the people themselves. But seeing as most of the people who came back to me had the manifested IQs of a goose, I reckon I might actually have to spell it out here for them, just to 'butter them up': I have respect for ALL humans and indeed, all living creatures. What I CANNOT respect is the decisions many people make, what they do with their lives, what causes they commit to, and the things they do to denigrate other people and their own dignity. There you have it, in simple terms understandable to all but the dumbest people.

The question is, really, how many people actually give a thought to anything that they do? The answer by my standards, is truthfully, not very much. These days few people actually give a damn about what they do or what they say, no one thinks about whether the cause they commit to is trivial, or pointless, or weakly based on a foundation of assumption or self-importance. It's a world where everybody thinks for themselves, for their own gain, that what they do is right, and with little or no research or any insight other than from the most trivial of sources and the shallowest points of view, will stick to that idea. Okay, that's not so bad. But closing your mind off from the ideas of others, for fear of ill-justifying your own truth? That's just indolence. Plain, stupid, close-minded indolence.

What's worse is that a lot of the ideas people reject are right, because either they take too much thinking, which is what a lot of people hate to do these days, I don't know why, or they detach from the mainstream. And to most people, they see no evil in the mainstream, why? Because it's the mainstream. Everybody follows it, nobody seems to find fault with it, no one seems to care, shouldn't be anything wrong with it. But to base your foundations of the mainstream on shallow ideals and little or no philosophy and simply because you have to do what other people are doing, what's so intelligent about that? Surely God or evolution, whichever ideal you uphold, gave you a large brain cortex for a reason? To think things through and provide logical reasoning? No, people just don't do that anymore. People are content on letting large parts of their brains lapse into misuse purely because they want to be seen to be in the crowd, be popular with the other mindless jellyfish they somehow contrive to want to associate with, and not have any defining personality or traits of their own.

I ask this then, is there any point in being popular if the people around you are exactly the same? Answer me that, just, take some time to reactivate those neurons that have collected dust over the last thirteen years, and think, think to yourself and think deeply, for the answer. When you're truly content with the truth of your resolution, come back and then label me as arrogant. If you agree with everything I just said and want to change yourself and give yourself some semblance of a well-constructed and proactive identity, fine. If you can still tell me, yes what you believe is true and it's worth upholding, fine with me too, but I'll tell you this, you're a sad person. Even worse, you're a jellyfish, because all you're content to do is to look like all the other colourless blobs of jelly that float around aimlessly on whatever current cares to take you and the others along on, without any defining personality or something that departs from the norm and that people can look upon and admire and say: "Yes, that is indeed different, and I can truly respect that."

I haven't seen that for a while. Few people have ever been able to show me that they can act and think differently from the rest of the world. Even fewer have shown me they're different, not just for the sake of it, but because they truly thought through their actions, and believed that there is a much bigger world than what most people care to associate with. Most importantly, these people aren't cowards, they KNOW what they're leaving behind is a pointless world which isn't worth upholding, and are content with continually expanding their knowledge and horizons, and in the process finding their own diverse niche in life. And who knows, maybe there are lots of people out there who think that way, but as far as that's concerned, I've rarely met anyone like that, and I respect people who are like this. These are the people who will always think things through before they do them, and will always aspire to improve every facet of their lives. They will have a thought for every idea, and an idea for every thought. They will understand what cause they commit to, and will always provide compelling reasons for supporting it rather than blase apathetic answers which dodge the reality of the situation and do nothing more than patronise my intelligence and make the person look like a retard. And if these people find that their reasons are wrong, they are willing to learn from an opposing point of view and develop their idea from there. It is after all said that that which does not kill makes one stronger. Now if only 4 billion people in the world can think the same way...

2006-10-10T06:35:00.000-07:00

Haven't updated in a while. Been busy as usual, with the drag of assignments. I'll complain now, but I'll miss this in a few years. The fact I'm writing here at all is testament to the comparative easiness of current life as opposed to what I think worklife would be like. Not to mention the management of outside activities with whatever association I will be futurely associated with. Plus love life, or a wife and family, and parents. Maybe the lovelife is going a bit too far. Oh well...

Last week I levelled a lovely big gob of vitriol in the direction of modern music. The venom of my attack had people coming back to me and asking: "So what is it you DO like anyway?" I told them, and will continue to tell them, simply "Classical". "Oooh okay", people would say, in that tone that evokes a certain adequate-feeling superiority designed to tread all over my democratic choice which was after all, based on a sounder logic than any of them could ever muster to explain theirs, while t the same time sounding blatantly pitying and conversational. "Ooohhh classical. Yea that's good [As if I. Fuckwits.] I like classical too... [As if II. Fuckwits. Again...]" Oh really? Okay then, time for the exposé question. This is usually a variation of one or two questions:" Which composer do you listen to?/ Which is your favoured era?" The first one usually draws the inevitable. "Oh Beethoven. Definitely. And that guy, what's his name? [Insert long mouth-breathing pause] Bach. Oh and Mozart!" The second reponse usually goes along the lines of "Huh?? Composers had eras?"

OK, this has told me two things about you. First of all, you're a fuckwit, because you don't know anything, and don't want to even try, because you're cushy and close-minded and don't bother expanding your knowledge beyond what the teachers at school hammer into you from your textbooks. Secondly, you're a self-adequating ill-confident lowlife with no self esteem and either are patronisingly trying to decry my choice of music as an arrogant bourgeios illness, or desperately trying to portray yourself as being intellectually adequate for the sake of being 'social' in front of a person who has actually bothered to think his choice of music through due to your shallow inadequacies brought about by your aforementioned lack of knowledge. There are a few rare ndividuals who say they listen to Maxim or Bond. I usually let those slide even though Bond and Maxim are NOT classical music and have slapped their brand of 'pop' unto the world of true classical music like a falling jar of decompsed plum juice and bile; these people at least have tried to expose themselves a little to the world of classical music, though they definitely don't try anywhere near hard enough and don't really accord any degree of respect choicewise.

It sounds really harsh to typify the largesse of people, and to a point I could say I'm arrogant that way. It is however my point of view that unlike most feinters and pseudo-intellectuals I actually deserve to be. For one thing, I think I've read enough relatively speaking to be able to call myself intellectual. Secondly unlike many people I don't mind expanding my knowledge in any direction. My grandfather always had a saying "Dine with scholars and eat with vagabonds", he used to tell my Mom, and later me. In this spirit, knowing as much in as many fields as possible is vital, and as such I will try to expand my mind in any direction as is possible [except the I.T sector, somehow I just haven't had the gall to delve anywhere meaningful in that area. Which is a shame.] Thirdly, and this is most important, I actually think most of my decisions through. I am, if nothing else, practical when it comes to doing things. While I'll admit I've done my fair share of impractical things, I like to know that everything I do exists, is and was done for a purpose, and as far as my choice of music is concerned, there's no way anyone could ever practically defend an idolatory love for today's mainstream music, whilst I certainly can find concrete reasons for liking classical.

Okay, people ask, why do I like classical music so much then? Firstly, it, well most of it, has no lyrics. Some of the earlier works, especially Telemann's and Handel's, had a very Christian background, but for the most part I don't appreciate choral classical. Lyrics, for me, destroy music. They certainly have in today's music, which is why, while I'm willing to allow exceptions, alyrical music has no parallel. Firstly the tune is appreciated more, and secondly the song has a certain expressionism behind it which isn't interpreted for me, and instead allows for its own interpretation and for me to form in my own mind the scenario or storyline. This is the essence of music, and the reason it has accorded artistic status. Music these days is not art. It is devoid of interpretation and therefore has lost its essence, its soul.

When I listen to music, I don't like to be told what's going on or what's being talked about. I prefer to be able to imagine the scenario unfolding and interpreting with my own mind. Take Vivaldi's Four Seasons suite for instance. The most famous scene in Autumn is often entitled The Foxhunt. It is a pleasure allowing the scenario of the autumn hunt unfold with every note: the rhythmic trotting of the horses, the gunshots, the running dogs. Allegretto in Winter is an even more powerful interpretive piece. There is no concrete storyline in the music, and no two people I have asked who have listened to the piece can have the same interpretation of the song. One pictured a bear disturbed in the dark woods chasing the unfortunate intruder. Another imagined a strong blizzard and swirling winds. This to me, is true art, something everyone is allowed to form their own version of a story of.

