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just spent the weekend at the army barracks
Is Chewing On

Gore Vidal

Listening to:

Everything in Transit
Jack's Mannequin
Lick Those Stripes!
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The Herd
Carresser of Annabelle
Crazy Lone Ranger
Island Sinker
Labert Leopard
Lego Man
Shakin' That Ass
Sloth Min
Uber Bitch Jase
Van Ren


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Songs of the Plains
Family Court

One would be in less danger
From the wiles of a stranger
If one's own kin and kith
Were more fun to be with.

Ogden Nash
Dude, Where’s My Money?
Sunday. 6.6.04 10:12 am
‘cking hell. I think I just lost 50 bucks.

I was at an ATM machine last evening and tried to withdraw some money. Everything went fine…at first. The machine went beep-click-whirr and spit out my ATM card along with my transaction statement, but goddamn if it refused to fork my money over as well. I kicked it then, but only succeeded in bruising my toes. Christ, did it think it was being funny? Was I the victim of some sick twisted joke the evil hunk of metal had meticulously planned out? Bloody hell, that was my money! I could have done a frillion things with 50 bucks, like:

- bought the Darkness’s album
- or watched Van Helsing five more times
- or bribed my way out of a speeding ticket
- or purchased 50 bucks’ worth of paper clips to link into an elaborate suit of armor
- or extended my Lego family to include women, cattle and intact horsies
- or got half an iguana from Pets Wonderland
- or eaten 50 a-buck-each durians
- or gorged myself on Maui Brownie Madness and Old Fashioned Butter Pecan
- or settled my medical bill after eating too much ice cream and durians
- or paid Milê to kiss Joel…but he seems willing to do that for free tho
- or added another 10 cars to my Hot Wheels collection.

My life (and Joel’s) could have been enriched in so many ways, but now these things will never come to pass. I am hollow. And I wish the ATM machine eternity in the Junkyard of Hell for this.

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Hanky Panky
Friday. 5.28.04 10:09 pm
It’s quite odd. Lately, I’ve been noticing that my toys (yes, I still play with them occasionally) have been moving. Not in my presence of course, but I’d find them in positions and places different from those in which I’d left them. Suspicious and paranoid (they might’ve been planning to slit my throat while I was asleep and escape), I installed hidden cameras around the house. And one of them yielded this rather disturbing picture.

Highly alarmed, I started spying on my Lego men. The things I saw! I even managed to obtain more photographic evidence of their sordid little activities behind my back. It’s a bit blurry, but that’s because I had to jump back behind the couch to avoid being caught peeking.

It’s shocking, yes it is. I would never have suspected that my Lego men were using my Dodge without my consent. The nerve. And the sex is slightly disconcerting too. The horses in the background didn’t look too upset though. The toys nowadays. To think they once sat in their boxes patiently waiting to be mutilated by my grubby jam-stained fingers. Perhaps that’s it then. Tired of waiting on that dusty shelf, they took it upon themselves to entertain themselves and relieve their boredom. Hah, I’ll probably come across some ‘interesting’ home videos featuring the Lego clan soon.

Then again, it’s awfully self-centered to assume that only we have sex drives. Lego people are modeled on humans after all, so it shouldn’t be surprising that they might have the same needs that we do. Lego babies do have to come from somewhere. And since I don’t own any Lego women, I guess my Lego men had to make do with each other. Or maybe they’ve never wanted female Legolites in the picture anyhow.

Well, whatever it is, good for them. Now I don’t feel as guilty when I neglect them. But I still want my red Dodge back.

