Happy 50th Post!

About a year and a half ago, 3 friends decided to set up a blog celebrating love, life, school and coffee. It was supposed to be a glimpse into the eccentricities of 3 very different people. (Actually, we wanted 5 people, but we couldn't find the ones who could fit into 5 "stereotypes".) It was supposed to be a tongue in cheek view of the world, from 5 different people. We were supposed to rib one another, slam the authorities, lament on how things could be much better or just rant about the recent public transport fare hikes.

Coffeestruck. That was what we wanted it to be. The idea that strikes you while you're enjoying your cup of coffee. Similarly, we wanted our readers to begin thinking when they read through our posts.

Now, I bet all of you are laughing. "Who does this idiot think he is? No one ever comes to this blog! What high and mighty visions they had!" (No one, of course, besides you. And you. And you.) Alas, it did not turn out the way I had expected. Let's just say writing isn't in everybody's blood. But I kept coming back to post. I've always loved writing, be it about the imagined adventures my sister's soft toys go through, to the adventures of a cat in a neighbourhood that was too small for him, to the experiences of a youth caught in a war in the near future. It had always been stress relief for me. Yes, angsty posts bring me relief. About as much relief as Tiger Balm, or Po Chai pills.

There's nothing quite like creating images using words. It's liberating. It's second to none. Okay, maybe coffee comes close. Hmm, then again, so does having a few rounds of beer with some close friends. (Don't ask me about sex, though.)

So, the blog has survived thus far. And with this post, the humble blog has hit its fiftieth post. If I feel like gloating, I can even say that I post once a week. But I don't feel like gloating. I'm feeling neutral. At least I'm not feeling pessimistic. If I were, I'll be asking, "I wonder if I'll ever hit 100 posts?" Actually, pessimism, as I tell some of my friends, has its merits. (Yet another thing I'll say I'll blog about, but never get down to doing.)

To commemorate this 50th post, I bring you what I think are some of the best entries over the past year:
"Doh! It's glass!" This post was what I had intended the blog to be. Witty comebacks, crazy stunts and an absent stunt double.
"I was Kissed by a Lizard" This one is here by virtue of how weird it was. I still shiver when I think about it.
"Dear Officer Tan" I wonder why it's always these angsty posts that come up with the funniest lines. "I can spell! T-E-L-E-P-H-O-N-E!"
"Wash Me" This picture was attached to a totally unrelated post. I like the pic more than the post.
"Just Another Clubbing Night" Another angsty post with me trying to get all my anger out of my system. I appreciate the comments "agent G" left behind.
"Dearly Departed 6230i" Posted when I missed my old phone, most probably when I was finding it hard to come to terms with the limited capabilities of the replacement phone.

Hope you enjoy reading through what I feel were some of the funniest or intense posts! -Jimmy

Short Story Project - Halloween

"Where the hell are the ground troops? They were supposed to be here to take the ORDER from the inside!" Elijah yelled into his comm. He studied the battlefield before him, littered with FRAME carcasses, burning tanks and the stationary defences which he had earlier brought down with his Scorpion cannon.

"The hovercraft the Commandoes were in was shot down in transit. They're attempting to make their way here on foot." Amy reported after a slight pause. She landed her Enforcer, then placed it in a kneeling position. After another pause, she came back with more information, "We'll still need to take the ORDER from the inside. The Chuabes will probably want to initiate a self-destruct sequence to make sure we can't use it in the defence of Chalcedony."

"So what do we do? They don't expect us to go in there, right? We're pilots, not Commandoes. The most we could do is defend the ORDER against counter-attacks from the outside!"

Elijah sighed. Trust Sam to sound perpetually worried. We need solutions, not more problems. "The problem now is that they might not send counter-attacks. They just might destroy it from the inside. Our effort would all be in vain." Switching to Col Chua's channel, Elijah asked, "Sir, we can't waste precious time waiting here. Is there any way we could stop the Chuabes from destroying ORDER from the inside?"

Col Chua's reply came in measured tones, "Each one of your Enforcers is equipped with a survival kit in case you need to bail out over enemy territory. Within the survival kit is a personal protection weapon."
Even the radio failed to hide Col Chua's disturbed voice. But Elijah was too focused on his job to care. "What exactly are these weapons like? Can I raid the installation on foot with the weapon?"
"Sir, I think it's a bad idea. We weren't trained as soldiers. Within our Enforcers, we're almost invincible. Outside..."
"Shut up, Sam! I know the risks! I can take care of myself!" Elijah took a few deep breaths. We need solutions, dammit!
"The survival kit is behind the command couch and can only be access after the ejection pod is clear of the Enforcer." A sense of conviction re-entered Col Chua's voice, "However, given the circumstances, the override code is two-twenty-seven, three-seventeen. You'll find a small sub-machine gun and three fully loaded magazines. Get in there and see what you can do to buy the Commandoes more time."