Secondly, classical music often conveys influence from the culture which the composer is associated with. Many composers, whether through patriotic zeal or simply the love of a land and its culture, incorporate music from various regions. Ippolitov-Ivanov wrote about music from his Georgia homeland. Blas Galindo wrote El sones mariachi in tribute to the musicians of his native Mexico, whilst Moncayo did the same with Mexican folksongs in his immortal work Huapango. I appreciate probably more than many others the cultural resonance behind a music piece and the idea that it may be lost, or nearly lost, in history.

Lastly, classical music is a genre unto its own. Within it there are expressions of all types: of joy, of pain, of love, hope, despair. I bristle at the idea that most people who listen to classical music do so only for relaxation. It is true that with all the pseudo-power and heavy beats of today's music classical is often an outlet for people of less viable constitution to convalesce and kick back. However there is a dynamism and power in classical music, even the 'relaxing' ones, which people fail to notice. I affectionately call this the 'classical spirit'. For those people who seek specifics, classical spirit is undefinable and the result of a genuine immersion in the genre. It evokes the infinite, and the glory of true art. With all that in mind, knowing it is erroneous to overtly favour songs over so many equally glorious others, I have compiled a list of my top ten favourite classical pieces and suites.

1. Johann Strauss: The Beautiful Blue Danube. One of the most well-known and immortal pieces, by the Romantic master of waltz. The sweet flowing song embodies the quiet power of the majestic river beneath the languid grace.

2. Igor Stravinsky: The Rite of Spring: Ritual of the Pagans. Raw power and evocative of the contemporary view of an 'alternative classical'. Highly percussion based its irregular timing and breathless vocality are awe-inspiring and typify this composer's effort to change contemporary views of classical music. People fainted in the theatre, exchanged blows and walked out during its debut.

3. Piotr Tchaikovsky: 1812 Overture. An immortal piece, loved by New Years' Day pyromaniacs everywhere. The glory in the finale belies the political nature of the piece, and shows the ability of music to be used as a psychological tool; history buffs will note that the War of 1812 held litle glory for the French, of whom this song is in praise of.

4. Bedrich Smetana: Vltava [Die Moldau]. My Homeland. Another river-based piece. In this the composer conveyed his patriotic love for his native Bohemia, describing the beauty and grandeur of the land in smooth flowing overtones, in accordance with the river setting.

5. George Gershwin: Rhapsody in Blue. A truly contemporary piece dating from the 1920s, Rhapsody in Blue was the definitive answer to the melding of fledgeling jazz and classic instrumental. Anyone who has watched Fantasia 2000 will appreciate the city-style upbeat feel of the song; the piece was actually Gershwin's interpretation of the rain. This only affirms my belief in free intepretation, and I will not fail to note my impression with the smooth sophistication of the song.

6. Jose Pablo Moncayo: Huapango. Probably my definite favourite. The song conveys an almost stereotypical joy of the Mexican people, incorporating no less than three traditional folksongs. The pure splendour of the brass and percussions illustrates the vibrance and liveliness of traditional folk music, featuring 'duels' between brass and percussion instruments. Truly a gorgeous song to listen to.

7. Thomas Albinoni: Organ Concerto in A Minor. It can't be all happy. This song is for grey sunless days and funerals for loved ones. The true melancholy of the organ is offset by the accompanying violins; the mournful drawn out notes make this a darkly graceful piece. It has been accused of being boring. To me, it is anything but.

8. Georg Frederic Handel: The Harmonious Blacksmith. Scored for solo piano or harpsichord, this song is a demonstration of the players' pure virtuosity. The up-and-down scalar movements are truly impressive, as one imagines the fingers of the players running up and down the keys. A joy to listen to, and a sight better than the overused, overabused Flight of the Bumblebee [Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov], which though admirable, is messy, disorganised and isn't solo.

9. Gustav Holst: Mars, The Bringer of War. Like the Rite of Spring, a song of power. One can never escape the unforgettable tempo of the drum. The song strongly evokes its warlike theme, with the sinister apprehensive tones and the constant beat of the drum. My second favourite behind Huapango.

10. Camille Saint-Saens: Danse Macabre. The legendary Danse Macabre was scored for piano by Franz Lizst, but the true beauty of the song can only be evoked in the full orchestral version. The song utilises the untamably scratchy sound of the fiddle backed up by other strings and percussion to tell story of the night when Death arose and played his fiddle while the dead danced. An immortal favourite of Saint-Saens -better known for his cheeky Carnival of the Animals- aficionados.

2006-09-28T20:21:00.000-07:00

Finally, another long-awaited diatribe launched in all its rotten-garbage splendour at the trash heap labeled 'Modern Music'.

I've been 'advised' recently, by a person no less magnaminous than my own Mom, to not refer to mainstream music with words like 'crap'. Apparently it's a facet of people's lives that I have to respect, a choice which they make of their own accord and I have to uphold a positively tolerant demeanour with regards to their discretion. OK, I'll admit I'm a direct, opiniated person who in various moments tends to spill too much milk from the glass. However, I know I'm not overstepping any lines when I refer to most of the modern music as idioyncratic pointless bullshit. My opinion, my right to express it, and seriously, sod all the people who feel their choice has been duly undermined. These are the kinds of people who really don't give a hoot to what they're actually listening to, and will never understand what it means to be brainwashed by an industry into worshipping perverse self-deprecating negativity.

For that is exactly what most mainstream excuses are, totally lifeless, pointless bullcrap that can actually turn a previously happy person into a negative lump of pessimism. Gone are the days of innocent 'I-love-you-you-love-me' teeny-boppism, which really already held less logic than a broken Rubik cube. These days if it's not selling your body for sex, or shameless lusting for sex, it's the angry cigarette afterward, where people sing about how angry they are at the whole state of affairs. What is so shocking to me is how blatantly the singers and 'artists' can hide their negative lyrics beneath a facade of catchy tunes and shameless music videos, meaning most people will be attracted not so much by the lyrical side of the music, but to the tune that they can so readily hum or sing along to.

You see, most people in the world, are of the uncomplicated variety. They aren't prepared to challenge their mind with interpreting the 'subtle' overtones of the music they listen to. For the most part, they are content to mindlessly sing along to this music, without really ever giving any thought to just what the song stands for. It is this brainlessness of society that the trash-sellers aka 'artists' exploit so well. In fact, I really have to hand it to these singers, more specifically, the people who market them. They are the real social engineers, the psychologists of the world today. The sinful manipulation of the society, how they mould entire generations of people to accept the music they produce as somehow being acceptable.

I tell you, Hilary Duff is the best social engineer there is. Starting off with the innocent-enough kid's show, graduating to becoming a 'singer' via the route of making it big as an actress, her tunes are the typically catchy, stick-in-the-head variety. But just delve a little beneath the tinkly tune, and you find her songs are no different to any of the other fish-livers drifting around. Lyrics such as 'Let the rain fall down and wash away my tears....I'm coming clean'. For pants' sakes, how negative do you want to be? What is there to be so sad about? That's just one example. Look at all the songs Miss Duff has churned out and you will expose her as being nothing more than a childish, pointless whinebag who leaves nothing to artistic interpretation, shamelessly manipulating the 'music-lovers' of the world with some cute jingle which belies her front as a teen actress with a face most dirty old men would masturbate to, and that's all people will ever remember. No, I do not think there has been anyone out there who has carefully considered the lyrics of Hilary Duff. Nor have I even gone into the shameless sex-peddling of Britney and Holly Valance or the mind-numbing valueless dead algae that is rap and R&B.

R&B is even worse as a genre. Not only does it, like most pop, reduce people to mindless reasonless negative piles of brain-dead horse shit, it actually as a whole devalues the entire music industry and society. The very fact that these 'artists' [and when it comes to these shit-merchants I use the term really too liberally] can so shamelessly utilise sex and lust to sell their music is just the best proof that people never think about just what they're listening to. I once saw some 16-year old back in Malaysia [no doubt up there amongst the mainstream-worshipping capitals of the world] walking down the street with her earphones on singing out loud "Hey baby I want you to shake your ass, Oh yes I want to shake my ass" or some weird shit like that. I literally wanted to grab that numbskull by the throat, shake her a few times and bang her head against a rough wall whilst screaming "Do you know what the fuck you're singing to?!" It's people like that who piss me off, pointless sludge-for-brains who add no value or intellectual thought to the world and brain-rape-artists are all too eager to manipulate to their wealth-making advantage. To me, rap and R&B is nothing more than brain-blowing shit in 4-4 timing which does nothing for society but encourage children and young people to dress like skanks and invite rape which when it does happen these people will only wonder why. Uncomplicated, pointless music which really is too challenging for most people to try and figure out anyway.

