When I Die

Random Blips

All apologies
My internet's screwed up; so I'm sorry I couldn't be up here earlier. Can't talk a lot, have got about twenty minutes to do a lot of stuff online (like check my other box, check propellerheads.se for any updates on Reason, check avault.com and gamer.com to check if Half Life 2 has come out yet, blah, blah, blah). What follows in this entry is earlier stuff, from weeks ago. I can't answer any of your emails right now, so forgive me.

I'm not dead. All righty?

Extra special winks to pita and kali and amby and gy. And the guy who says, "Whatcha say what?"

God the Corrupt
Maybe there's a reason why the rich are rich and the poor are poor. Maybe, just maybe, God is a cunning guy who takes bribes when deciding lifestyles. Maybe twenty grand is all it takes to earn a life like... say, Robbie Williams or Keanu Reeves.

Twenty grand what? I have no idea. But I'm thinking, just like earth, there has to be some kind of currency running up in heaven as well.

And maybe God is--really speaking--nothing more than a ticket checker. A little more currency coming his way would be hard to ignore, wouldn't it? I mean, poor little slob, slugging it day in day out, pushing people through into their wired lives... has to be tiring work, sure does.

If the line "Man is a reflection of God's image" has any leverage at all, then we have to agree that God is corrupt. Because man sure is.

And if that's how it is, then I would either be one of those guys who a) simply didn't have any currency up in heaven, or b) has a big ego and is proud that he always does things on his own merit and doesn't bribe his way through.

I lean more on option (b), of course, without sounding pompous or flatulent.

The more I think of it though, the more I think that what we poor dudes did thinking we were doing the right thing was maybe wrong.

If not so, how come that one guy sleeps in a kingsize bed in a different room each day of the year and one guy sleeps on the floor without even enough room to spread his legs out under a tattered blanket, hearing his mother snore so hard he can't even rest easy?

How come one guy can't decide what he should wear and one guy wonders if he has anything to wear?

How come one guy wonders if he should take out his Ferrari or Ford or Porsche today and another wonders if he should walk and save the bus fare so he can add to his savings (to buy that new music cassette he's wanted since last month)?

Maybe money rules supreme in heaven too.

Maybe God is money.

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Hazel Crush
To memory and back,
She speaks out his tears.
Withered, shivering, hot and wet;
A frozen streak of dawning gray.

Warm and soft his skin survives;
Torn away from bone and blood.
Of mountains buried and strangers past,
Stories spring from eternal rest.

Shame is shame is shame is shame;
History is future-past;
Once they have been trampled upon,
Jasmine flowers lose their love

I am cabal, she proclaims.
Miles and miles yet to disrupt.
Sending dreams through silken veils:
Some thoughts have a certain sound.
~*~

She is love.

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Can't think of single thing to say
So I'll talk about a lot of something elses.

-1-
I never met my father's parents. Or at least I don't remember meeting them. I vaguely remember meeting my Mom's father. He had a big forehead like me, but age seemed to add a certain regal quality to that instead of making him look like me (read: shit).

My Grandma was a pretty graceful old woman till she lost all that weight. She stood four-foot-ten, I guess. And now her hunchback and slipped discs and old age have made that about four-foot-seven or something.

My Mom looks a bit like the both of them. She's about five-foot-nothing.

My Pop is... or, the man I had a right to call Pop once upon a time is a tall man. Pretty okay looking too.

I look like... well, that's not something I can tell you, can I? I can't judge my looks, after all.

I got a symmetric face, you will not think of Frankenstein's monster when you see me. I'm not an ugly duckling.

And I don't give much of a shit about it, anyway. Of all the bloody bullshit running through my head all the time, vanity's the last thing I need to worry about.

One thing I do know is I've always been way too short (okay, not 'dwarf' short, but pretty short compared to six feet) for my age. There were probably two guys in school shorter than me.

The plus was that I always stood grinning a stupid grin at the front of the whole class in the class photographs and I usually get to stand next to the professor when he's conducting experiments--which is kinda like getting a Presidential seat in an opera theater (front row, center). The minus was I had to stand and write on the desk instead of sitting when I was a kid--which senior girls found cute and embarrassed me to the point of hate.

I'm still short. Not Danny DeVito, but short nonetheless.

I'm frankly surprised no one's ever bullied me in school or college. I'm perfect bullying material.