Elijah landed his Enforcer, whipped his five point seat harness off and then clambered behind the command couch. His fingers danced over the keypad and he fished out the PPW and also the magazine pouch belt. He then lowered himself onto the battlefield. The dust was the first thing that hit him. Then came the smell of burning plastic and fuel. Detached from the controlled environment of the Enforcer cockpit, he suddenly felt vulnurable. Maybe this wasn't a good idea after all. -Jimmy

[A] [S]ucky dinner, [O]blivious to appetites [C]ommitee to blame

Something really funny happened today.

I attended a dinner. There. Ha ha. Laugh. That's what's so funny. Actually, the funny thing is that I didn't attend a dinner. I attended some weird themed party which was thinly disguised as a dinner.

I mean, dinners are supposed to feed people, right? Who would go into a dinner and not expect food? It's ridiculous! So that's what I expected when I paid the 8 dollars one week prior to the event. I expected lots of good food. With 8 dollars, I was only being reasonable, right? I mean, if I'm paying the equivilant of 2 normal dinners in a foodcourt, there *must* be good food, right? Why else would they charge you 8 dollars?

So I reached the venue half an hour after the official opening time. The place was dressed up pretty nicely, with fancy neon patterns hanging from the ceiling, as if I was walking through some Austin Powers MTV. Then, there was this "wheel of fortune" that dictated what door gift you'll get. Pretty cheesy, but original and thus passable. The door gifts, though, were pretty inane. Why would a sane person want to wear tacky ear-rings, or a masquerade mask? Why is my 8 bucks not going more into the food? Ok, maybe these were from the sponsors, I consoled myself. So I headed further in.

The whole place was lit up like an Austin Powers MTV. The organisers had taken the trouble to dress all the light tubes with coloured sheets. Whoa. So much effort into decor. The food must be really something, eh?

People everywhere were dressed up in retro outfits, fitting into the theme of the night. That meant bold, psychedelic patterned dresses, hoop ear-rings, wide pastel hairbands for the girls. And T-shirts, berms and sandals for the guys. Ok, some of them bothered to dress up, but ended up looking more 1930s than 1980s. Or more weird-afro-hair silly than slick John Travola cool. Well, it looks like everyone's getting into the mood. They look happy. The food must be good then.

So I took a little walk around the buffet tables. Hamburgers was first, but a friend who had eaten earlier told me that they weren't really nice, so I moved on. Spaghetti was next, but where's the sauce? Apparently, the whole vat was empty. The only sauce I could get was off the stained sauce ladle, which had apparently dropped into the full vat five minutes into what I'd imagine to be a mad rush for the food. Hmm... Only crumbs were left from the fish and chips. Ok, I'll head deeper.

I picked up a root beer float. At least it'll stop the growling stomach for a while. Ice cream and waffles was next. That'll work as dessert, not a staple. Pop corn: snacks while watching a blockbuster, not dinner material. Candy floss: pink stuff little kids eat in amusement parks, also not for dinner. Mash potatoes. Well, here we finally have something decent. I picked a cup up. Very sloshy, but I was hungry. It'll do. So, what else is nice?

Nothing apparently. 8 bucks, and that was all the food they had. So I figured that sucky burgers was the least of all remaining evils. But guess what? They ran out of that too! WOW WHEE! WHY THE HELL DO YOU CHARGE US 8 FREAKING BUCKS, BUT THEN HAVE NOT ENOUGH FOOD TO FEED US? WHAT KIND OF FREAKING DINNER IS THIS? WHY THE F**K DO YOU WANT TO SPEND ON DRESSING THE PLACE UP WHEN THE MOTIVE OF A DINNER IS TO F**KING EAT? WHAT KINDA F**KING RETARD EATS SPAGHETTI WITHOUT ANY SAUCE?

I was angry. It's true what they say, you know. A hungry man is an angry man. I'm not saying that the whole event was a failure. It's really a chance for us students to meet on an informal level. It's not everyday that you see so people you know or have worked with at one location. BUT PLEASE, IF YOu'RE GOING TO CHARGE US EIGHT FREAKING BUCKS AND MARKET IT AS A DINNER, at least have the decency to serve ENOUGH FOOD!

What's worse was that it was announced that later during the night, 450 bucks worth of pizza would arrive. The pizza's actually meant to reward the people who are cleaning up the place then, but laypeople are allowed to indulge too... no doubt they'll end up helping out as they'll prolly feel weird not doing so while their friends slog away.

