Listening to:
Thinking of:
A person incapable, blames destiny
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Strangely Apt
Listening to:Anna's Tango, Chick Corea Trio
Thinking of:
El: Love is Blind
KC: Without glasses, its blind and stuck in a revolving door
In reference to my previous post...
Sex cues ruin men's decisiveness
Just can't find it in me to dissect it
Thinking of:
El: Love is Blind
KC: Without glasses, its blind and stuck in a revolving door
In reference to my previous post...
Sex cues ruin men's decisiveness
Just can't find it in me to dissect it
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Bombshelled
Listening to:
Thinking of:
Dear HOT Tall Nordic looking Blonde girl,
I'm writing this to apologize for the inappropriate behavior during our brush with existence. My social ineptness can be demonstrated through the way I stutter when I speak to the likes of yourself and the sudden chill that sends a tingle all the way down my spine. Perhaps the above a form of twisted flattery...
However, whatever aloofness that you may hold over the tubby kind as myself was shattered this morning. I regret the behavior that coursed out of my being. I just couldn't hold in the laugh when you put a foot on the elevator and it screamed "This lift is overloaded!" But hey, I wasn't the only one...
Kelvin
Thinking of:
Dear HOT Tall Nordic looking Blonde girl,
I'm writing this to apologize for the inappropriate behavior during our brush with existence. My social ineptness can be demonstrated through the way I stutter when I speak to the likes of yourself and the sudden chill that sends a tingle all the way down my spine. Perhaps the above a form of twisted flattery...
However, whatever aloofness that you may hold over the tubby kind as myself was shattered this morning. I regret the behavior that coursed out of my being. I just couldn't hold in the laugh when you put a foot on the elevator and it screamed "This lift is overloaded!" But hey, I wasn't the only one...
Kelvin
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Spin it Doctor, Spin it!
Listening to:
Thinking of:
-written 9 April-
I sat about the library, wanting something to munch other than the piece of gum in my mouth (somehow it isn’t as fulfilling anymore) but as I stood up to head to Costies, the dissonance of frozen droplets invade the serene quiet of the fourth floor education section. Talk about a sign sent from the heavens.
The question then put forward by most that I meet, “What the heck are you doing in the library?!” This time it’s simple… I’ve got wireless and I’ve got an assessment center with a company recording record profits of 36 billion dollars over the 2005 fiscal year. It’s involvement in the destruction of sensitive natural heritage is legendary… but on the other hand, its product is available at the refueling station around the corner. Cest la vie…
Anyway, before I further digress… PR has to be done to ensure the pith fork wielding serpent look-alike seem as docile and approachable as a white fleeced lamb. Part of the assessment center is to work in groups to analyze the amount spent by PR on its image and to provide hope for the rest of the world that something is done about renewable, regenerative energy sources. It is amazing that one brand can hold so many facets of perception. Angel? Devil? Or maybe something in between?
Of course, reading alternative sources other than the company website illuminates paths that have gone wrong, losses in capital and morale of the indigenous, sweeping human lives under the carpet of greed, directing governments and the lurkers in the dark looking for a bite.
However, irony is never far behind! Little dinghies launch out to sea, to deliver a one man demonstration, tie him up on the pillar they said… without looking what was in the fuel tank. Ah well… the only reason why I’m typing this where and the way I can is because of black gold.
To be fair, I’m just irritated that the wind and hail hasn’t stop.
Thinking of:
-written 9 April-
I sat about the library, wanting something to munch other than the piece of gum in my mouth (somehow it isn’t as fulfilling anymore) but as I stood up to head to Costies, the dissonance of frozen droplets invade the serene quiet of the fourth floor education section. Talk about a sign sent from the heavens.