I was once convinced that I was Hitler reborn. That the only reason I was taller than him was simple evolution. And my parents named me such that those who believe in signs would surely understand why that belief ran so deep (winks at E).

If I ever met Julie Strain (yeah, right, the B-movie artist. She's six-foot-two, and how I know her is through a game called Heavy Metal FAKK 2 and a movie called How To Create A Monster) I'd have to crane my neck all the way up to see her face and if I looked level I'd probably stare bang at her bosom--I'm not exactly sure about that, though.

In some ways I'm surprised Wally and I get along so well. We're as opposite as any two people can get. He's black and I'm white, he's tall and I'm slight, I'm the day and he's the night, he's funny and I'm... unbright.

When we walk on the road we probably look like Jackie Chan and Wesley Snipes walking together. Like Tom and Jerry. Like Laurel and Hardy (although I'm not fat. Heck, I'm slim as an eel. If you want to draw me, all you have to do is draw a stick-figure. I'm it. Thank good old metabolism. Maybe I should get myself checked for anomalies which the doctor can then develop artificially and then every fat person in the world would get to eat as damn much as they want and still stay thin.).

But being short isn't a big deal at all.

I never want to date one of those anorexic models (bones sticking out, eyes all droopy, so damn thin... yuck), anyway. I'd rather date a skeleton. Necrophilia, here comes chimp.

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-2-
One iffy detail I've noticed is that people wiggle and shake their legs and keep tapping their feet as if to the beat of a snare roll all the time when they're sitting. Restless and impatient, I guess.

Well, I don't. Repeat: I don't.

They used to say I was the deadest guy they'd ever seen... and it's true. I look like a bad morphine addict who's just had a big dose of it and is as calm as calm can be. That's maybe why the addicts almost always consider me one of their own... till they realize the truth.

Conservation of energy. That's me.

Dead guy, that's also me. Like I said, necrophilia, here I come.

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-3-
Americans did some ugly things with Iraqi prisoners. Old news. Been happening in every war. My view? The real casualties of any war are the ones who survive. And the ones who inflicted the torture are just as much worthy of pity as the tortured ones.

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-5-
I told someone that it's best not to think too much about dreams because they're always incoherent and mixed up.

This one's a perfect example.

Had it last Sunday

Look:

Here I am, leaning on the seat next to the bus-stop with lots of others.

The bus totters up and stops at the stop. I start to walk upto it and climb it, but a girl clasps my hand and stops me from getting on it.

I don't know the girl, never saw her in my life. She's wearing a gray sweater and black or blue jeans (can't be sure). She's fifteen years old. I know this because you know such stuff in your dreams.

Instead she pulls me out of the stop and drags me with her. We cross the road and she asks me to run with her. I do, her hand still clutching mine.

We run across a lot of streets; then, a flash (I remember thinking, "It's just like a crossfade from a movie.") and I'm standing right at the entrance of a building.

She's standing beside me.

We go in the shop, and stand at what is one megaloaded rack of music albums.

We race past it, though. After that, there's a PC Games section. With games I've never seen in my life: Crosspoint and Magnimalius Hardcore Pilot.

We don't stop here either.

We race past.

I look at her and suddenly the camera pans back and I can see both of us running. Camera zooms in and I'm back to first person perspective.

Also, there's another guy running with us now. I haven't seen him before either.

We turn around a corner, and I stop and gasp. Whatever this place is, it's wonderful all right.

Shelves upon shelves full of books.

"Come on," the girl says, touching my nape.

I turn to look at her and she's gone.

The guy's gone too.

I walk up to the shelf closest to me, pick up a book.

It's written by someone I've never heard of: Doosrey McGhaun (or Macghin or something). The book's title is (check this): Saving Private Ryan.

I'm surprised, to say the least. I flick open to page number one... and the text isn't English, but Hindi. I read it anyway, and find that the language is English, but the text is Hindi. That is, English words spelled in Hindi.

I close the book, pick up another one. This one is called "Gun's Father" by "Mo Jackson". It's got an alien (the gray one from X Files) on its cover.

I start to open it, feel a hand on my shoulder.

I turn around.

Standing there is a man wearing a brown hooded coat.

He lifts his hood. He doesn't have a face at all.

Then, he does: Liam Neeson.

"What the hell?" I say, thinking that at least I could've seen Arnie or someone; it's my dream, after all.