Why do you want to let the laypeople know about the pizzas? If it's meant as supplementary food, why didn't you spend more for the actual dinner? If it's meant as "welfare food", why let us know? If it's supposed to be an incentive for laypeople to stay on, why call it "welfare food"? If it's simply just a way to clear the budget, why didn't they order more food in the first place?

Something funny happened today. I had eight dollars worth of misery. -Jimmy

Short Story Project - 17th October

Sam flung the e paper towards the side table and smiled to himself as it nicely landed close to the table edge. With the Triconda's half Earth Standard gravity, the e paper took a path similar to an object in a slightly viscous fluid.

"I don't get it. Even these syndicated comic strip characters are attached." Sam sighed.

"Yeah, so?" Elijah's eyes barely shifted from his music player. His lips were pursed in an attempt to keep up with the lyrics scrolling past the small screen.

"Heck. These characters are meant to be caricatures. Some of them are total losers if you go by society's standards. And now, they're making us believe that even total losers get attached."

"They're just some damned comics. Plus, who says that losers can't get attached? Literature is based on real life. And in real life, even losers get hitched cos losers have their own strong points."

Sam eyed Elijah, who was still running through the lyrics. Just what else is there to this guy? He's already proven to us that he pilots with his gut instinct; his fiery nature has often bought us more time as the enemy is busy reacting to his seemingly random attack patterns; his reaction times trump any one of ours; his ability to multi-task efficiently means that his mind is still working behind that facade of normality.

"You're probably thinking about how much a loser you are, about how you've been single all this while, about how you don't think a relationship will come into your life anytime soon." Elijah's observation was pointed, but Sam had to admit that it was on the mark.

"You're not a loser, Sam. You only think that you are. And I know you well enough to know that you'll start giving points on areas that you're not good in. And you'll compare yourself against me, against how I perform in my Enforcer. But know this: despite your indecisive nature, your conservative estimates on everything, your "play safe and provide supporting fire" role out there during battles, there are some things you'll always be better at.

"But you won't, cos it appears that you think this girl only looks at that one aspect of you. And you keep comparing yourself to me cos you know that we're both out to dazzle her. But what if she doesn't want to be dazzled, Sam?"

Sam swallowed hard. How did he get to that? Was it apparent how I've always compared myself to him just to prove my worth to Jayne? Is there really some other area Jayne is looking out for?

Sam needed to think. He reached for the e paper and called up the latest BattleRecorder reports. Analysing them was the only thing he was confident in. -Jimmy

Navigating the Great Blue Yonder

And so the term break disappears behind me, the future screams towards me at an accelerating rate and the present is really just a haze, like a watercolour painting which has water accidently spilled on it, or like a really bad day with a PSI of 150.

Of course, this phenomenon isn't just restricted to any particular event like the term break. There's always this feeling of anticipation, trepidation when you see an upcoming event approach your horizon. You enjoy yourself, you tire yourself out, you find yourself being disappointed with some of the activities. And then it's over. You look back, and it's a blur; like you are travelling forward, but the events don't move back relative to you, they just clump together behind you, caught in some turbulent maelstorm, between the forces of new experiences and old memories.

Everyone would try to shift their feet against the rudder pedals, to bring certain events into their respective horizons. Some steer based on a pre-flight detailed plan. Others taste the wind and steer where their gut feeling tells them to go. Yet others have a vague idea on certain landmarks they want to see, and try to get there based on vague directions they gather from vague sources.

Sometimes, these flyers happen to head towards the same target area, aiming to achieve the same objective. They then begin to fly in squadron level; the sure leading the unsure, the unconfident flying in support position, the leaders attempting to find the best route towards the common target area.

Fortune favours the bold, or the well prepared. When flying over the target area, these are the people who stay calm under heavy flak. And the sorry sods who fly through this flak with only the vaguest idea of where they are and what they're doing end up being overwhelmed by all the action around them that they might end up spilling tears over their stick, rudders and throttle.
And amongst the bold and the well prepared are a special breed of pilots: the guardian angels. Seeing a fellow pilot crying at the controls, these people play supportive roles, weaving around the formation, drawing the flak gunners' attention on themselves, scattering enemy interceptors with cannon bursts, flying beside the nervous wreck and talking him out of his rut. The squadron achieves its objectives, they break formation and head towards new personal targets. Some of them may meet up later on as part of another squadron.

The guardian angels also fly their own way, helping other nervous wrecks over some other target area. They fly on tirelessly, making sure that other pilots live to fight another day. The world needs more guardian angels. -Jimmy

The Elusive Music Box

-Jimmy