It burns me up inside that people can actually become possessive about mainstream music. I've actually seen people get pissed off when they hear more intellectual people like myself [I am totally NOT ashamed to admit] question the music they listen to, as if it were a trait that was actually worth defending. Not for the first time was I talked down in the public for being some old-fashioned bourgeoisie who thought too much, while in the midst of launching another attack of vitriol against that retarded excuse for music, emo/ punk/whatever they choose to be on the day. Imagine that! I was accused of thinking too much! Does this say something then about the people who think too little? To me, music these days is for soft-minded, brainless, poor decision-makers who will never be able to commit to anything, think through a decision, make any vaguely intellectual insight or ponder any form of valid thought school, their minds fuzzed up by their thoughtless worshipping of mind-numbing brainwash material which carries no message and allows for no mind-building interpretation or artistic consideration.

To all those maintream-worshippers who are reading this, here's a challenge for you. Think of this the next time you see Nelly or Green Day collecting their 1,350th Grammy and hear them being referred to as 'artists'. Wait, I'm sorry, you can't. I win.

2006-09-26T08:09:00.000-07:00

Interesting fact: Florent Sinama-Pongolle is now at Recreativo de Huelva, Spain. Cool huh?.........Guess not.

Nineteen today! Actually it was yesterday. But I am nineteen today. I will be nineteen tomorrow, and will be for the subsequent 362 days afterward.

Ever noticed how unremarkable the nineteenth birthday is? I mean, how many people actually remember their nineteenth birthday, unless of course it was marked by a really remarkable and anomalous incident, like a meteorite crashing through the roof and obliterating the stripper halfway through her routine? I'd guess not very many. Maybe it's been dulled by the altogether more riveting eighteenth birthday, or maybe the joy's clouded by the expectation of the twentieth. I don't know. But somehow I decided I wasn't going to allow this birthday to step out of the pattern. Somehow I contrived to wish for the most unexciting, mundane and unremarkable nineteenth birthday ever, and truth be told I came this close to actually getting it.

Too bad my housemates weren't going to allow it. Having contrived to sleep through two-thirds of the day, it didn't seem too difficult to have a plain ordinary day. I did get a couple of well-wishes from meaningful friends, but other than that little deviated form the normal. Come 8pm I actually thought I was going to pull it off. Who knew my housemates would pull together the most pleasant little cake-cutting-and-card combo? As it turned out, it wasn't bad at all. The cake was delicious, the card was humorous and the people were exactly who I wanted to be with come this special day, and none others. In short, this was the perfect birthday for me. Maybe I did sound like I was just a dark-hearted spiteful old killjoy. But you knew I was kidding didn't you?=)

2006-09-21T18:15:00.000-07:00

Who was it that said love is a many- splendoured thing? Come on, I should know this one. I've been inclined to say it was William Shakespeare, but I guess it's instinctive to credit any catchy one-liner to the great gay wordy one.

Everyone has their own mushy little candy-floss idea of love [When I mean love, I don't mean the 'love your family and cherish God and all things and love your friends and Jesus loves you'; kind of love. I mean specifically the kind that happens between one person and another person in a purely romantic sense. In fact, sod it, substitute love for romance]. Some will dream of it, some more 'privileged' ones get to enact it in a broad act we term 'romance'. From the realist's point of view, romance is basically nature's way of getting our body of energy to court another body of energy to create another similarly-formed bundle of energy hopefully some way along the line. To most people, it's a thing to enjoy while it is there, to love and cherish the person dearest to their heart, and forever go around with this person by their side, till the day they wrinkle into lovable old people and end their days together as one.

This is, of course, true. If you happen to be living in the 1950s. These days the idea of romance is so blurred one cannot help but disparage it. To me, love romance is the most cynical, unrealistic, in-the-clouds form of human emotion as can be expressed today. I'm not saying this out of spite, I love and have loved before. The thing is with the advent of today's 'millenium culture', there is really very little to be said about the purity of loving romance, other than the fact that it just doesn't exist anymore. It's a purely non-existant thing and it's wishful thinking that any of us who don't exist in Amish-like sequential, disciplined and traditional seclusion could ever maintain it.

The thing is these days there are too many complications. Political correctness has a lot to explain for this. These days a guy can't just sweep a girl off her feet and start a relationship which can idealistically last forever. These days a guy must make 'considerations', emotional physical and mental considerations before he even thinks about going near another girl. A girl must think about 'treasuring her dignity', 'is he the right man', 'can he support me'. In many ways, I think a girl's considerations are a lot more valid. Now I'm all for the treasuring of dignity. Maintaining one's dignity [and let's not confuse it with pride, that's the thing that makes guys with big penises deliberately sit naked in the sauna] is what everybody should live for.

A guy these days, gets nervous around the thought of courtship, so they resort to all sorts of messages, some subliminal, some obvious. And these days, you have to use messages because both sides feel simultaneously insecure. These days a girl has to flirt to 'gauge her man'. A guy has to be a smooth talker. A girl must send all sorts of teasing signals to see how responsive the guy is. A guy must know how to shave and dress and be fashionably astute and always have a cool one-liner ready for all occassions whether it be to liven up the social function or placate the heartbroken female. And the main reason why we are all so insecure about the other person, I feel, is because of the proliferation, of sex.

Say what you will about sex, it's a pure act of ultimate love between a man and a woman, or bringing into consideration homosexuality, between the same gender. The fact is that sex these days is impure, overused, overrated and totally not what we all think it is. Sex these days is girls dressing up in a piece of cloth that leaves nothing to the imagination, gyrating shamelessly to music which more often than regularly only adds to the situation, in the hope some big hulking hunk of muscles will come along, rub his crotch all over her, and drag her off to some God-blessed bed somewhere where he will have his way with her, often repeating the process with assorted guys or assorted girls several times in a single night, every weekend of the month and every month of the year.

It cannot be denied, sex has cheapened, and this is as much the fault of the ideologies of the current generation as it is anything else. For guys, the idea is they just want a place to stick their dicks in. For girls, they want to be that place. I've overheard people boasting they got laid three or four times in a single day. While of course it is naive to think this hasn't actually been happening for a while, it's pretty obvious this advent of sexual 'liberation' has only turned the way it did over the last few years. The music these days for a large part preaches nothing else. Singers, male or female, have to gyrate and swirl their rear ends around and pose in revealing or 'hip' clothes with some weird face which looks half-starved, half-looking to be bashed in and frankly retarded on their album covers if they don't wish to flop on their record sales. Ads don't sell products without some skanky-looking woman [imagine why a young woman would endorse a 4x4 pick-up truck or a men's shaving cream and you get the idea of how pointless this is]. All this does nothing but contribute to the idea that sex is available, is everywhere, and everyone is willing to give it and take it. So while people go about the nightclubs and discos screwing around like jackrabbits, when the time comes for them to get serious about a relationship and drop the slutty shit, they go all insecure and go 'Aaah I need to preserve my dignity. I'd better make sure he/she's actually not half mental in the brain and full-mental in the genitalia'.

When you think about it, of course people are going to fail in relationships. Of course they're going to turn into debacles. Because, really, these days, everyone expects sex. It's that simple. Everyone is so half-crazed on the dope that is fornication few people think of little else underneath the 'nice-sensitive' facade. Because everybody's done nothing but screw around for the last ten years, or expect to screw around, when it comes to the time for people to get serious and stop mucking about, do you really think any person is going to stop? No wonder everybody's minds are twisted with the questions of 'Could I really expect better from this or that person?'. It's because we put ourselves in this situation that we've ended up mistrusting everyone else.

Even more paining, most people just don't give a fuck. Actually, wait, they do. In fact, they do little else. But seriously, so many people just don't care. Guys are content to find cheap holes to stick their wangs in, and girls are content providing. These people are content to drift along, getting laid weekend after weekend, providing no direction in their life whatsoever, and hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone or something might just drift by. This is the hallmark of what I call the 'jellyfish people', people who do nothing but drift along in any form of their life and are content to snare whatever suits them that passes by. These people provide no push or impetus to their lives, and are ruining it for the people who do. It's these types of people who have ruined love, have ruined life, and have put the world in a situation where it is for the most part, pointless, cynical, and without direction. Forgive me, all those out there who actually do love for love itself, but to my mind, there is no valid romance left in the world, there is only cynicism, pointlessness, and people looking to fuck. Bless us.

