To the BATMOBILE

Saturday, October 22, 2005

oh woe...

It has been two weeks since the end of your exams. Two mindless, pointless, (relatively sober) frantic weeks of attempting to accomplish something "fun" (a.k.a. two weeks of your daily life - or it may be just me).

ONLY a couple of weeks and I find myself back in the position I so detest, slouched over a Starbucks table (and inadvertebly getting yet another coffee stain on my shirt) in Parkway Parade, nursing an empty cup of Berried Treasure which I picked up from the bin on the way
there, whining over the complete uselessness of knowing how reactive magnesium is compared to something-ium.

Barely ten hours ago, I was stretched out fully on the rooftop of Takashimaya, eyebrows well groomed "at my sister's insistence" I would be quick to proclaim, though admittedly in recent weeks I was beginning to wonder where half my forehead was going, where my eyes were drinking in the ambience of the evening Orchard Road scene and I found myself enjoying the somewhat pleasant company (pride dictates that I cannot admit more than thatl).

But with literally a little under 140 hours of study to come within the next 2 weeks, I was desperate to enjoy what little I could before I was thrown ruthlessly into Hell to suffer the lashings of Math and Chemistry. My parents realised this as well, and hence my attempts at enjoyment were shortlived and they kicked me out the house prematurely to "get some studying done" (twenty questions from my Chemistry Ten Year Series in a couple of hours work does not constitute "some" I'm quite sure). I confess the sight of my father, chest hairs bristling, moustache (I love the way "moustache" rolls off the tongue - readers be aware I mean the word "moustache") aflame, grating out the ultimatum to pass or face brutal torture/scolding/a brief rubdown with his coarse body-hairs.

If I go into any further detail of what trouble I'd get myself into if woe betide I fail my re-exams, or get shunted out of the GEP, it might be labelled Pornographic. I shall desist to continue and retreat back to my sanctity of my (disgustingly colourful) bed to utter my final prayers and softly weep gentle tears (the horror of lack of writer's block!) to garner some deity's pity though I fear even divine intervention may be too weak for a cause such as this.

"Please don't let my feet fail me now..."
(provided the day comes where there is need to run with much haste towards the paradise that is Norway to meet my scandinavian sweetheart)
TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 11:23 pm
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Tuesday, October 11, 2005

wonderland?

Ah dreams... The stuff of fairytales, peaceful meadows, sheep and a couple of horses. As my nights become increasingly troubled as of late (further elaborated later on, no doubt) I cannot quite place my finger onto what is causing such disturbances. Examination stress comes to mind, although my meals (prepared by yours truly as of late) might just clinch it. Consuming peanut butter & cheese sandwiches or strawberry jam and banana slices with the odd dashing of ground coffee beans (what am I - Starbucks? My dear mother makes the coffee, not me...) would be classified under gastronomical oddities.

While "strange" is objective, when your last conscious memory was staring at diagrams of the human digestive system while Three Door Down's "Here Without You" plays in the background, and suddenly you find yourself on a train bound for Amsterdam with the only other people in your immediate surroundings being black leather-clad men (the leather, not the men), you would find it a touch surreal.

I didn't. Between a desperately needed revision of Biology and what seemed to be a train bound for a Scandinavian "Village People" reunion, I'd take my chances with Boy George and boyfriends. I'm sure you would too.

Thankfully enough, some higher power must exist in dreams as well, for as we pulled into the next stop, the doors opened in a hiss of steam and out of the mists stepped a demure looking beauty, gothic attire and all. While her choice of clothes (and everyone around me) was a cause for concern (hold the "Village People" thought, things were starting to look at little more hardcore than I thought), her bright blue eyes met my Biology-induced bloodshot vision, and joyous echoes of seraphims sounded in the air, only to be accompanied by a rendition of Meatloaf's "Bat out of Hell". (I swear by my soul that this is nothing but the truth. It is nothing but a dream after all - life is cruel like that...)

As it turned out, I found out I was on my way to meet my father's colleague - he worked in a Norwegian company - and spend a night partying in Amsterdam (Pardon, me? Sin? Never!) or something along those lines. Somewhere along the way, I lost the plot, and to my great fortune, the girl and I (I neglected to mention she was running away from home), found ourselves shivering, without shelter in a bus shelter in the harsh harsh world of Amsterdam. Though admittedly I have never been anywhere near the place, nor have I any idea what it's like apart from a few books worth of knowledge and a vivid imagination of pink neon lights, a building that looked very much like Harrod's, prostitutes (the day that I cease to dream about prostitutes would be one to remember I tell you. Mind you, this variety is closer associated with the Homo Erectus - no pun intended, than you and me) and lots of snow.

