No Go!

I don't usually mind looking slightly odd, weird, stupid or all of the above. After all, I proudly sported a moustache for å full month about a year ago, and at the end of the day it was a good laugh for everyone, and nobody got injured or killed.

At the time of writing I am almost dead and most definitely injured. Shoveling snow while coughing ectoplasm is described as the most efficient way to achieve a slow and painful death in 'Hernia for Dummies', and after successfully exercising the former a few minutes ago I'm not going to disagree. However, mere hernia popping out everywhere doesn't really seem too bad compared to fooling around in the front yard, running the risk of being spotted using The Mighty Wovel. Moustache or not, this just blew my funny fuse:

Power of the Night

Growing up in the 80s was always bound to leave some marks in a young boy's mind. Or perhaps it wasn't as much the decade itself, but more the experiences of childhood, which I would assume most people remember as somewhat surreal no matter what decade they belong to. I don't know.

Anyway, back then my neighbourhood was blessed with cable TV, so unlike our less fortunate brethren of the same generation who were merely left with one channel, me and the other kids were always up to date with the ongoings in the war between the Autobots and Decepticons, life on Eternia and not least Pat Sharp's mullet. And things were great.

My memories from back then more often than not involve kindergarden. Among the most memorable moments was the time me and three friends found a gun under the porch in the back. But I also remember an intensely warm summer, and dad would pick me up in his old, but really nice Renault 4, the kind with black leather seats that become too hot, which made a boy with typical 80s shorts show extreme caution while getting seated. On the way home we would stop at the gas station for some ice cream. Boysenberry ice cream that is. I've never seen a boysenberry, much less tasted one, but I'll be damned if that ice cream wasn't the best I'd ever had. And sometimes, probably not on those hot days though, we would go to the video store.

Now, I'd always choose something like Robotech or SuperTed. Safe stuff. But bigger things lurked in other parts of the store. And Critters was the holy grail. I have no idea why I so clearly remember that cover staring me down throughout my childhood, but it did. Needless to say I never really saw the movie itself. The cover was all I needed to get my imagination going. Up until now.

So yes, I just saw Critters. And what can I say? Is it good? In a Cannes sense of the word, it probably isn't. But this isn't a movie made for Cannes. It is a movie made for those of us who grew up being the first generation of mass market consumers, those of us who got up at 8 in the morning on saturdays to watch 3 hours of cartoons and one hour of toy commercials, those of us who still love strange action figures from distant galaxies and cartoons from the days when nobody cared about tv violence and its possible effect on kids all over the world. In other words; it was made for me. And even if it's only a matter of 80 minutes, for those 80 minutes it did take me back to long gone days when nothing and everything mattered. I can't really ask for more than that.

A Farewell to Arms

My reading habbits are starting to impress me. My writing skills are not. But though I'll probably never be mentioned alongside the likes of Hemingway and Dickens I find comfort in knowing that very few people do. Hell, I'm not even a writer, so why should i worry, right?

I had never read the real classics (whatever that's supposed to mean. In my book it's got something to do with age and reputation...), but sitting in Hemingway's, a bar in the golden triangle area of Kuala Lumpur, I figured it was only a matter of time. The mojitos were nothing but amazing, and I remember thinking that if you ever have someone name a bar after you, serving the best drinks in the world, you've probably done something right at one time or another. However, nearly another four years would pass until I picked up my first Hemingway novel.

A Farewell to Arms would be the sixth novel I read in 2009. Maybe the first classic, I wouldn't know. The race of filling the blanks is one I can never win, too many books have been written, too much music has been made, but at least the blank spot with Hemingway's name on it is now partially covered. I think I'll give Kafka a go next.

Happy anniversary!

One year went by, and when they finally reappeared they realized what had happened - Facebook and Twitter had killed the blog star.

but at least i author my own disaster

Did I mention that the burglar took the last remaining half of a pack of pain killers? No, I believe I didn't. Guess what... Because I just found out.

Note to self: Don't Drink Cognac. Ever.

--

Song for today: of Montreal - The past is a grotesque animal

Wanting something warm and moving

I wasn't completely sincere with the guy at the record store when I told him about the break-in and said I just had to start over again. Like I mentioned earlier my CD collection was still intact after the crowbar people had left. But seeing that my hard drive with a slightly above average mp3 collection was missing I figured it was a proper occasion to finally buy some of those CDs I intended to get but never did. I guess his remark about my choice of albums to be the first ones in collection v.2.0 made me feel good, and, as always, feeling good is good enough for me.

--

Album for today, Neutral Milk Hotel - In The Aeroplane Over The Sea

no need to worry

Thank you. Thank you very much. You're probably not reading this, but if you are I have a few things I'd like to share with you. You weren't always nice. Let's take it from the top.

Coming home to my flat, only to find one of the bedroom windows broken wide open was not cool. It's just not a nice thing to do. Running off with my camera and external hard drive wasn't too polite either. Photos and such don't come bundled (but I have most of them on another computer anyway, so it's no disaster).

My old phone though, heck, I'd give it to you if you had asked nicely. And I'd even let you borrow my Nintendo DS, not to mention the trusty old Gameboy Advance. And my headphones... (why would you want them anyway?)

These things, along with my flatmates' laptop computers, watches, glasses and beanie (?!) disappeared, you ran off with them, and for that I am capable of hating you, if only for a moment. But I don't. Because I believe that somewhere, deep inside your tormented soul, there's a tiny glowing light of conscience, and this is why I thank you from the bottom of my heart:

Thank you for not touching my stereo. For not laying eyes on my beloved little synthesizer. For not looking twice at my limited edition records, for not stacking my cd collection and memories from times long gone into your bag. Thank you for not ruining my sketchbook with drawings, poems and lyrics just because you could. Thank you for leaving the small things that matter, and running off with the things that don't.
--
Song for today, Yeasayer - No need to worry