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Archive for May, 2004

out with  yunjia till late. ate sakae again… as always, then ended up nuaing at cosy bay.  =)

Gary :: May.29.2004 :: Old Deadjournal posts :: No Comments »

Shit oozes downwards

Am compelled to share this with the world. courtesy once again of E2.

<lj-cut>Shit oozes downwards (idea)
(idea) by vuo

Thu Jul 31 2003 at 22:58:16
<div align=”center”>
Paska valuu alaspäin.
</div>
<div align=”center”>– Traditional Finnish Proverb
</div>
This proverb is the most fitting in the military. Say an assistant instructor - a conscript corporal - borrows thirty uncharged cartridges. He is obliged to do this, because they are needed for instruction on the machine gun, and he has an order to give the instruction.

Then, he distributes the cartridges to the recruits. During the day, many groups of recruits - the entire battery, actually - goes through his training “checkpoint”. Just one of them loses, steals, swallows or shoves a cartridge up his ass. Who is to blame?

Officially, there corporal is blamed. His signature is on the borrowing receipt. It does not matter that he had to sign to obey a direct order or that the recruit was the one who lost the cartridge. If asked why the recruit isn’t blamed, the instructors (of cadre) say that the corporal didn’t keep watch on the recruit strictly enough, so actually he is to blame. Now, the corporal barks at every recruit for this. Even if it’s only one recruit, the whole battery suffers from this. “The shit pours on the corporal, but shit oozes downwards.” (Alikersantille tulee paskaa niskaan, mutta paska valuu alaspäin.) The last example almost did occur when I was doing my service.

And if you’re in any position, the lower you can shift the responsibility, the better. In WW2 it became very important for the cadre to explain their blunders as some conscript’s fault. And who do you think this conscript second lieutenant blames?

This can be very comforting when on tour operated by an agency. If the bus breaks, it’s not your problem, it’s a problem for the agency. To the agency, it’s the bus company’s problem. And to the bus company, it’s the driver’s problem. Though there’s no such rigid hierarchy involved as in the army, you can feel like a superior because you’re the one who pays it.</lj-cut>

Gary :: May.19.2004 :: Old Deadjournal posts :: No Comments »

irregardless..

“Irregardless”? Nein, mein fuhrer! Das word no est guten! “Regardless”, ja! “Irregardless”, NEIN!

Gary :: May.18.2004 :: Old Deadjournal posts :: No Comments »

paying peanuts for britney spears

monkeys for peanuts simply won’t cut it anymore, folks…

just came back from the ICA… went there to update my passport photo.  sigh.  singaporeans will forever be singaporeans.  they pay 5 bucks to take an IC photo, they think they’re there for a bloody makeover shoot.

story as follows:

there were three manned photo booths.  basically all one had to do was to preen beforehand in the mirror provided, go in sit down, smile and fuck off.  but noooo…. i had to wait 15 minutes although there were only 4-5 people in the queue.  when i got to the doorway i discovered why. 

booth #1:   mother and son.  son was taking a photo.  mom was basically prancing in and out of the goddamned booth, arranging his hair, glasses, his goddamned face, etc.  she pulled him out, brought him in front of the mirror he was supposed to have used BEFORE  he went in, and started fussing over him.   ma’am, i’m sorry to tell you that your son suffers from Ed Zachary disease, wherein his face looks Ed Zachary like his arse.

booth #2:  same thing.  some guy was taking a photo that an immigration officer looks at for, what, 4 seconds with a few months in between and he thought he was in a fucking manhunt.

booth #3:  some malay guy who had trouble smiling, so tried a few shots, before coming out of the place with his wife, standing around, and choosing the “best” mugshot.  hey, abang, this isn’t coverlooks.

malay guy was done first (allah bless his soul) so i went in, sat down, smiled and fucked off.  total time taken?  less than 20 seconds.

when i left, arseface-boy and mr manhunt were still in there.

jeesus-fucking-christ.

Gary :: May.18.2004 :: Old Deadjournal posts :: No Comments »

The Fourth Wall

Something new:

“In theater, film and television, the imaginary wall which would theoretically prevent the audience from seeing the action. When a character turns directly to the audience (or camera) and addresses them, displaying an awareness that they are in a performance, they are breaking the fourth wall.”

cool.