And as she turned her face towards mine (and didn't flinch! That's a first), and we huddled together for warmth, she breathed into my ear in her sweet delectable accent "I l-" and I was rudely awakened to reality by my dog chewing on my left big toe. I have never come so close to killing the bastard before.

Heart aching once more, and I turn my head to the general direction of the north-west (and hopefully Amsterdam), I gaze forlornly at the stars above, thinking "I ought to be studying Literature now", and so I shall. But first, a concoction of raisins, peanut butter and maybe a spoonful more of coffe beans slapped in between two slices of bread ought to do the trick. Wish me luck - for Literature and tonight.

Until then, my scandinavian sweetheart!
TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 7:42 pm
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Tuesday, October 04, 2005

my way on the highway!

"You think you're special, you do
I can see it in your eyes
I can see it when you laugh at me
Look down on me
And walk around on me.

Just one more fight
About your leadership
And I will straight up
Leave your shit
Cause I've had enough of this
And now I'm pissed - yeah.

This time I'm a let it all come out
This time I'm a stand up and shout
I'm a do things my way, it's my way
My way or the highway.

Just one more fight
About a lot of things
And I will give up
Everything
To be on my own again
Free again - yeah.

This time I'm a let it all come out
This time I'm a stand up and shout
I'm a do things my way, it's my way
My way or the highway.

Some day you'll see things my way
Cause you never know
No you never know
When you're gonna go.

Just one more fight
And I'll be history
Yes I will straight up
Leave your shit
And you'll be the one who's left
Missing me.

This time I'm a let it all come out
This time I'm a stand up and shout
I'm a do things my way, it's my way
My way or the highway.

Some day you'll see things my way
Cause you never know
No you never know
When you're gonna go."

My Way - Limp Bizkit
OOOOLD SKOOOL.

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 9:58 pm
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Sunday, October 02, 2005

kicking up a storm?

(Edit: I'm losing my title-naming ingenuity - I really am)

Kung-fu fighting, na-nana-nana-na-na-na! Faster than lightninng...

Hut! Hyah! Fut! Fanchoy! Voila! (Insert oriental-sounding grunts of exertion and/or hokkien expletives at own discretion)

After suffering terribly at the hands of my math tutor and an early morning session of gruelling Social Studies revision, I deviated to several local (legal - I hasten to add) video-rental and sales proprietors to attempt to relieve stress by borrowing several favourite films (namely 'The Dangerous Lives of the Altar Boys', 'Lock Stock & Two Smoking Barrels', 'Pirates of the Carribean'). In one of the more obscure (and borderline legal) shops, I stumbled across a secret cache of weird kungfu films (when are they never) assembled since the beginning of the 1970's right till this very day (though admittedly, the numbers of dwindling... Shame really). It was also at this point which I realised my search for a cheap, affordable version of 'Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels' was in vain, and ululating in great dismay, I threw my hands up in despair, only succeeding in banging myself on the forehead with copies of "Karate Kid" (I remember thinking in some obscure corner of my underused brain that my situation was exceedingly unfair...)

Of course, we all already know what's going to happen in kungfu films, don't we...
1) Numerous fights will ensue between the protaganist (Jackie Chen, Bruce Li, and other such spinoffs manufactured in a remote location in China) and hordes of thugs (if you call 4 foot tall Chinese guys in eyesplitting 70's "pimptastic" suits thugs).
And of course, the all important lesson,
2) A concoction of handsprings and somersaults makes you bulletproof (do not try this at home).
Despite his terrible acting and performance, you still have to feel a tinge of sympathy for our hero because...
3) The chinese dude never gets the girl (anything that violates China's one-child policy is a strict no-no!)

Badly produced, D-grade movies aside (all of which seem to be named "Dragon/Fists/Revenge/Rise of the Phoenix/Fire/Fists/Fury/Dragon/Bruce), I shall now proceed back to my intense sessions of pure, unadulterated, hardcore Social Studies action before pausing for an hour or two (maybe three or four) session of ENGLISH PREMIER LEAGUE action.

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 11:27 pm
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