2006-09-20T08:59:00.000-07:00

Lost 5-3 on the weekend, while we were 3-1 up at one stage. But that's not important right now.

It's not difficult to become a hero these days. Maybe you'd sing a crappy song that every dullard and pseudo-intellectual would find humorously endearing and profoundly self-connected to. Perhaps you'd support an outwardly noble cause while using it as a facade for shameless plaudit-grabbing and public self-endorsement. Maybe you just look good. No matter what, you'd always find somebody who'd idolise you and your image, hold you in as high esteem as is humanly possible, can see no wrong in anything you do, and excuse your shortcomings and mistakes as just the errors of another human being. Of course that's wrong. You have no shortcomings. You can do no wrong. To these people, you, are perfect. You are the God-incarnate.

It's funny in an unamusing manner how people never actually pause to think about the people they idolise. People never ask themselves questions like "What's really so great about what so-and-so did anyway?", or "Did they really do that out of the compassion of their own heart?". Caught up in the frenzy of showering these people with gold and plaudits, we tend to forget that ninety-nine percent of the time, these people have had, at most, only one or two moments of real greatness. The thing about today is that image is always the main issue. Everything is about what so-and-so did and how he or she did it, and hype-ing up those moments in a blitz of positive publicity stunt-pulling. In the greater scheme of a personal lifetime, those moments are really only just fleeting moments which may last a year or two, a single sporting season, in most cases even a few seconds.

Maybe it's an unescapable rule of nature, but mankind is obsessed with image. Try as we might, it is impossible to totally deviate from the reality that is today's accepted mainstream and the proponents of that world. Wherever you look, Kylie Minogue stares out at you from every corner. Most every guy either dresses like a rap star or a trashbag, and I'm sorry I'm even making a distinction. Let's not get into what shreds of cloth most girls drag their tepid corpses into. Never do we consider that the person we idolise is really 'just a singer', or 'really only an actor'. We forget that there's very little a rap singer actually contributes to society in his/her profession [and in fact does a lot to make it a whole lot worse]. Like it or not, Pirates of the Carribean is only just a movie, and try as we might we will never pull Johnny Depp out of the screen, and it doesn't really add very much to your life watching 99% of today's flicks anyway.

That's why to me, it's pointless and frankly stupid worshipping the largesse of today's heroes. To me, the trick to being a hero is not to have just some single discrete moment that means nothing practical by any term, but to be able to mark a cause which has a positive impact on the world. Not just an impact, but a legacy. And even more importantly, to constantly and unflinchingly uphold and support that legacy. In upholding this legacy, the person actually adds value to humanity and will actually contribute to making the world better. This to my mind, is a genuine person worthy of being someone's hero. And this is why Steve Irwin is my hero.

I know I have already eulogised Steve Irwin in my previous post, but as his memorial service was held today, I feel it is apt to add to my admiration of who was probably among the few people today we could genuinely call a human being. He lived and died upholding the cause he supported, and left behind a world poorer for the enthusiasm and passion with which he carried out his work. Many people dismiss his approach as petty showmanship, but to my mind, the Steve Irwin approach to nature conservation was probably the most important step undertaken by the world of nature conservation since the formation of national parks.

While certainly never encouraging everyone to perform the same hands-on daredevil stunts as he did, Steve Irwin advocated an even more important underlying message: that we are really so much closer to nature than we'd really ever consider, and as the technologically dominant species have the responsibility to ensure we do not run away with our large minds and wealth, and instead channel a fair proportion towards preserving the dignity of other living creatures. In essence, Steve Irwin was just another nature presenter. He made the animals the superstars. How cynical he might have been, with the realisation that the 'cool-radical' approach was the only way to get today's material-inclined society to pay any attention.

For better or worse, nature preservation has lost it's most valuable PR cornerstone, with few even daring to contemplate themselves magnaminous enough to inherit the mantle. The truth is it'll be impossible to do what Steve Irwin did in the same style as him. It was heartwarming to hear his daughter Bindi pledge to continue his legacy, but she will never be her father. No one in the rest of the world has the same charisma and willingness to work in the same manner as the great man. We can only hope naturalism finds a way on and up in this most depressing of circumstances, and realise that while it is important to mourn, we should never lose sight of the vision laid out by this brave crusader of conservation. Today we laid to rest Steve Irwin, one of the finest naturalists of our time. Long may his legacy live on, in the hearts and minds of equally dedicated individuals. It will be the only way we can give thanks. RIP Steve, you are a great hero.

2006-09-13T20:41:00.000-07:00

I hail from a country whose biggest international icons are a suave crooner [no, not you Siti, but then again just how well known is P. Ramlee?], a spiky fruit that smells like 'a sewer with a dash of coal gas' [hail the narrative genius of David Attenborough], and the world's tallest Twin Structures That Are Really Suspiciously Phallic in Design. Oh, and Kitaro played here once. And Manchester United. But that's irrelevant.

Icons are what people build their impression of a country on, and we seem to take them forgranted. So it's hard for us to envisage the time when one of these icons disappear. But imagine Malaysia without its durians. Would the KL skyline be any less memorable without the Twin Towers? And if Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and Manchester United were to inexplicably disappear, would England even be worth talking about anymore?

Usually a loss of such national symbols would be just about impossible. Like it or not, durians will be here to stay forever. Barring a catastrophe, the sensitivities of which are too delicate to mention here, KL [is doomed to?] forever have its skyline dominated by the Petronas Towers. But such talk stems from the mind of a person whose senses have been dulled by the comfort of knowing something would always be there. Most of us can readily associate with this mentalit, so it always comes as a sharp shock when a symbol of pride, an item or person with which we all too readily use to define a place, disappears.

So it happened that Australia-my adopted home- last week lost forever one of its iconic persons, a man who to many defined the Australia they all understood to exist. Steve Irwin died in a manner which strangely befitted him, and with his passing Australia could be said to have lost its international face. Most would relate to Steve Irwin as an ambassador, a conservationist, a larrikin, and a national stereotype. Just as Paul Hogan did in the past, Steve Irwin set the standard by which most around the world measured all Australians, with the laid-back slang, the distinctive accent, his close relationship with the country's natural world and heaven-be-damned hands-on approach to the creatures he loved. Anyone of us who has watched the 'Crocodile Hunter' in action would probably automatically associate his screen-habits with all things Aussie. "Do they all say crikey? Do they all wear bush clothes and widebrim hats? Do they all jump on crocodiles?'' In this manner, Steve Irwin became a true national stereotype of Australia, one which we would poke fun at in pubs, and shamelessly mimic in impromptu comedic moments, and we realise that no matter how anyone tries, no one could ever get it just right.

The fame came to Steve Irwin, and his selflessness and dedication to his line of work meant he knew exactly how to use it. His iconic nature was, to him, the best possible source of feed for his natural passion for wildlife and his flaming desire to protect it. Steve Irwin was a humanist, that rare type of person who actually saw the pride and innate dignity of every living animal, and more importantly, respected the right of that creature to preserve its dignity and its existence. To him, animals striking in self-defense were only reacting in a manner which befitted their nature, and an indication that we, as always, were the antagonists and violators. I imagine if he could give his view on his death, he'd probably say "Fair enough". In a way, someone could say Steve was just about asking for it, and if the dead could offer retrospect, he would probably agree with that view. It was out of this respect for nature and his want to preserve the dignity of every creature that Steve Irwin channelled his fame into increasing worldwide awareness for wildlife. I watched him in an interview in which he said "I love money. I can't get enough money. And I'm going to use it to buy land for national preserves." To his mind, material goods: a big house, a flashy car, were all unnecessary expenditures. Whilst nearly all of us accumulate our wealth out of our desire to obtain expensive luxuries, only a select few do it almost purely for the sake of helping others, and Steve Irwin was one of these people.