The question then put forward by most that I meet, “What the heck are you doing in the library?!” This time it’s simple… I’ve got wireless and I’ve got an assessment center with a company recording record profits of 36 billion dollars over the 2005 fiscal year. It’s involvement in the destruction of sensitive natural heritage is legendary… but on the other hand, its product is available at the refueling station around the corner. Cest la vie…
Anyway, before I further digress… PR has to be done to ensure the pith fork wielding serpent look-alike seem as docile and approachable as a white fleeced lamb. Part of the assessment center is to work in groups to analyze the amount spent by PR on its image and to provide hope for the rest of the world that something is done about renewable, regenerative energy sources. It is amazing that one brand can hold so many facets of perception. Angel? Devil? Or maybe something in between?
Of course, reading alternative sources other than the company website illuminates paths that have gone wrong, losses in capital and morale of the indigenous, sweeping human lives under the carpet of greed, directing governments and the lurkers in the dark looking for a bite.
However, irony is never far behind! Little dinghies launch out to sea, to deliver a one man demonstration, tie him up on the pillar they said… without looking what was in the fuel tank. Ah well… the only reason why I’m typing this where and the way I can is because of black gold.
To be fair, I’m just irritated that the wind and hail hasn’t stop.
What I love about old Jazz recordings
Listening to:
Thinking of:
-written, 5 April-
As the title suggests, I love old jazz recordings. In fact, should budget permit I’d like (to my parents horror) a record player and a collection of vinyls (since they gave away the former and auctioned off the latter).
But anyway, from my digital copies… here’s an excerpt on my likings. I love it when they play at Birdland with the familiar voice “Ladies and gentleman, we have an exclusive performance by…” I love the sound of glasses clinking at the background as the piano rustles up a little tune and the quartet ease themselves into another set. People cheering, wolf whistles where the atmosphere presents itself in restraint, civilized excitement. I’ve had the privilege of being in Jazz bars when I can and the Royal Albert Hall for performances. In all occasions, nothing a studio recording can replicate… The aura of cool, the beat and offbeat that flows through your ears and manifests itself in the tapping of feat, the period between each set is like staring at another present. Even the grumpiest man/ woman will find movement in their limbs be it the tapping of fingers or to the sway of bodies.
Thinking of:
-written, 5 April-
As the title suggests, I love old jazz recordings. In fact, should budget permit I’d like (to my parents horror) a record player and a collection of vinyls (since they gave away the former and auctioned off the latter).
But anyway, from my digital copies… here’s an excerpt on my likings. I love it when they play at Birdland with the familiar voice “Ladies and gentleman, we have an exclusive performance by…” I love the sound of glasses clinking at the background as the piano rustles up a little tune and the quartet ease themselves into another set. People cheering, wolf whistles where the atmosphere presents itself in restraint, civilized excitement. I’ve had the privilege of being in Jazz bars when I can and the Royal Albert Hall for performances. In all occasions, nothing a studio recording can replicate… The aura of cool, the beat and offbeat that flows through your ears and manifests itself in the tapping of feat, the period between each set is like staring at another present. Even the grumpiest man/ woman will find movement in their limbs be it the tapping of fingers or to the sway of bodies.
Never Sit Next to a Naked Man
Listening to:
Thinking of:
-written 23 March-
The step into the train coach opens a realm of stories, in the region it stems mostly from the urban youth, the goddess of speed (Nike) and digital Finnish or Swedish beauties (Nokia and Ericsson).
With the constant murmur of voices emanating from conversations to fellow passengers (usually friends ie. Mates) or to those who are not in our midst (cell phones), I heard a gruff voice with a minute amplitude above the rest. Later did I realize, it came from the guy sitting in front of me, telling me that there’s space for 2 and the table is great. Cest la vie, it’s always great to see someone so enthusiastic about such things.
Maybe it was the cacophony of noises that distracted my senses earlier, but he had big ringed glasses, an old wind breaker (he probably farted as well) and a worn but matching hat and scarf. He was in fact a big man, probably drunk and probably with some form of bi polar disorder.
His attention turned to the book I was reading and in my attempts to ignore him, I couldn’t help it. He looked at the cover, flipped to the back and then into the center. He seemed tantalized with the fact it was vaguely interesting, till the grimace on his face suggested he turned to a gruesome section of the page (don’t ask me, I didn’t read that page, considering burning it). He had large fingers with well trimmed nails though in contrast to the image, with dark grime under them. His hair was orange and curly, his beard was in a mess, and it was clear what he was in society’s eyes, a typical hobo.