"Time's out," he says. Then he says "fuck"; only I don't hear it as "fuck". I hear it as I'd hear it on a censored tape: "F-*beep*-ck".

He pushes me back, starts laughing. "Fooled ya, sucker!" He claps his hands. "Happy f-*beep*-ckin Christday!" (Yeah. Not Christmas or Birthday, but Christday.)

He holds out a hand, I take it, get up.

And...

...I wake up.

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-6-
Am I gonna analyze this dream?

You're goddamn right I'm not.

Love,
---Chimp.

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Okay, wrote what you just read above weeks back. Was gonna post it but my goddamn phone line went dead. It's still dead, so I'm typing something else to pass time. I'll dump it all in this entry, so if you're gonna continue below this, be prepared for a long, long, long session of CHIMP-TALK.


More stuff
-1-
Marlon Brando's dead. If the women among you don't understand what's so special about this, well, I'm sorry. Maybe you have to be a guy to understand what it means--The Godfather is dead. The Godfather, as in, the apotheosis of the Capo Supremo. When Don Corleone said, "They've wanted to kill me since I was twelve. Why should I be afraid?" and when he shook his head at the end and he danced with his daughter (with that amazing background score) and when he raised his brows... and wonders of wonders, when he grinned through his lockjawed mouth... he was alive, amigos.

Since just about forever, I've liked underplaying--that's one reason why I like Shyamalan's work. And that's the biggest reason why I like old Corleone and the movie so much. It's all about underplaying. And now old Marlon is dead. Jim Morrison's grave has this inscribed on it: Kata ton daimona eaytoy--"According to his own spirit". I'd say, "Just about the same, buddy," for Marlon as well. I could probably write a minor biography about him--his offscreen antics, how he refused to accept the Best Actor Oscar for his role in Godfather--but I won't. Because when you put someone down in words, he lives forever. And this guy doesn't need any words to do that. That movie is enough.

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-2-
Thinking of Neil Stephenson made me think of his Cryptonomicon got me thinking of a cryptographic theory I've never heard before: misdirection. Code something with two different ciphers combined. Meaning: it operates on two levels. The first is surface, shallow, sophisticated enough to negate suspicion of its authenticity, but that message would be a cryptic decoy. The same code would also give another deeply encrypted message (which is the real message, in case ya didn't know), and this one would use something like a trillion gazillion bits of encryption. This way, you route it all through open air-waves (or, through security lines to avoid suspicion) and give our dudes enemies false information and our dudes allies right information.

Has it been done before in a story? If not I got a--yipee!--idea!

If all this bullshit sounds Greek, here's a simplified example to simplify the above: Say you've got a buddy, and you tell him that when you say NO, you mean YES. You tell him that that's what he's supposed to understand everytime you say a "Yes" or a "No" accompanied with a wink. That's your code. Now, say you and your buddy are standing with another temporary nuisance geek. And your buddy asks you, "So, did ya get laid yesterday?" and you didn't; you can safely confide in him, saying, "Yes! I did!" and wink. Which would tell him you didn't because of your code, and would tell the geek that you did, thus NOT ruining your image/reputation/what-the-fuck-ever in the holy geek's honorable eyes. Geddit?

Think of it as image layering. Like in Photoshop, placing a mickey mouse cartoon layer over *insert favorite pretty babe/dude here*'s picture, so that when your Momma's watching she sees you adding whiskers to Mickey's nose and when she ain't watching you flip layers and then proceed to add a little more color to that babe's/dude's lips/eyes/whatever. Now geddit? If you still don't, you're a monkey.

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-3-
Oopsy, I'm wondering how big this entry is. I'm wondering if SM sees this entry and rethinks his 'type as much as you want' attitude regarding journal entries. If this one's too big, tell me and I'll split it up. Really.

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-4-
A list of 'How-to's for the guys out there. Some things I learnt that could make your life easier--or harder, depending upon your point of view. Women can freely skip this section; there's nothing in here for them.

How to cross streets in India: look left. Cross. Stand in the middle, on the divider. Look right. Cross.

Easy as a pie.

How to cook a biryani: pick an Indian cookbook. Read it. Easy as a pie. (I don't know, all right? So all the people who keep asking me, quit asking.)

How to be a complete asshole: be KC.