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Nursery Rhyme II
Saturday. 5.22.04 12:37 am
The happy kittens
with their patchwork mittens
and furry booties on their feet

One two three
giggling with glee
and skipping without missing a beat

Brothers and sister
chased each other
right into the middle of the street

A truck driver went past
He drove rather fast
He felt a bump as something he hit

The happy kittens
with their lovely mittens
Well they became ground meat

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Friday. 5.21.04 1:21 am
There’s just something slightly disturbing about a 6-year old kid with a crush on a motorcycle racer 22 years older than her. My kid sister and I were watching a speedway grand prix on tv yesterday, and when one of the riders pulled his helmet off, she gasped and exclaimed, “Oh wow! He’s so hot!” This coming from a little girl who drags a stuffed doggie along wherever she goes. Since then, she’s been bugging me to get pics of her ‘hottie’ (I swear that’s how she refers to him) Jason Crump so that she can paste them onto her school file. Some people might find that cheek-pinchingly cute, but when that same ex-toddler announces that she wants the pics also because the last thing she’d like to see each night before she closes her eyes in bed is his dirt-streaked face – so that she can dream about him, there’s definitely a whiff of unhealthy obsession.

The same unhealthy obsession that drove me to watch monster-infested Van Helsing three times since it opened. At 10 bucks a pop and me a lowly student, my wallet has been feeling the pinch. But what exactly was it that kept me going back for more over-the-top fx? Was it the rugged good looks of Hugh Jackman? Or perhaps it was the hunk Will Kemp or even the geekily adorable David Wenham? None of them, I’m afraid. Throughout the movie (all 3 viewings of it), my eyes were glued only to Count Dracula, or rather Richard Roxburgh. Corny accent, bad teeth, fugly minions and all. The sexy hair and evil smirk more than made up for everything. So well in fact, that I dug up my old copy of Mission Impossible: 2 and watched him get his pinkie chopped off thrice during the last week itself. Which reminds me, I haven’t gotten my daily Rox fix yet. Does anyone own a copy of ‘The Touch’? Y’know, the abysmally embarrassing movie starring Michelle Yeoh and sadly enough, Rox as the Big Bad? Still, bad movie with Rox is way better than movie with no Rox. So if you do own a copy of the movie, lend it to me and I’ll be yours for life.

Dirt-sucking vs Blood-sucking


Who's got it better?

And is unhealthy obsessiveness hereditary?

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Ruby Red
Sunday. 5.2.04 9:42 am
Julian McMahon is yummily hot…and potentially harmful.

Last Sunday, I was on a mission. To slice and dice 60 sheets of paper into itty-bitty pieces. I wielded the Blade with the care and respect such a Tool of Power demanded…and with one eye on the telly following Nip/Tuck.

Onscreen, Dr. Troy (McMahon) sliced his way through a patient’s finger. Offscreen, theZEBRA sliced her way through 5 sheets of paper. Back onscreen, Dr. Troy winced as he sliced off the wrong finger. And offscreen, theZEBRA felt his pain, literally, as she very nearly sliced off her forefinger.

As it turned out, I had myself a lovely deep nick on my fingertip. Not really the best situation to be in for a person with a history of passing out at the sight of blood. Fortunately the Zookeeper was right by my side.

Priorities first. She saved the sliced-and-diced paper and the floor from irreparable damage by cupping her hand underneath my dripping finger. She then dragged me to the bathroom where I calmly informed her that I would be probably face-down in a few minutes. She rolled her eyes and went off in search of a band-aid. Upon her return, she heard a loud thunk. That was the wooden doorframe cushioning my head as I slid down in a dead faint.

Unconsciousness is usually depicted as a peaceful state – eyes shut in a calm, dreamless sleep. Not so. According to the ZooKeeper, my eyes were wide open, pupils dilated and unfocused, my fists clenched, my whole body shaking, and my finger dripping blood onto the parquet. A position quite similar to that of which I was found after witnessing the vanquishing of Cole in Charmed.

To cut a long story short, I was valiantly rescued by the Zookeeper, at the risk of bloodstains on her clothes. She put me to bed and bandaged my finger, thus saving it from gangrene and maggot-infestation.

Thanks to Julian McMahon, I now have a scarred forefinger and a lump on the back of my head. Thanks to the Zookeeper, both the parquet floor and I escaped death that night – I from excessive bloodloss and the floor from excessive bloodstains. Bless the Zookeeper’s courageous heart.