There was always something sadistic and morbidly derisive inherent in all of us that make us almost wish we'd see Steve Irwin getting owned by some dangerous animal every time we see him. I guess it was just too easy to take his existence forgranted. To me, this was our form of an impersonal, lackadaisical, respectless and violatory relationship we had with a person we never knew. This is also my regret. We can never bring Steve Irwin back, but it is probably the greatest show of respect we can afford the man by wanting to, or at the least, walk the path he demarcated. Steve Irwin, R.I.P. We will never forget.

2006-09-06T05:41:00.000-07:00

I hereby pledge to stop beginning all my posts with 'I'. It's just self-centred.

Now on to more important things. Long have I pined for something I could love. Ever since I left Malaysia, I had long been searching for something which I could devote special attention to, and make feel cherished. Not that it mattered too much in fair judgement, but in hindsight I had been trying to regain some of the little sites of comfort I had taken forgranted before I left for Australia.

The apartment I lived in, the dumb cane on the window sill, even -shudder- a couple of the fairer sex, were all the subject of my heartfelt devotion, but I always failed to find a responsive subject. The room always ended up dirty again. The plant died. Young love always dealt its Card of Death. I ended the year cynical, worn and foully determined to be unreceptive to all forms of given affection. [Childish, in a way. But we are all children...]

The only remedy for such lovelessness is of course, to get something living that actively responds to affection. To most people not of the wholly horticulturally-inclined variety, that would equate to getting a pet. I didn't risk the rent agreements in my old apartment, which was college-run student accommodation. My current house, also rented, forbade pets. Or did it? A quick check with the rent agency revealed the 'No pets' rule applied only to, by most standards, cats and dogs. So I was safe with smaller pets! I had always been a master of maintaining animals at home, now what could I find that would sufficiently sate my lust for affection-giving? It had to be small, it had to be convenient, and it had to be cheap. Plus I had to like it, so no giant West Indian centipedes.

Finally, after much soul-searching [not in the 'look within my heart and conscience' variety, the 'ask-my-vast-and-imperious-general-knowledge' kind] I finally found my answer in a small, heart-wrenchingly adorable [almost], four-dollar package of furball: the common white rat. Now I have a good-looking creature of creation which I can devote time, love and affection to, and for now I am happy. Who needs a girlfriend anyway? ;D

2006-09-04T06:38:00.000-07:00

Having checked the previous posts I found that the squad picture of The Offsiders I posted on the second last article failed to appear. I am reattaching it here.

Top row [left to right]: Myself, Reet [India], Teekay(Alex) [Zimbabwe], Lee [China], Firdaus [Singapore], Hide [Japan].
Bottom row: Star Man aka Gabriel [Mexico], Mirko [Peru], Azam [Malaysia], Alan [Peru]

*Mirko and Alan are not officially members of the Offsiders team, but were invited on the day to add depth to the squad in the absence of other squad members.

Other members of the squad: Frankie and Ishmael [Argentina], Tigre [Mexico], Carlos [Colombia], Fahad [Kuwait]

Left to right: Ishmael, Fahad [front], Hide, Frankie, Tigre

2006-09-03T06:57:00.000-07:00

I've noticed that all I've been writing about recently is football, so I think for the better of my viewers [are there even any to begin with???] I should start writing about something else.

Have you ever felt joy? Joy so great you couldn't find a word to express it? Well that's just it, there isn't a word to express it. So, like the shortcut loving convenience-assuming beings that we are, fall back on words which describe the infinite: limitless, boundless, and my personal favourite, undescribable. Of course it would be undescribable, we are after all, blinkered by our own limitations as a single species, unable to see or describe what we wish to from the perspective of another species, or even another being.

The reason why I brought that little issue up, was to address something which has strongly compelled me to pen this essay [at the expense of a thousand-word report due in approximately four waking hours]. There exists now, dear readers, a new theory, one which threatens to hurl our scientific understanding back two hundred years and once again expose the glaringly soft underbelly that is our sceintific deficiency. It is the theory of intelligent design, a concept which lamely attempts to bridge the disparity between the divided concepts of evolutionary theory and creationism. The basic idea of intelligent design twins the theories of creationism [God went click and everything plopped out of nowhere] and evolution [in the beginning there was nothing, which exploded. And some of everything became something else] by basically saying life has evolved, although it seems to have followed some predetermined intelligent pathway.

To my mind, this theory holds as much water as a south Queensland dam with broken sluice gates. The creationism vs evolution debate has always been viewed as a clash between faith and reasoning. There is very little correlation between the two, and while a whole lot of good reasoning can lead to a measure of good faith, it is more of an issue of blind insanity when reasoning can spring forth from baseless faith. In all honesty the theory of intelligent design is nothing more than a blatant demonstration of Man's arrogance, such as it is that we have forgotten what it was like to not know something, that there are boundaries to our understanding which will forever conceal sections of 'knowledge' from our gaze.

In a way, gaining knowledge can be akin to looking down from a very high hill to gauge the landscape. A lot of details may be instantly provided. Additional information may be surrendered to the observer under closer scrutiny. However there are inevitable gaps in the knowledge we can obtain, and try as we might, no amount of observation could ever deliver the necessary information in order for us to see the full picture. One cannot, for instance, see the mushrooms growing near a distant haystack. Dark woodland may conceal a rider on his horse. Not only that, what we see may not actually be what it really is. In this analogy a road may actually be a plough line in a field. As much as we would like to, there is no way we could ever see what is hidden unless we change our perspective. In effect this would amount to becoming a whole different being, or for the sake of being analogous, stand on a different hill which affords a different view, and in the real world of humanity simply moving into a different position is impossible.

This is why I think the theory of intelligent design blows. We as humans from our human perspective perceive everything according to our standards and our quantified knowledge. We can only adjudicate a situation as best as we can according to the information our understanding and interpretation can provide us. We couldn't really say what we see is right, or if it even exists in the manner we interpret it to. Proponents of the intelligent design theory interpret evolution as following pathways. Not only that, they see a 'form of intelligence' guiding that pathway. I mean look, let's face it, all we have to support this theory is what we perceive as a pathway, and some intelligent being, God help him, laying it down. Let me make one thing clear, the human mind only sees pathways where its mind interprets it to be so. We only think there is a 'path' because in our minds, we can only see from the human perspective. The human mind likes to see patterns, rhythm and order. We like to think everything is joined, repetitive, and in sync. Thus in our deluded state of comfort, embedded safely in the trenches, we fail to see what is beyond the horizon, and thus distance ourselves from the truth. To my mind, all incidences are discrete, and while one thing may lead to another [the central dogma of energy transfer being about the only thing we've gotten totally right in the last 250 years], it is naive to think that there are actual conscious links between evolutionary forebears and proteges.

Furthermore, we like to feel that there is someone, or something, watching over us, who made us in His image and will love us and care for us and save us from all evil. A sort of cushy comfort figure, whom we interpret from our standards, basing our idea of what we think our loving Father who art in Heaven on what we would like to see. And this isn't just some lame George Carlin rip-off rant, I truly feel that when it comes to God, mankind has truly lost the plot. The conceitedness of the human race, to think itself so superior as to have been the race created by the supposed ruler of the Universe! The very idea of God in itself shows the glaring shortcomings of humanity, and we really are a long way away from the beings we say we are. If you're from a theistic religion, are currently reading this and feeling more than a little violated inside, just ponder to ask yourself the following questions. What is it about us that we need to know we have someone to take care of everything? Can we really only feel better knowing that the great invisible man in the sky loves us? How insecure a race of species do we have to be?

As far as I'm concerned, the concept of intelligent design is nothing more than a small part of a greater psychological agenda, meant to be utilised by the struggling mega-powers of nation and religion to re-curry favour with the national public. It is a selfish concept in which beneath its diabetic sugar-coating evolution is a real oversight and does nothing more than to try and give face to an outfit trying too hard to win back its support from a growing number of people who now only know too well. Already there is growing support for an ideology which at first glance appears to benevolently spread its arms to generously encompass both schools of thought, yet is nothing more than a glazed-over, absurdly politically correct guise of creationism, itself a threadbare product of human arrogance and false pride. To a stubborn many, faith in the lordly father figure will always hold precedence over scientific reasoning, which has done so much more to prove itself with tangible evidence, which though admittedly succumbs to the impurity of human interpretation still seems so much more logical than a conveniently spoonfed and packaged philosophy which in no way illuminates the mind to no other cause but blind worship. It is this writer's hope eventually the triumph of reason will prevail.