Gary :: May.17.2004 :: Old Deadjournal posts :: No Comments »

hot hot hot hot hot hot hot

So bloody hot these couple of days, it’s a full time job just trying not to sweat.  and not only is it hot, it’s bright as well.

The glare from the sun outside my window shining in through my curtains  makes using the computer barely bearable. (ooh.. aliteration. cool.)   Everywhere i go, there’s this smothering heat.  i can feel it embracing me, getting into my lungs, making breathing difficult.

Marilyn Manson said, “God is in the TV.”

I disagree.

As far as I’m concerned, God is in the fucking air-con.

Gary :: May.16.2004 :: Old Deadjournal posts :: No Comments »

I listen to white noise while I work. Do you?

Well, not exactly white noise, as in noise conforming to a Gaussian amplitude distribution and sporting a rather boring power spectrum. I just thought it’d make for an attractive node title. Rather than simply saying “noise”. That lacks something, doesn’t it? Doesn’t drip with limerick-y catchiness.
But I digress.
I listen to noise while I work. It’s the singing of an undefined frequency band (although sometimes the singing of certain undiscovered bands does classify as noise). It’s the sound of the static you get on TV after closing time. The voices of a million little dots banging on the glass, wanting out. The void between your favourite stations, the hissing that gives you a little private moment as you tune your radio, before the next segment of commercialized trash hits you like a homie you just dissed.
Of course, I don’t always have the luxury of a TV set tuned to nothingness with me, so I carry a portable radio receiver around. Comes in handy at the library, when I’m slogging for exams, or preparing notes for the next pointless paper due yesterday. I jog the dial all the way to the end, then a little past. It’s like taking a train ride. I zoom past all the stations - pockets of humanity - catching dribs and drabs of this and that as I pass:
 
“…news-/-today, a horrible accident-/-oops, I did it ag-/-esident Bush met-/-….”
 
Suddenly the dial sticks, and with a jolt I realize I have reached the end. And I plunge into limbo in one timeless, magical moment. I revel in the solitude and comfort that is mine, and mine alone; The smugness that comes from knowing I provide the only speck of awareness in this virtual environment of unrefined audio.
As I settle down to work, it floods my consciousness. It fills gaps in my logic. It perks me up. It’s comforting, it’s encompassing, not in the least distracting, and most importantly, it calms me.
I listen to white noise while I work. Do you?

Gary :: May.15.2004 :: Old Deadjournal posts :: No Comments »

why?

Me 5/8/2004 1:43 PM there?

Gavin 5/8/2004 9:02 PM where?

Gavin 5/9/2004 1:10 AM there ?

Me 5/11/200 8:42 PM where?

Gavin 5/12/200 3:58 PM still there ?

Me 5/12/200 9:46 PM where? here. not there.

Gavin 5/13/200 11:07 PM therer ?

Me 5/14/200 1:22 AM where?

Gavin 5/14/200 1:22 AM there ?

Me 5/14/200 1:23 AM dunno where

Gavin 5/14/200 1:24 AM ok

Me 5/14/200 3:53 PM there?

Gavin 5/14/200 3:53 PM where ?

Me 5/14/200 3:53 PM there lor.

Gavin 5/14/200 3:53 PM i think so lor

Gary :: May.14.2004 :: Old Deadjournal posts :: No Comments »

“The only freedom which counts is the freedom to do what some other people think to be wrong. There is no point in demanding freedom to do that which all will applaud. All the so-called liberties or rights are things which have to be asserted against others who claim that if such things are to be allowed their own rights are infringed or their own liberties threatened. This is always true, even when we speak of the freedom to worship, of the right of free speech or association, or of public assembly. If we are to allow freedoms at all there will constantly be complaints that either the liberty itself or the way in which it is exercised is being abused, and, if it is a genuine freedom, these complaints will often be justified. There is no way of having a free society in which there is not abuse. Abuse is the very hallmark of liberty.”
– Lord Chief Justice Halisham

Gary :: May.08.2004 :: Old Deadjournal posts :: No Comments »

“He’s f–ing dead.”

