30 June 2009 2:44 p.m. my (muslim) neighbour was enthusing over how fertile her garden is. she says everything she puts in the soil grows like a weed, including the weeds. a banana sapling she received from a friend has produced an infinite number of new saplings, all of which are flourishing obscenely. the whole place is a virtual ode, a joyous paean to gaia, liek. i daren't tell her that the previous tenant buried his dog there when it died. i need to get this down or else it will haunt me for the rest of the day, and i will keep writing "R.I.P. MJ" instead of what i originally intended. i thought he was already consigned to my memory junkyard as a ludicrous clown-faced figure, destined to be forgotten, or, failing that, ruthlessly mocked even though he never offended any of my values (maybe i don't have any but who cares). listening to the "best of" playlist from uncle Annabelle made me remember the excitement he used to engender. i loved the drama. i really did think he was "bad" and "dangerous" until he became uncool and beat it from the spotlight and mainstream consciousness. as it is, aunt Annabelle is upset and my cousin brothers, all under 13 years of age, will be too, notwithstanding puns about the bond between MJ and young boys. oh alright. why'd he have to steal Farah Fawcett's thunder, eh, eh? does that mean there is truth to the story that MJ grew up from a nice black boy into a strange white woman??? Christian Bale looks like a right miserable cunt in Terminator Salvation because he knows that despite his best efforts, elsewhere in the movie, Sam Worthington has him by the goolies. and he brought it on himself by turning down the role. with a stare that is both menacing and captivating (menacingly captivating, captivatingly menacing, same difference, right?), Marcus completely pulls the carpet out from under John Connor's intense portrayal of mankind's would-be prophet-saviour with his own intense mien of a man whose only memory is that a woman got him into the mess he's in. or something like that. typical. sorry, Bruce Wayne, but you lose this round. tip: steer clear of viewing any and all trailers or promo pictures for this movie if you want to avoid major spoilerage. that is, if you haven't already had it spoiled. Interpol are singing Say Hello To The Angels: "(something something somethink) when you move in to my airspace..." me: ... ass space??? damn you, spam, and your fervent exhortations for me to lose my belly fat. so the haze is seasonal, obviously. i wonder if there are studies being carried out, or in the pipeline, to determine if the irrelevance and irreverence quotient increases proportionately to the amount of particles in the air. i'm only saying this cos we (my family and i) took a day trip to Kuala Selangor on saturday and wound up wondering why prisons, asylums and national/state administrative capitals are always built so very far away from densely populated areas. surely it isn't coincidental. rant: only at Roland Garros do the commentators make such a fuss over how Wafa arranges his water bottles. if i hear "obssessive-complusive tendencies" one more time, i'll... i'll eat something that's bad for me. you people need to focus on what matters, and that is making sure Nike don't dress him in bright pink/chartreuse/day-glo ANYMORE. why doesn't Federer get such outrageous colours??? just because he looks like an elder statesman of tennis doesn't mean he wants to wear boring as hell fuckin' navy blue. why can't he have a bright pink accent on his collar? or piping on his shorts? why does Nadal always have to be the rock star pirate? i think Johnny Depp did a good job as far as that job description goes, annoying as it was in the third movie. gimme a break. switch their colour palattes for a day and see if the fangirls don't go wild. maybe the older crowd will go wild with rage but you will never know until you try it. where the hell is the consumer survey you should've done in the off-season? surely it wasn't too much to ask, by text even, "yo Rafa, are you down with the pink?" bless the wee Mallorcan, he probably doesn't even care. though i'm sure his girlfriend might have some strong opinions about it. as would Xisca. ahem. now that my mother is a Kwan Yin devotee, we only have beef when we eat out. this is where i truly learnt the meaning of not knowing what you have till it's gone. well, it's not actually gone per se, but we don't eat out a lot. as such, it felt like my tastebuds were exploding with pleasure when i had two (two!) burgers in as many days last week. my tongue fairly writhed in ecstasy at the taste of the first burger, making it difficult to chew and an uncomfortable experience for anyone who was watching. oh the joy, what rapture. it was like cheering for Adam Lambert throughout the duration of American Idol before discovering how amazing Kris Allen sounds. you regret not listening to him in all the previous episodes and cheating yourself out of an aural experience you really deserve. although it is also true that Lambert is an aural experience unto his own sonic range. those two meals were also milestones in that i ordered my patties cooked to "medium". this is a major change for me because dad has always maintained that perfect beef is "medium well". however, based on my humble experience, and the chef at Buenosera (non-halal, sorry) will whole-heartedly agree with me, he is perfectly wrong. but of course it's just a matter of taste, and maybe the doneness of a burger patty shouldn't be the utimate arbiter* of how well meat should be cooked, but bro21 ordered his steak "medium". dad had hardly gotten over his aghastness (aghasity?) that i had ordered a burger in a steakhouse before bro21 joined the ranks of the "medium" converts, adding his voice to the chorus of praise. dad must have felt so betrayed. i tell you what though, it didn't do my skin any good and it sort of gummed up the works (that's my story and i'm sticking to it) so maybe it's just as well we eat in most of the time. lastly, ever since a snail detached itself from a leaf and crawled up my hand, i have made it a habit to look closely at the vegetable rinse water when i prepare dinner to see what remains in it. i have observed small, bright green caterpillars and small white, brown and purple striped slugs. do you think, for lack of a better term, the vendor seeds his wares to assure the customers of their pesticide-free status? * i didn't know you could spell it "arbitrator" and "arbitrater" and get away with it. however, Word does not approve of "arbitraitor", which would be a really cool word if it existed. and it does, because i came up with it! Star Trek > EVERYTHING it makes you go "HRAH, MOAR." Enfant Terrible maintains he is not supposed to be sexy, seeing as how Spock is (mainly) governed by logic. enough already. Spock is also half-human etc. plus, that stupid straight fringe (see how healthily it bounces!) grows on you after a while. no doubt it grew out, too, eventually, much to Mr. Quinto's relief. i know i'll re-read this one day and cringe, but i don't care right now, it's so full of vin. on wednesday morning, i answered a call to the house phone. my hello(s) were greeted with incoherent gabbling. thanks to my ultra-handy, built-in multilingualism, i eventually made out that the caller was speaking in mandarin and he, an adult male, was saying: ladies and gentlemen, if anyone actually knows my son, to whom i mysteriously don't remember giving birth, please get in touch via my comment form. together, we can puzzle out exactly how i, a 20-something female, have a male child who is also in his twenties. oh, and don't send money to people you don't know. addendum: my aunt received a similar call at work. but the callers used an actual boy. so i've finally gone and seen what the Susan Boyle fuss was about and i understand why Mr. Cowell had that silly big happy grin on his face, because i was wearing the exact same one too when i heard her. he never looks like that on American Idol.
keeping it to myself
walk on
this week's movie update
minus 10000 points
the joke is: you always get hit where it hurts
i like old skool diners
echoed everywhere else in an infinite variety of forms
p.s. SYLAR SPOCK IS SEXY
scam phone call"help me mama, help! they're hurting me! help me, mama, help!!!"
me too