2006-08-30T06:57:00.000-07:00

Finally back online after a hard week of no computer and no communication. I took the Machine of Overheated Death to an admittedly unauthorised mechanic [I think, but it is more than likely that that is the case. Hey, I'm Malaysian.] who rather skirted the problem instead of dealing with the actual situation. Rather than tightening the cord socket, which would have been a lengthy and rather expensive procedure, the mechanic fixed a bigger head to the cord to lessen the jiggling. If the mountain won't come to Muhammad...still, it is a partial solution. I'll just hope this holds out until December when I get home.

Finally after a win and a draw, the Offsiders have won big! 6-0 to be exact, giving some poor hapless yet somehow superiorly complex team the hiding they deserve. It just had to be the Socialists at the end of it, really. Coming up against what was supposed to be our toughest opposition [same number of players, same white Aussies, different uniforms] the team finally answered all the questions asked of it. Of course it helped that some of the players who helped answer those questions weren't even in the original team, but fed up of being perpetually short on numbers, we finally made the decision to draft in outside players, Gabriel asking two Peruvian friends whom we knew from the field to help bolster the squad.

Being truly blessed in turnout, we had eleven players to toy with, and with skill to match we were able to run the opposition ragged by continually bringing fresh feet into the game. Change of tactic also helped our cause. Playing a considerably faster-paced game featuring three attackers and continuous running we managed to outpace the lumbering Aussies, who were reduced to frustrated tactics and a single shot on target, a weak long range shot which a cross-eyed ADD-suffering leper on hallucinogens would've saved comfortably bobbling neatly into our keeper's arms. With the pace of our three forwards, and a cohesive midfield-defence, the Socialists had no answer, and we were 2-0 up by halftime, both being scored by Gabriel, who went on to score another two. It might have been seven, but the ball was going in as the referee was blowing the whistle so I doubt it counted.

It feels good to be part of a winning side. To get all hippy about it, it's nice to see a collective effort pay off. No one is bigger than the other in a team, and it's good to see we now have the best possible platform to build on for the next game. Finally I can put up the squad team picture. Without further ado, I present The Offsiders.

2006-08-30T05:47:00.000-07:00

Gabriel [furthest right] slots past the RamRod keeper to make it 1-1. Cue all hell poor finishing and bad luck for the last 9 minutes.

2006-08-22T06:12:00.000-07:00

Does it really matter if the mainstay of your social life goes up in a smoking, malodorous conflagration? How much would it affect you if the main form of communication you utilised went up in flames? I reckon I never really considered these questions, in fact I chuckled when I heard on news last week that Dell Computers was initiating the world's biggest ever recall of electronic equipment after laptops in several countries started bursting into flames due to faulty batteries.

Now a sense of deja vu envelops me as I send my laptop in for repairs. The cause? A dead battery. And worse, an overly loose cord connection socket which leaves the plug hanging loosely around the metal bit, causing sparking and leaving my bedroom smelling like combusted plastic. And yes I am aware of the danger it causes to the laptop and the house. I am typing this very entry on the current Instrument of Electro-Doom...

We had our second league game on the weekend. Team Ramrod [the "creative input" that goes into the creation of these names kinda makes you long for the oppressive uniformising dictatorial regime of Stalinist Russia. Not in that way...ish] were the opposition, a near carbon copy of the last team with the exception that some of the players were actually good. Still, the chastening loss hit us hard and we were determined not to let ourselves become pushovers for the second week running. So going down 1-0 in the first 30 seconds was not really in the plan. Still we tightened up admirably, and there was a better cohesion between the midfield and the defense.

Nine minutes into the second half we made the breakthrough, and it had to be Gabriel. Taking a long ball down he outran two defenders from the halfway line, sidestepped another as he cut in towards the right post and drew the goalkeeper three steps off his line before tucking it into the far post. Suddenly it was all Offsiders as our team made attack after attack. The opposition barely got a touch, and we must have had at least seven or eight good opportunities to seal a win. In the end poor shooting and luck was against us, and we scraped the draw. Still, it was a vast improvement from the previous week, and we can be rather happy with our general performance. Up next, Socialist Soccer [???!!!W???T??!!!F??!!] =P

2006-08-15T06:19:00.000-07:00

Haven't updated for some time, been busy lately. And lazy. Just lazy. Fine. Nothing of note has happened really, as I undergo the quotidian part of my existence routinely and unflinchingly [is a student's life really as boring as it sounds? Yes. Yes it is]. Until Sunday that is.

Remember the league? After being stood up in the first week [a mix-up in booking times by UQ Sport meant the event was called off], we finally played our first game, and duly lost 3-0. First day blues and blurs you might think, except when the comparisons are weighed, The Offsiders really had no excuse. Firstly, the football team we played against were everything but. Even the name Havoc With Hiddick [sic] betrayed their real make-up: a team of big-boned Aussies averaging 6 feet 2 who seriously looked like they came directly out of an AFL team. To get all Simon Cowell about it, they had basic skills, were out of shape [one begged the ref for half-time with 10 minutes gone], no cohesion as a team, rudimentary knowledge of the rules and a cool arrogance to boot. Their redeeming factors were their size and the fact that they at least knew how to kick, and even though we were all very much smaller, we really should have run rings around them. Instead, we looked disjointed and cowed.

Secondly, we have had multiple trainings in the past couple of weeks, trying to groom everyone into shape and work on their form and positioning. Of all the trainings we have had, only seven of the team have consistently showed up, and the seven unsurprisingly were the ones who, incident and personal reason aside, made it on the day. Maybe people really are that busy, or maybe people don't yet realise the effort Gabriel has invested in this endeavour. Whatever the reason, people just don't commit to training. We have made it clear that while we are playing for fun, we still aim to play well. This is the mentality that has to be present in a ragtag throw-together team such as ours. How can a person enjoy playing when they're losing 3-0? Granted we are for the most part, short on skills and fitness, but that's what training is for. I for one have utilised Gabriel's training faithfully, and while I know I'm not even nearly there, I can see I have improved. In a sense one could loosely divide this team into two halves, the Committeds and the Non-Committeds. The former seems to want to improve the team learn to play well, get some sort of cohesion and have fun winning, while the latter seems more inclined to just show up on the day and 'just have fun'. I'll leave whoever knows these people who's reading this to judge for themselves. It speaks volumes for the teamwork of this squad that I have been unable to put up the squad photo on this site. I'll be sincerely harsh, if we couldn't even come together for a 40 minute game, let's forget all notions of progressing anywhere, and call this the biggest waste of everyone's 50 dollars.

As it happened, we lost, and lost badly to what must certainly be the weakest team in the group. We can have few excuses for what transpired that day. Defence-wise, we held pretty firm, and were maybe unlucky to be 1-0 down at half-time, having restricted the oposition to long-range pot-shots. However it has to be said that every one of the goals we conceded were down to sloppiness in the defence, the last one an especially bad piece of marking allowing their striker a free run on goal from an over the top long ball. It is said that greatness is built on a solid platform, and on the day, ours was shakier than the Mid-Atlantic Faultline. I raise my hand and volunteer that I didn't do as well as I would've pleased, but I can definitely say I marked better than just about anyone, and when I left in the second half the marking fell apart altogether.

Midfield is another real worry: it just wasn't there. Whilst the opponent's shortcomings allowed our disjointedness in midfield without adequately punishing it, it worries me as to what will happen when we face better, more cohesive opponents. We may be excused however for the fact that our first-choice central midfielder didn't show up, forcing our central defender to effectively have to do two jobs. Up front was really the team's only strength, with Gabriel orchestrating everything. The strikers were incisive and had more shots on target than I remember. The strikers in truth suffered from a lack of supply from midfield, with Gabriel literally having to run back in order to run forward. Another painful reality was that none of the team, apart from the strikers, ran. Personally this was down to first-day nervousness more than anything. I felt stiff in my position and was unwilling to leave it. Even when I had a chance to maybe run upfield and create something, I didn't for want of sticking to the gameplan and not leaving any holes in the back. The rest of us may have felt the same, but we will need to definitely find a system in which we can conjoin and play in a flow.

In truth we couldn't really complain. This was a result worthy of our efforts and we can only hope for a swift improvement by the next game. But what can you do about a team with no subs, cannot pass, can't defend, and cannot run?