How to read the paper: jump straight to the sports page, then jump to the channel guide, then jump to the supplement, if any. Scan the supplement for pictures. Fold paper. Easy as a pie.

How to make a speech: stand on the stage, open your mouth. For me, it's like going to the toilet, stripping your pants and sitting over the potty-thingy. It just comes out.

How to sing: close your eyes. Sing.

How to get a date: buddy, if you need a guide for this one, chances are you'll never get a date. (Besides, what kind of stupid advice do you expect from someone who hasn't officially dated since the Dinosaurs left for planet Timbuktoo, anyway?)

How to stay anonymous: well, I took five years to erase all traces of my hacking jobs. I'd suggest you do the following: don't hack; it's just not worth it anymore, pard.

How to jerk off: Curl your hand-thing around your penis-thing. Stroke as needed. Use lubricant for more efficiency and feedback. (Sorry folks, totally flipped my lid on this one; but there are a few blokes out there who need this basic training.)

How to write: Take a pen, take a paper, scribble your heart out.

How to oil your cycle wheel: kick the cycle on a stand so that the wheel can rotate freely. Give the wheel a spin or two, and while it's spinning, run a trickle of oil for even distribution--use a Singer oil bottle for great results. Do the same to oil the chain.

How to save money: don't spend any.

How to save money: don't have any, so that there's nothing to spend.

How to kill someone: be KC.

How to listen to a song: patiently.

How to watch a movie: all alone, with your phone disconnected and your doorbell wired off; with no piss-breaks and no junk food.

How to kill a mosquito: those damn things are very alert. You gotta be fast. Surprise them.

How to stamp upon an anthill without having a million ants crawling up your pants: why do you want to stamp upon an anthill, anyway? How'd you like it if a giant monster stamped upon the house you live in? Anyway, if you really wanna do this, wear gumboots soaked in castor oil and garlic paste. Seems to repel those ants.

How to love someone: love someone.

How not to love someone: You can't help it, brothers and sisters. There ain't no cure for that little poison mister cupid spreads when he sticks that arrow up your butt.

How to define 'define': How you define 'define' is the same way you understand 'understand'.

How to quote someone: truthfully.

How to read: slow. Especially if the story/author's good. But, hey, if the story ain't good, why're you reading it in the first place? Do you have that much free time on your hands? Then why don't you do something else... like learning some real stuff instead of reading this stupid list?

How to be a rainmaker: when there are clouds in the sky (dark ones), say, "It's gonna rain." Bingo! Presto! Miraculo-dungo!

How to make a sandwich: take two slices of bread, apply whatever you want on them (on one side, please). Stick stuff between them (edible stuff, unless you have a fetish for eating rocks and plastic). Easy as a pie.

How to make sure you really piss me off: ask me about myself. Ask me if I'm from abroad. Finally, ask me if I'm a Hindu or a Muslim or a Christian. (If I'm anything, I'm me, goddamit!)

How to stay awake all night: hold your piss in. And drink lots of water. Old bladder just won't let you pop asleep.

How to get free cable/phone: uh, this stuff is classified. So if you really want to know (and you must know this before you know that: you could really screw things up, and screw yourself up pretty bad too), ask me.

How to play a video game: don't cheat, don't take short cuts, always have the sound on, listen to the sound cues. This applies to genuine digital entertainment as opposed to those no-brainers which EA sports and others churn out every twelve months.

How to make sure no one reads your stuff: be repetitive, boring. Like moi.

How to make sure I'll review something in your port if I jump in: have something other than erotica in there. I don't read/write erotica. Writing about sex just for the sake of sex is... I don't know, not my cup of tea. (No offense to the ones who write erotic fiction, of course.)

How to judge my stuff: be harsh. Be ruthless.

How to make a cassette unerasable/unrecordable: take a pointed object and pop those tabs on the edge opposite to the exposed magnetic tape.

How make an unerasable/unrecordable cassette recordable/erasable: stick strips of cellotape over the holes where the tabs were.

How to clean a CD: in lines. Never in circles.

How to make sure someone gets along with you: don't be a pain in the ass.

How to iron a collar: inside out.

How to stay alive: breathe. Eat. Sleep.

How to fart: look it up in the Guide To Life, GOD books; you get a free copy of this book when you're born.

How to marry a superbabe: in your dreams, wiseguy.