Through periodic glances, I came to realize that he was observant about the things around him, from the stations we passed (no kidding) “He didn’t stop at that station! What’s the name of tha’ station?” he slurred. Without an answer, he was left mumbling to himself. He’d comment on the trees and the ditches that we’d past (I lowered the volume of the music just to pay attention, while hiding behind my literary apparatus).
Eventually he turned to his neighbor, a scrawny Indian man about 50, wearing suit and carrying a suitcase. In his hands what seemed to be documents turned out to be some form of religious article. Biggie (as we’ll name the drunken gentleman) asked for it politely, flipped through it and with a loud hmmpphhh… realized it wasn’t written in an alpha numerical format.
As the train stopped, the doors slid open… my rail misadventure ended. The seemingly eventless 20 minutes punctuated by 5 ladies not knowing how to operate a train door (at the stop before), screaming as the door remained shut and calling it faulty, spoilt and abysmal. I couldn’t help but to exit with the same door, only this time I pressed the open button, much to their bewilderment observed to their gaping mouths and dilated pupils. (I’m quite sure these Marks and Spencer totting ladies would not be attracted to a Chinese boy with a bright yellow supermarket bag by his side). Step right back into my room to type this marks the end of a tale, a form of punctuation in my thoroughly eventless life.
Thinking of:
-written 23 March-
The step into the train coach opens a realm of stories, in the region it stems mostly from the urban youth, the goddess of speed (Nike) and digital Finnish or Swedish beauties (Nokia and Ericsson).
With the constant murmur of voices emanating from conversations to fellow passengers (usually friends ie. Mates) or to those who are not in our midst (cell phones), I heard a gruff voice with a minute amplitude above the rest. Later did I realize, it came from the guy sitting in front of me, telling me that there’s space for 2 and the table is great. Cest la vie, it’s always great to see someone so enthusiastic about such things.
Maybe it was the cacophony of noises that distracted my senses earlier, but he had big ringed glasses, an old wind breaker (he probably farted as well) and a worn but matching hat and scarf. He was in fact a big man, probably drunk and probably with some form of bi polar disorder.
His attention turned to the book I was reading and in my attempts to ignore him, I couldn’t help it. He looked at the cover, flipped to the back and then into the center. He seemed tantalized with the fact it was vaguely interesting, till the grimace on his face suggested he turned to a gruesome section of the page (don’t ask me, I didn’t read that page, considering burning it). He had large fingers with well trimmed nails though in contrast to the image, with dark grime under them. His hair was orange and curly, his beard was in a mess, and it was clear what he was in society’s eyes, a typical hobo.
Through periodic glances, I came to realize that he was observant about the things around him, from the stations we passed (no kidding) “He didn’t stop at that station! What’s the name of tha’ station?” he slurred. Without an answer, he was left mumbling to himself. He’d comment on the trees and the ditches that we’d past (I lowered the volume of the music just to pay attention, while hiding behind my literary apparatus).
Eventually he turned to his neighbor, a scrawny Indian man about 50, wearing suit and carrying a suitcase. In his hands what seemed to be documents turned out to be some form of religious article. Biggie (as we’ll name the drunken gentleman) asked for it politely, flipped through it and with a loud hmmpphhh… realized it wasn’t written in an alpha numerical format.
As the train stopped, the doors slid open… my rail misadventure ended. The seemingly eventless 20 minutes punctuated by 5 ladies not knowing how to operate a train door (at the stop before), screaming as the door remained shut and calling it faulty, spoilt and abysmal. I couldn’t help but to exit with the same door, only this time I pressed the open button, much to their bewilderment observed to their gaping mouths and dilated pupils. (I’m quite sure these Marks and Spencer totting ladies would not be attracted to a Chinese boy with a bright yellow supermarket bag by his side). Step right back into my room to type this marks the end of a tale, a form of punctuation in my thoroughly eventless life.
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