2006-08-03T07:11:00.000-07:00

We had our first football training yesterday, and again today. If ever there was a word so exponential in its quantity as to be infinite used to describe pain, I wish it'd been invented sooner. Just about every muscle is responding to a three-year slumber, for so long have they not been stretched and pulled in the manner that they were. Worst of all, my previously held assumptions about my stamina were found to have been sorely misplaced. Many questions were asked about the quality of my fitness these past two days, and I have to say I failed to answer them.

In case you, the reader, have forgotten, I and several friends have formed a team to participate in UQ's seven-a-side league. This was really the house's idea, as in my housemates', and as passionate supporters of sporting play, we aim to take this endeavour in full seriousness. My Mexican housemate Gabriel took it upon himself to organise and coach the team, being the most experienced in these matters. Whilst many would say that they'd only play for kickabout's sake, Gabriel always has been a passionate advocate of the notion that to really enjoy the game is to play it properly. In no way trying to embiggen my friend's profile, I have to say Gabriel is the most professional amateur player I have ever met. True, he has the experience and skills, but there's a determination about the guy that would drive any dedicated team on, and his effervescence motivated the rest of the house to take up football, in my case, again.

It must be said that Gabriel is the best possible type of trainer. He had identified my [and other team-mates'] weakpoints as to be in the fitness sector and has immediately set about correcting that. The last two training sessions have been entirely dedicated to impoving fitness and stamina with less emphasis on ball skills. It was never designed to be easy, and thinking about it I can see Gabriel's point. We paid $50 each to play a team game, and it would be a waste of money and a letdown for ourselves and others if we play a shit game.

In this manner football reflects life. Doing one's best equates to making life better for oneself and others. Okay, maybe it would be idealistic and an unnecessary stress to aim to simply be the best, but constantly striving to be better is alwats important, and with that in mind, why would it be so difficult to be the best? Shortchanging oneself would only lead to letting oneself down, and even more importantly, letting down the people around one who are counting on a good performance. Me? I know I'm not the best, and with my deficiencies physiologically speaking I probably never will be, but I now have a chance to work in a team, and contribute to a collective effort. This is my challenge, and I'm grateful to Gabriel and the rest for giving me a chance to try my best and make a difference. Here's to, The Offsiders!

2006-07-31T09:59:00.000-07:00

Not that my journalistic tendencies are starting to be superseded by unoriginal self-storytelling, but it's been a long day, and I'm really exhausted. Uni's a real drag on Mondays, starting at 8am and ending at 4pm, with only a couple hours in between for rest, and even that is normally dedicated to work or settling important affairs. At least it's better than Monday last semester, which was 8 to 5, without a single hour free in between.

Where is this leading? Well alright, today was my lab practical for Ecology and Environment. I've been in uni two weeks and already this is developing into my favourite subject. Whilst many rookies are groaning at the workload and assessment propotioning, I have been basking in the warm afterglow of the Announcement. The announcement which says 50% of our assessment will be comprised of two field assignments! Finally, field research! Something that I can really dig my digits into.

In case you, the reader, haven't yet read my first post, I am a nature and ecology fanatic. Not a tree-hugger or a vegan or anything radically extremist like that, just a real scientific aficionado. I have been a naturalist at heart since I was three. My other friends were into whatever trend hit the mainstream market at the time. I just told myself I didn't need that shit [in better terms, of course, I was only four] and for the very most part I stuck to birdwatching, observing insects and tending to the aquarium and the myriad things I kept around the house that did nothing good apart from make the maid scream. And those were just the plastic ones. [The scorpion in the coal bucket and the snake in the neighbour's driveway are priceless memories]. Even when I succumbed to the mainstream and bought Power Rangers figurines it was really more for the sake of seeing the killer and blue whale toys I had drown them in the bathtub [though my Dad would really have you believe otherwise. He still likes to cling to the vestiges of the notion that for that brief fleeting moment I actually behaved like a normal kid. Let's humour him, poor man]. I often immersed myself in little projects which, if you look at them, were actually rather scientific. I used to, for instance, count the population of snails in the garden when the garden was wet or dry. And as I grew, so my understanding of scientific method contined to expand, and I devised more complex experiments, such as counting the relative abundance of different birds in the neighbourhood according to habitat viability.

It was somewhere around the age of 10 that I first discovered the meaning of the term 'marine biologist'. I was instantly hooked, and it has been my ambition to graduate as one ever since. It seems my interest and ties to the natural kingdom know no bounds, and it is just as apt that the scheme of things has managed to put many a bothersome obstruction in my way. Despite my apparent passion for Science I could never study it. I'll admit I was at best a mediocre student, who fit like a square peg in a round hole in most education systems. I even very nearly failed altogether to enter the preliminary Bachelor of Science in UQ, having failed one of the assessment requirements in Foundation Year. It seemed such that even when I aimed for excellence I'd never achieve it. Nevertheless my passion contined unabated. I managed to remedy my past misfortunes the previous semester, and now I'm finally where I always wanted to be.

Now I have my first opportunity to put all that I used to do for fun into an academic subject and use it in a really practical context for the first time. We have two projects, one standard project done by everyone who takes the subject, and another chosen from a list of four, which I am doing with my friend Alex as partners and will make up the bulk of the assessment for the subject. This latter project leaves me with a sense of deja vu: analysing the relative abundance of fruit flies according to habitat; I had conducted a most similar experiment in my own little garden involving snails. This is by no means an assurance I will ace the subject, much as I would like to. There are many mitigating circumstances involved, any one of which could prove potentially detrimental to the entire scheme. Still, we've planned our layout and our strategy, and with the knowledge and expertise behind me, I think we're well prepared. And most poignant of all, this project will stand as a proud monument of emotion in my heart. I am finally, living the dream.

2006-07-29T09:58:00.000-07:00

Seeing as it's early days yet, I figure I'd elaborate on a couple of my general interests a bit more. And since the World Cup has just drawn to a close, I guess I'll write this post about one of my true passions, football.

It must seem rather unusual that someone as nerdy as myself would even consider taking up a contact sport like football. After all it does involve a great deal of physicality, technical skill and tactical awareness. I must admit I came into the sport very recently, only about three years ago in fact. Before then I was pretty much the archetypal nerd-ish sort: gangly, physically uncoordinated and a total bookworm. I'll also admit that not much has changed since then, but ever since I got captivated by the sport I've been able to achieve a sort of balance.

My Dad had always tried to get me interested in the sport. Even when I was three, I remember he used to sit me in front of the TV with him and say :"Look son, that's football." The World Cup was on that year, and I vaguely remember a couple of names, Maradona, Milla, Lineker. Considering how involved I am with the sport now, it's hard to think my Dad failed to get me interested for sixteen years. So it was an irony that it was the World Cup in 2002 that sparked it all off. Having done much of the pushing Dad seemed to try a more passive approach. He left an official guide on the car seat a couple of weeks before the tournament began. I picked it up and read it, and I was hooked. Even so it was still another two years before I got convinced to join the playground gang.

It's almost a law that footballers always start from the top of the field and work their way down, and I followed accordingly. I started off as a striker, and the initial signs were actually good. I scored twice in my very first game, and nearly did in my second. It actually seemed easy, wait in the middle and stick a foot out when the ball came. But then came a 4 month long goal drought, during which time I worked my way down to become a very poor midfielder, to a fair left winger, to a good defender. I'm still trying to overcome my physical shortcomings as a person and a player, but I think I'm getting better. The best thing about football is physical excersise apart, there's many valuable life lessons to be learnt: how to work and contribute to a team effort, determination to better oneself, how to lose well, and above all, to have fun doing it.

This semester my housemates and I have enrolled ourselves and some friends in the UQ seven-a-side league. This means that for the first time I will be able to genuinely contribute to an actual team. Till now we have spent the last two months playing amongst the local playground groups, learning and improving. There is now a sort of cohesion within the immediate group which I feel will prove pivotal. As is in all great teams, team chemistry is vital. I know that I have a long way to go to be able to call myself truly worthy of this level, but I'm sure as hell determined to try. Injuries aside, and I've had a fair few, I can expect to be able to find much inspiration in this endeavour, and better myself as a player.

*There will be updates on the games we play and I shall highlight our progress as a team in due course.

2006-07-27T21:15:00.000-07:00

My first photo post. Where do I come from, some might ask? Ah, a clue, Sherlock! Well alright, I come from Malaysia, born in bonny fine Kuala Lumpur, and have lived there all my life, excluding of course the preceding year and a half I've spent in Brisbane.