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Blue Blue, I Don't Wanna Play With You
Tuesday. 4.13.04 7:43 pm
It was meant to be a nice relaxing drive home. There I was, cruising along the highway at no more than 30km/h above the speed limit. Our Lady Peace blaring into my ears and the sun flashing into my eyes. Except the last I checked, sunlight wasn’t blue.

I glanced at my rearview mirror and my heartbeat skipped. And skipped yet another time like a giggling schoolgirl. Because fast gaining on me, was a bright white cop car with its lights screaming blue.

I panicked hard. Was it because of the handphone-bearing yuppie who sauntered across the street too slowly? Was his arm sticking out of my car boot? Was it godforbid feebly waving to the cop car in desperation? Dammit! I should’ve disarmed (literally) him before I shoved him into the boot. Or at the very least, I should’ve backed over him and mowed him down again just to finish the job.

Excuses were racing their way through my mind. "My friend had too much to drink and now he’s off his face. I’m just giving him a lift home. In the boot? Oh yes, I didn’t want him puking on my leather seats." Or "I saw the poor guy splatter over the windshield of a Beemer. So I thought I’d take him to the A&E in the boot, to avoid misplacing any loose organs." Maybe even "here’s 50 bucks. You saw nothing."

Yeah, the last one would probably work. I took a deep breath and started to slow down. Cuz everyone knows car chases always end up with the chasee crashing into a barrier and attempting to escape on foot before running into a civic-minded citizen in his Landrover.

Then I noticed that blue lights weren’t flashing in my rear-view mirror any longer. In fact, they were now behind a tarp-covered truck, yapping away at its heels like a neutered terrier with something to prove.

What a relief. I sped off home with the dead yuppie bouncing away in the back. When I heard another thump and felt the familiar bounce of a body hitting the car roof. I stopped the car and got out to check…and my pulse went back to normal again. It was just some little squirty boy on a tricycle. At least I think it was a boy, I couldn’t tell anymore. No matter, I’d probably done the parents a service.

And I drove off whistling. Leaving Goodyear trails of gore and twisted metal in my wake.

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Tighty Wrightey
Friday. 3.26.04 9:36 pm
Ian Wright, the insane laugh-till-you-pee globe trekker is coming down here again! The last time he was down, I managed to meet him during a meet-the-fans session. Super duper. When it got to my turn, I launched myself at him and grabbed him. Think I gave him a bit of a shock. There he was expecting a nice placid say-hello-and-sign-an-autograph. Instead he got an awestruck rabid obsessed fan hanging onto him like a leech. Still, he’s as funny in real life as he is onscreen. When I mentioned (more like, blubbered) that I was in love with him, he simpered a bit and said, “Yes, I’m in love with me too.”

Anyhoo, it got better. After going through the customary starstruck ohmygods, I half-playfully asked if we could exchange earrings, of which he had about eight or nine attached. And to my utter shock (and gleeful surprise), he actually said yes. I let him pick one of mine, during which I could feel my ears getting redder and redder. He then removed three of his, and plonked them into my hand, saying “You don’t want mine, they’re all crappy.” As if. Then, still standing there, we put each others’ earrings on. Christ, I was so thrilled, it’s a surprise I didn’t just stab myself a new hole by mistake. Wow. How much nicer could the guy get? After the session was all over and he was walking off, I ran up to him again. When the promo guys saw me, they got an ‘oh no’ look and one of them told me that if I wanted to talk to Wrightey again, I’d have to come back the next day. I must’ve looked really bummed cuz Wrightey told me to cheer up and he’d give me something extra. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a photo of him as a 6 or 8 year old in a schoolboy’s outfit complete with socks pulled up almost to his knees. He looked so adorable. I had an urge to pinch his cheeks, but thankfully managed to curb it. Really, it’s no wonder I’m obsessed with him.

Me hanging onto Wrightey like a ferret.

Wrightey wondering what he’s getting into. Notice the front bit of my earring in his mouth.