How to marry a superdude: dunno, never wanted to marry one; straight-guy that I am.

How to buy a Porsche: get rich. What else is new?

How to own an island: get rich. What else is new?

How to have a gold potty to empty your bowels upon: steal it. You mean you would actually want to buy a thing like that?

How to fly: get an airplane ride.

How to walk on water: spill a glass of water on your floor and walk on it. (I know, I'm the lord of the Idiotic.)

How to make a bonfire: didn't they teach you in boy-scout camp? Anyway, take dry wood (wet wood if you want smoke), pile it up, soak it in combustible fuel if you have any (not really necessary), toss a match (or use two stones for a spark). A little bit of luck and the right wind and... Presto.

How to make sure you never get your penis stuck in your pants zipper: don't look elsewhere while zippering up.

How to get your penis unextracted if it gets stuck in the zipper: well, it's gonna pain, anyway; so do it fast. Remember, the longer you don't do this, the faster that skin grows dead.

How to shave your face: long strokes, medium pressure, up and down motion, please. For God's sake, never run it opposite to the direction of the hair's growth. That can give you horrific pimples (and you thought you were rid of those damn things years ago, didn't you?).

How to read horror: all alone, in a dark room, in candlelight. It's great.

How to end a how-to list: this way: the end.

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-5-
Ting-ting-ti-ding!

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-6-
The above line is a famouse catch-phrase/melody used in Britannia advertisements. Britannia, in case you don't know, is an Indian brand which mainly makes biscuits. Why did I just tell you all this? Dunno.

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-7-
Just saw Matrix: Reloaded and Matrix: Revolutions. Both suck. Of the two, Reloaded is better in just about every way, but by no means better than the original. I won't even talk about the third part. Part two has nice action, but I don't like one thing: Keanu Reeves is really nothing more than a Superman incarnate here. All he does is fly. That sucks. But both sequels have damn amazing background music by Juno Reactor (who, in case you didn't know, is one of my electronic music Gods) and Don Davis and Rob Dougan. The Matrix: Reloaded Soundtrack/Background score album is something people will talk about a hundred years from now. Mark my words. Especially when you consider the amazing Marilyn Manson track.

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-8-
Saw The Bourne Identity too. Drop-dead gorgeous background score with just the right mix of old time percussion and new industrial beats. Lots of deviations from the book by Ludlum, but it still works, like LOTR did. The two biggest dings with the movie are 1) they killed Conklin, who was just about the only guy I liked in all the Bourne books, and 2) Matt Damon as Bourne. I used to picture someone like Mark Wahlberg (or, if you're willing to push the boundary enough, Johnny Depp) when I thought of Bourne. Actually, there ain't much difference between Matt and Mark, you know; but those little differences sure do make a big, big difference. And there's one more major ding: The way they show Matt smile at the end. Buddies, you cannot build up a superhuman character and then have him smile. It's like premature ejaculation. Ever saw Batman smile in a comic book? Superman? They grin, and that's okay. But they never smile and they shouldn't. It takes away the badass quotient.

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-9-
Which reminds me: I've read lots of Ludlum books. I started reading Ludlum after my... uh, transformation from Hardy Boys and and Three Detectives and Alfred Hitchcock's mystery books. Right after I read Lord Of The Flies, I think. There was something about the way Ludlum always portrayed the main guy--superhuman, and yet fragile, and almost always unstable, with a buried past--that appealed lots to my dissident heart. His best, I think, is The Aquitaine Progression. Conspiracy Theorist is my middle name, so this is only natural.

And I've read my share of Tom Clancy.

There are hardcore maniacs out there which balk at the idea of reading such mainstream stuff. I don't. I read any author, as long as the story's good. King and Chuck and John Crowley and Pohl and Asimov and Gibson go down my throat just as well as Tom Clancy or Ludlum or Robert Silverberg or Ayn Rand or John Grisham (his early work, at least; his later stuff is just a repeat telecast of his first five books) or China Mieville. I'm not a hardcore SF buff or a hardcore horror buff or a hardcore military buff. I'm a reading buff. And anybody else who thinks what I'm reading is a crock of shit, well, you can piss off.