OK, seeing as most of the people who will view this 'blog' are born or living in KL anyway I'll admit this photo post is a little pointless, but rest assured I'll be putting some other nice ones up in dues course. I'll reiterate that I won't be putting any crap images up on this site nor any camwhoring images, seeing as I don't even take
those. Only good photos here, people!

2006-07-27T08:05:00.001-07:00

Seeing as this is my second post, I would have liked to have used this as an opportunity to relate more about myself. However contemporary turn of events mean I feel compelled to write about an issue which has clearly captivated the world over the past few weeks

What is an occasion on the grand scheme of things but a fleeting moment? Yet there are so many which are well nigh catastrophic and seem to beckon humanity toward the brink of despair. Case in point: the war between Lebanon and Israel. Or to be exact, Israel's grudge match against everyone and everything. This is the political equivalent of a gangfight in a dark alley, an event where the thing one rival gang member said to the other is being avenged. Worst of all the mudslinging from both sides has caught up thousands of people who did nothing more wrong than live in the wrong apartment building.

This is one of those events which everyone loves to pontificate about, which side is in the more wrong, who's supporting whom; conspiracy theorists abound like sweat on a pig's back in midsummer, and of course everyone is quick to express their outrage over a real storm in a teacup situation. Many realise, but few consider, however, the absolute humanity of the situation. This is no doubt a senseless war, unleashed by an arrogant nation under a cowboy leader who rages over a lost penny under the slightest of provocations while perhaps maintaining a hidden agenda or two. It is all too easy to take sides with Lebanon at this point, or indeed with Israel, wherever your sentiments lie. It is astounding then that while we focus our attentions on the side we favour, we forget that on the other side are equal human beings, dragged into a conflict they knew nothing of, did not desire and could not prepare for. Even the soldiers, it is apparent, seem very reluctant and confused about the whole situation. This was clearly a war which nobody wanted, and as always is under situations of war, it is always the civilian population that sustains the hardest blows.

Today I was moved to tears seeing more news of Israeli soldiers dying, Lebanese people mutilated and cities being reduced to panic at the mere sight of overhead aircraft, while young men chanted support for Hizbollah in the streets. So much anger, so much hatred. One side against the other. Today reports confirmed the first death of an Australian in the conflict, a young Jewish soldier who left Sydney to enlist with the Israeli army. The news interviewed one of the rabbis of the Sydney synagogue, and he talked about the loss of a young man known throughout the Jewish community-famous for being a tight-knit and internally familiar one- as a quiet student and a star basketball player. I had never cried watching the news before, but as image after image of exploding buildings, fragmentised lives and angry youth it all became too much to bear. It just impacted me that in the torrent of the travailous news we hear every day we have become desensitised to the humanity that is individually lost. Here was a boy, a human being who but for his deeds was no less a human being than any other.

Cynics would say we are fated by the choices we make and we deserve the outcome of the situations we make for ourselves. The bare truth is no human life has ever deserved being lost in the circumstances of battle. There is no dignity in losing one's life, only in living it, and it is our deeds and actions that determine the loss of our dignity. As long as man fights man there will always be lives lost without fulfilled purpose. That in its sense is the proof that man will never stand beyond or over the standards of other common animals. We err out of our delusions, and it is our biggest delusion that we are in any way above and beyond the fundamental behavioural principles of nature, which will continue to lead us on the path to our downfall.

2006-07-27T08:05:00.000-07:00

O-kay. Hello. Welcome. I'll admit this is about the most techy thing I've ever done, and I'm substantially more astounded and mildly amused than proud of it at the moment. It'll sink in. But okay, on to formal matters. Seeing as this is my first and introductory post, I understand it's a bit long, but if you, the reader, can bear with this for a while you can understand the framework within which my mind operates, and it will be my pleasure to see you repeat your visits on many occasions.

I'm just one of the multitudes of bloggers I have ironically ranted against on several occasions. Not wanting to seem too hypocritous, I'll try my best to provide as intellectual and objective an opinion as anyone can hope to provide.

My manifesto: 1) I am a grammar Nazi. So don't expect too many short form words or shite articles. I pride myself on a rich vocabulary [the phrontistery is my friend] and an elite English education, so for those perfectionists out there, well. I mean, if I'm going to put something up where potentially billions of people can readily access and peruse its material contents I figure I may as well do a good job. And for those conscious people out there, yes I do swear on my posts, but as a born diplomat I do believe in keeping this to a minimum, so it doesn't distort the quality of my posts.

2) I write. A lot. I tend not so much to briefly opine as to rant in thousand-word essays and theses. Being the considerate anthropomorph that I am I will try to cut down on the length of posts, but be prepared to make some of my posts your nightly pre-bedtime read. This is not to mean the worth of the opinions I provide are diluted however. As I said I will try to provide an opinion that is worth your, the reader's, while to read. Nevertheless some of the boring details of my everyday existentiality are key subplots to a great many of the posts I will author, and it is my hope that you, the reader, will understand that the intermezzos are as integral as the climacticos, crescendoes and finales. In the best of moods my wit is unrivalled by anyone in my bedroom, so no guarantees, but hope for the best.

3)My interests. In order to understand this 'blog' it is imperative you, the reader realise my passions in life, so you'll know to get out quickly if this site bores you. First, trivia. Basically all forms of knowledge. I read like a library probably does after hours, and while I don't claim to know everything, I was always brought up to know a lot. So, unlike many 18 year old Malaysians I try to read up on many things which wouldn't ordinarily interest most people in the same age group. Religion, philosophy, nature, it blows through my mind like a gale, and yes, I will use a fair amount if the time is right.

Second, classical music. I am NOT, a modern music fan. Do NOT, ever ask for anything more than a negative opinion [and a thousand word rant] about the great largesse of modern music. My passion is Respighi, Bach and Mascagni. While I'm no great musical theorist [I quit in Grade 3 eight years ago] I will provide opiniated layman's reviews of selected pieces from time to time. Classical and instrumental [and no, Bond does NOT count!] form 99% of the music I listen to. Now you know.

Third, nature. I am, and always have been, a passionate naturalist and praise, I am now undertaking an opportunity to carry on in serious academic fashion, and am currently pursuing a Bachelor of Marine Biology in the University of Queensland, Australia. While nature may not figure much in most of my posts, you, the reader may understand why I will seem to discuss it so whole-heartedly if it does.

Fourth, public speaking. I did it a fair amount, was average, but I like the feel of being able to put forth an opinion, though there's a cynical side that says no one cares, whatever. It takes some skill and ability to carry forth an opinion, and while I may not do it the best I try, and it rubs off in many aspects of my writing. Because of that I love enhancing my vocabulary, and I LOVE Scrabble. My only board game. My children will play Scrabble.

Fifth, football. I watch, and I play. Hah, and you thought this was the website of your average weak pasty-faced nerd! And no, I will NOT call it soccer, I don't play soccer, I play football. And yes, I am elitist that way. I took it up about 3 years ago, and I was never really athletic, so I'm still not very good, but I don't think I'm half bad either. I'm blessed by being two-footed, and I can play most positions, indeed I often go through the lot of them in a single game. I don't support a single team, but more on all that later.

Sixth, gourmet. I have very, very learned taste. I was brought up to dine with kings and eat with vagabonds, to quote my grandfather, so I'll eat just about anything that isn't spicy [my only weakness]. I consider myself a sort of amateur sommelier, so a good drink will make me happy. And no, I did not pick that up from watching Sideways. I haven't watched Sideways.

Lastly, photography. Mostly nature, indeed I have logged nearly 20,000 photos since I got the family's first digital camera 4 years ago. I know I'm no expert, and I will not try to embiggen myself by posting all my crap here like so many bloggers do. I am no camwhore either, so don't expect to see any cheesy pics of myself in stupid positions anytime soon.

Well that's about it for now. If you're terrified of the prospect of ever returning to this webpage feel free to leave and never patronise it again. My main motto in life is "Those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind" so productive or otherwise your opinion will be respected, but it won't affect me [love confessions of a mutual nature and declarations of open praise excepted of course]. It is my wish that I open out my heart to you, the readers, and that we all take away a little something that may inspire us in some unknown moment in our lives. This is a site of opinion, and I wish to share some parts of my life that connects us all to the matrix that is the Universe. So, here's to my blog, and I hope, a good experience.