Is he still wearing it today I wonder? Or has he given it to some other mad fan?

And now that he’s here again, I’m trying to get to meet him again. Poor guy. Thought he was rid of me. But I have no idea how I’m gonna get to him. There’re a couple of contests on now with lunch with him as prizes, but it’s like a million to one I’ll actually win one. So I’ve hatched a plan. I’ll rope in a couple of Wrightey-mad friends, and we’ll stake out the hotel the lunch is gonna be held in. Then on the day of the lunch itself, we’ll grab some waiters/waitresses, conk ‘em on their heads, and steal their garb. In disguise, we’ll skulk around the lunch area, and when the opportunity arises, we’ll grab Wrightey and run like mad. Then we’ll have our evil ways with him! *Cue take-over-the-world laughter*

Mmm…can’t wait till he gets here.

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Friday. 3.19.04 10:13 pm
I am no longer a rock concert virgin. Incubus came down last Tuesday, and I was part of the sweaty screaming throng at their gig. I very nearly wasn’t though.

I’d known about their upcoming arrival weeks and weeks ago. Weeks and weeks where I had the opportunity to buy a ticket. But as we all know, plans made in advance never ever work out. So I thought it’d be better to wait a bit. I waited. And waited. Till the morning of the 16th (Tuesday) dawned, and I realised that I still had no ticket. By which time I started panicking. Dammit, the one time someone good actually makes it down here, I’m too busy twiddling my thumbs to buy myself a seat/standing space to watch them. Bravo.

So I spent the rest of the day hounding ppl I knew for tickets. 21 phone calls and more phone credit than I would care to think about later, a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend confirmed that she had 3 extra tickets to sell. She even gave me a discount of 20 bucks for each.

At 6 sharp, I was at the predetermined meeting point waiting smugly for my cheaper-than-almost-everyone-else’s-ticket. At 6.15, my smirk disappeared. At 6.30, I was frantically trying to call the damn friend of a friend (repeat twice). But I couldn’t get through. Then my phone died. I was going to have a heart attack. I had two other friends depending on me for tickets and they had been waiting in line to get in two hours ago. I was contemplating ripping tickets out of some guy’s hands and pulling his pants down so that he wouldn’t be able to pursue me as I made my escape. But then, a kind (more alert) soul informed me that tickets were still being sold at the counter. Phew. Bought ‘em, cursed a horrible gruesome death on the friend (‘of a friend’ ×3), and ran off to deliver ‘em to impatient-friends-still-in-line-and-choking-on-ciggie-smoke.

An hour later, we were in and submerged in a mass of die-hard headbangers near the stage. Being vertically-challenged, I couldn’t see anything and breathed in nothing but B.O. and body heat of ppl taller than me (my head was situated at their general armpit level). I couldn’t even move. When the opening bands came on another hour later, I still couldn’t move. No, wait. I was moving. But not of my own accord. Everyone was pushing and shoving each other. Something had to give. And it did. Someone fell, and like a stack of dominoes, so did everyone else around him/her. Including me. This wouldn’t have been so bad...if it weren’t for the sweat-drenched, rugby-sized guys on top of me. Oh sure, go ahead and stomp all over me when you get up. No no, I don’t mind. What’s a broken rib or two?

Just before Incubus came onstage, I threw in the towel and wriggled my way out to the back. Where I discovered that the air was much sweeter and the view was much better. All that monkeypoo business for nothing. Incubus had better be worth it.

And they were. They were brilliant. I could understand why a girl in front was waving a pair of knickers in the air. At the back, getting splattered by sweat drops from the hair of a headbanging fan nearby, I finally understood what the draw of a rock concert is. It’s not the insanity of the mosh pit; it’s not the beer being flung around. It’s not even the band…alright, maybe it partly is. But it’s also you and hundreds of others having the time of your lives. It’s letting go and going wild and to hell with anybody who thinks you look like a jackass flinging yourself around like that. But you need good music to get the mood just right. And Incubus delivered.

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