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-10-
A bit of gaming advice from Yours Truly. Don't ever play Deus Ex right after you've finished System Shock 2. I did this right about yesterday, and it's a sure-fire way of screwing things up. First of all, you start playing Deus Ex exactly like SS2, and expect a Hybrid to pop out of nowhere any minute. Second, SS2 uses the TAB key for the inventory, while Deus Ex uses F2. Deus Ex uses the TAB key to throw the item you're holding... and I can't tell you the number of times I've thrown my riot-prod/crossbow (I prefer stealth and strategy over all out bamboozling action, if I can go about a game that way--and that's one big reason why SS2 and Deus Ex and Thief/Thief 2 are my all out favorite action games) away this away, only to warn all NSF terrorists and get myself a good whupping, death, and reload. Also, there's a huge SCARE hangover from SS2, you're still shit-freaked out by SHODAN to really function well.

So, after you've finished SS2, avoid an FPS RPG. Go play some cheesy mainstream arcade game for a while. Preferably something where sound is absolutely unneccessary. Because SS2 is all about sound.

Another piece of advice, considering the above line. Please play SS2 with good headphones. Or high-def speakers. Or don't. You owe it to yourself to scare the shit out of you. Trust me.

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-11-
More yapping 'bout movies. Just saw the American version of The Ring. Now, maybe it's because I saw the Japanese version (subtitled) first, and maybe I just don't like the herky-jerky animated way the girl steps out of the TV in the American version (the Japanese version of that crawling-out-of-the-TV scene is fucking amazing. Possibly the most mind-numbing piece of video footage I've seen since the last five minutes of the Sixth Sense), but according to moi, the American version sucks ass.

Yeah, bring on your brickbats.

But it's true.

You wanna argue? Okay.

First of, the US version just don't have that atmosphere. Which is mostly due to the stupid background score. The Jap version has such a genuinely terrifying background score that I wouldn't watch that movie in a theater alone. No sir, never.

Second of, Naomi Watts is exactly the wrong kind of lead for such a movie. She's just a stupid made up doll that you just can't sympathize or believe in. She was great in Mulholland Drive, but here she sucketh ass.

Third of, well... atmosphere again. The Jap version is shot on rusty Betacams, I think, and the whole lighting (green, garish, depressing) and sound structure (echoey, distant, you have to strain to hear the words; like reading Shirley Jackson's work); and boy, does it work. The US version... well, this movie shows how to fuck it all up in Dolby. Or maybe I'm just a big fan of underplaying (as I've said about a dozen times already).

Fourth of, in the Jap version, in accordance with their silly heritage and stories, the trip to the old well sounds real. I mean, I know it's stupid, and yet I feel that this could very well happen. It just doesn't work with the US version.

Fifth of, the US kid. Jesus fuckin Christ! He looks about as scared and terrified as free lion. The Jap kid... well, you just have to look at the girl's eyes and her twitchy mouth and you know she's petrified.

Sixth of, the ending. Well, actually I didn't like the Jap ending either, but as I said, there, it still looks plausible. You know, very much BULLSHIT, but could happen. Or maybe I expected the US version to have a more sound reason, and expectations are a sure fire way to disappoint thyself, ain't they?

Or maybe I'm just a retarded Asian way too fucking proud of my heritage and am sticking my neck out for my Asian brothers.

But know what? I don't think so. Jap horror films are creepy, inherently. See Dark Waters if you doubt me. That movie's creepier than The Ring, if that's possible. I mean, if The Ring wasn't good enough, why would Americans bother making an English version in the first place?

There's one good thing about the US version, though: they don't show the girl's hair part away and the eyeball protruding from behind it. Well, actually that's a bad thing, cause that was another creepy scene in the Jap version and...

Oh, well... you can hit me with those brickbats now.

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-12-
M. Knight Shyamalan's new movie, "The Village" is out. I saw the trailer on TV, and I'm dying till I get inet back again to research some more.

It's gonna be a rush.

I know, I said expectations are bad, but I don't think Knight will let us down.

The movie, from what I was able to decipher, is about a village (like, duh!).

This village is in the center of a forest.

Now, this is just guessing on my part: I think the village folk and the animals in the surrounding forest (or the monsters, or whatever) have a kind of deal: you don't screw around in our part and we won't screw around in yours.

That's all I could guess. I could be wrong, could be right. With Knight, it's hard to tell. When I saw the trailer for Signs, I thought it was something like Taken or an X Files episode, Shyamalan style. Well, folks, if that's what Signs is, then I'm a monkey.

