Pragulka

I have two things I'd like to share today. Two very, very unrelated things. Let me try to do this. Let me try to connect the two things.

Thing One.

Russians do this thing that I find very interesting. What they do is get together with a couple of friends, of either sex, and go out for a walk in the park. They'll find a bench and just sit and talk. Maybe have a couple of cold ones while they're at it but that's the gist of it. They sit and talk. 

Weird, isn't it?

They sit and talk. In parks.

Holy Shit! New Post!

Blames. I've got plenty of that. So, that's a gajillion to you, Twitter. A bajillion to my non-existent Muse. Twenty mega-watts of it to the absolutely non-demanding cycle. But the bulk of the blame goes to the lack of drama in my life.

Yes, a good writer should always have drama in his life, as to fuel him with inspiration. Don't tell me otherwise, shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

Gah! I need to write more. I used to be able to write about nothing and people will still read it. I once wrote a 400-word debut article for some online paper about how I was deciding on what to write as my first article. I found it quite brilliant, though other creative forces on the team weren't as awed by it as I was. Oh well.

New New Year's Resolution: Once a week. I'll write once a week.

As I have no real substance to write on, I'll leave you with a nice song.


I Thought You Were My Boyfriend - Magnetic Fields




Yes, that's a guy singing. No, I don't watch the office. No, that doesn't make me gay.

The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny

For the whole of the last week till this moment, my pride in calling myself a Malaysian was renewed.

Yes, we have fucked up politicians and politics.

Yes, we have screwball theologians and theologies.

And yes, the fatness of our city rats, both literal and proverbial, disgusts the living hell out of me.

But the week leading up to the 14th of February 2010 filled me with nothing but pride. 

It was the Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny, as Neil Cicierega would say. The Eastern Metal Tiger was up against the Western Homicidal Flying Baby. 

Just imagine.

A ring where the two combatants fight, thirsty for each other's blood. Metal Tiger, equipped with nought but its claws and fangs, pacing the arena. Its eyes never left the smug look on Homicidal Baby's face. Its throat thirsts for Homicidal Baby's blood.

Homicidal Baby is not worried. He can fly. To counter Metal Tiger's primitive claws, he has the all-new and latest equipments of Archery. Why, he could fly to dizzying height and rain death upon the silly feline. He could zip around the tiger, tiring it before delivering the coup de grace. He could...

... be Metal Tiger's dinner. In fact, now, he is.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, lords and dames, children of all ages, Oriental Imperialism trumped over Western Imperialism this year! 

All over Malaysia, the malls were bathed in Red, the symbol of prosperity and, I imagine, the blood of the dead baby. People were deafened by the Dong Dong Dong Chang, instead of being fatally nauseated by over-sweetness of cliche love songs. 

In short, we won.

Congratulations, Malaysians. You make me proud.