The most sobering thing I’ve read in a long time..<hr>Day’s theme: Challenge yourself Just when we thought we had a pure and simple hero, a millionaire athlete who gave up wealth and fame to become the ideal patriot, to make the ultimate sacrifice, his friends and family complicated everything. They turned Pat Tillman into a human being Monday, showing us what was really lost during that ambush in Afghanistan, insisting that we question every assumption we’ve made since he died an icon on April 22. Yes, there were uplifting tales, moments when tears and pride swelled in everyone watching Tillman’s memorial service at the San Jose Municipal Rose Garden. There were jarring moments, too, and they carried the message of the afternoon — “challenge yourself” — more powerfully than those laden with conventional inspiration. Tillman’s youngest brother, Rich, wore a rumpled white T-shirt, no jacket, no tie, no collar, and immediately swore into the microphone. He hadn’t written anything, he said, and with the starkest honesty, he asked mourners to hold their spiritual bromides. ”Pat isn’t with God,” he said. “He’s f — ing dead. He wasn’t religious. So thank you for your thoughts, but he’s f — ing dead.” What? This didn’t happen for God, as well as country? A professional athlete turned soldier, and we’re supposed to believe that he’d have no use for piety? Robbed of a cliche, where does that leave us? Challenge yourself. His brother-in-law and close friend, Alex Garwood, described how Tillman handled his duties when he became godfather to Garwood’s son. He came to the ceremony dressed as a woman. Not as a religious commentary. He was doing a balancing act. ”We had two godfathers, no godmother,” Garwood explained. And what NFL player turned Army Ranger wouldn’t don drag to make that math work? Who on earth was this guy? He was the same person who often talked late into the night with his linebackers coach at ASU, prying apart stereotypes about college football players and future soldiers. ”He talked about gays,” Lyle Setencich, the former ASU assistant said. “He asked me, ‘Could you coach gays?’ ” Setencich told Tillman yes. He could, and he had. He repeated that at the memorial service, televised on ESPN, in front of the sports world, showing another side of a coach, another side of an American hero. Challenge yourself. Tillman talked about everything, with everyone. According to the speakers, he had read the Bible, the Koran, the Book of Mormon, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and he underlined passages constantly. Garwood recalled how he’d mail articles to friends, highlighting certain parts and writing in the margins: “Let’s discuss.” A quotation from Emerson, found underlined in Tillman’s readings, adorned the program. It concluded with this: “But the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.” Yet he was a team player. When the Arizona Cardinals lost their kicker early in a game, Tillman cut into a conversation between the team trainer and head coach Dave McGinnis. “You know who’s kicking off for us now, don’t you?” McGinnis said, quoting Tillman, a safety who had no real credentials for the kicking job. Most pro athletes wouldn’t risk humiliating themselves that way. ”Pat didn’t want to be the focal point, but he liked being out front,” McGinnis said, “if that makes any sense.” Tillman’s roommate in the pros, Zack Walz, took a newspaper clipping to the podium and read about how he and some Cardinals teammates had made up faux dog tags for themselves, declaring their unit a band of warriors. “Soldiers, battlers, lay it on the line,” Walz said, sniffling as he scanned the clip. “What the hell did we know? Listen to the words. Listen to the metaphors. … How hollow they ring.” When Tillman came home late last year from his first tour of duty, Walz said that he understood the difference now, what genuine war and real dog tags meant. A couple of weeks later, he received a gift in the mail, Tillman’s dog tags. ”I’m holding them in my hand now,” Walz said, “but they will never be this far from my heart again.” Tillman’s respect for his former teammate holds another lesson. Since he died, it has been fashionable to contrast his sense of duty with the petulance and inflated sense of importance in modern athletes. Still, Tillman was an athlete as much as he was a soldier. It has been said over and over that he wouldn’t want to be revered while we ignore the other soldiers lost in Iraq and Afghanistan. Would he want his former friends in football belittled, their values bashed as a way to measure his sacrifice? That’s too easy. Challenge yourself. By the time the ceremony ended, after his brother and brother-in-law sipped the Guinness that Garwood poured in Tillman’s honor, the funny, thinking, wild, crazy man had come to life. The family’s loss, the loss of every soldier’s family, seemed more real. Tillman wasn’t an icon anymore. He was a man you wanted to know, to spend time with, to lift a Guinness alongside. But that had become impossible, the price of war, because his brother was right. Pat is dead. He’s f — ing dead. E-mail Gwen Knapp at <a href=”mailto:gknapp@sfchronicle.com”>gknapp@sfchronicle.com</a>.

Gary :: May.05.2004 :: Old Deadjournal posts :: No Comments »

with all the political clout of a shit stain.