Well... I am a monkey, but I think you get the idea.

I'm gonna wait for that movie. Yupsy, I'm gonna wait for that movie. I'll have to wait long, 'cause movies usually take three-four months after their US release to release in India. Do I remember myself yacking about how I hate living here in India? I do, don't I?

The movie stars Joaquin Pheonix (one of the most under-rated actors, friends and neighbors. If you doubt me, go watch 8 Millimeter), Adrian Brody, Sigourney Weaver. Not that star cast means anything in a Shyamalan movie.

I'm gonna watch it when it comes out. Yupsy, I am.

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-13-
Saw... ahem, Spiderman 2. Well... it adds to my belief that sequel is never as good as the original, unless we're talking Godfather or Terminator.

The movie's all right, it's not bad; in fact, it's almost good. And if this was not a sequel but Part 1, it would've rocked. But it is part 2.

The big problem, I think, is the lack of consistency in the movie. The way Spiderman loses his power and then regains it... it feels pushed. The attempts at making Spiderman a funnier guy mostly doesn't work. ("I'm back, I'm back!" Spidey screams and jumps off the building. His spider-web-ropes don't shoot out of his hands--cause he's lost his power--and he falls right upon a car. He gets up, and says, "My back, my back.")

The biggest problem though, is the way they've revealed him to everyone who really matter. Mary Jane, Osborne, and so on and so forth.

They should've split this part into two, I think. There's too much story and not enough space to fully tell it.

Yuck, look at me, whining about everything. Jesus, this movie still has most of what it takes to be a good superhero movie. It's miles better than those absurd Batman movies (and I mean every single one of them except Batman Returns).

What I hate about the whole thing though is Kirsten Dunst. Yeah, yeah, the guys think she's a superbabe and all that, but I don't think so. She might be a glam doll, but an actress she ain't. What do I mean by that last term? I mean someone who can do something other than looking pretty and smiling at the camera.

I'm gonna quit yapping now. Enough is enough.

Love ya.

Take care, stay well, eat some good stuff, read a few good stories, watch a few good movies, hear some good music... and go buy my new product: the new Chimp Nothing Machine!

Are you tired of machines going putty on you? Don't you just hate it when machines stop working? Or when they flash a BATTERY LOW message? And what about machines that break down? That rusty car, that old mixer-grinder, that stinky oven, that stupid cycle... doesn't it really, really, piss you off? Don't you want a machine that would work forever and ever? A machine that will do its job till the absolute end of time? Then, boy, is the Chimp Nothing Machine the right machine for you! Look: this contraption comes with an eternal guarantee! It will work 24/7/365 (and that extra day in a leap year too! Talk about constancy!), it will never break down, it will never stop working. All it needs is a standard power supply... and if you don't have a power supply, that's okay too! It doesn't need power to run if you don't want it to! Talk about adaptability!

And if you order now, you also get a free book ("Working With The Nothing Machine" by Isaac Hawk-stein) that explains the various functions of the Chimp Nothing Machine. That is, 4899 different ways to make the machine work! That's 4899 different ways that the machine can do NOTHING! Boy, does your mixer have 4899 modes of operation? Your cellphone? Your laptop, even?

Are you ready to buy it? Great; send 400 Dollars to the following address: Dream Machines Limited, Goddamn Lane, Shitpoke City, Folk Story State, New-World-Mirage-Asswipe Country, Zip: 001001. So what are you waiting for? Get the Chimp Nothing Machine today! And get a lifetime's supply of content, peace, and stable, productive nothingness!

Buy now.
---Chimp, Ready To Kick Ass.

PS: You mean after all of the above you still want me to yap some more?

PPS: I ain't that big a blabber-mouth, you know.

PPPS: If I said anything that made you angry, well, sorry. I said it once and I'll say it again, and maybe you could say it with me: KC's got an asshole for a mouth.

PPPPS: Have a very good day, everyone.

PPPPPS: Bye now. And buy. Now.

When You're Surrounded By Guilt And Fears,
A Fallen Angel Can See Your Tears

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"Time had a beginning, and therefore,
logically, it will have an end.
We weren't there when time began.
Nor will we be there to witness its end."
---- Stephen Hawkings

"At a higher altitude, with flag unfurled
We reach the dizzy heights of that dreamed of world..."
---- Pink Floyd, "High Hopes"


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