:3 *speechless*

Damn awesome.

That's probably the only thing I can say about getting what could be one of the most awesome gifts I ever received this year (maybe even last year, too): a UDF Metal Gear Solid 2 Snake action figure. AKA the Super Smash Bros. Brawl edition Snake (but that's not really important right now).

Other awesome gifts that I got so far include a snip of hair, a scruffy shirt, a scent, a whisper, a promise that I didn't ask for, but was given and became my Heart's Desire anyway...

...this was never meant to degenerate into that kind of post, by the way.

Thank you. That's all I really wanted to say in this post.

:3

Oh dear god no. DO NOT WANT.

You know, the first time I caught a whiff of news concerning a Hollywood production based on Dragonball - yes, the anime that molded a big part of our childhood - I automatically dismissed it as a joke of sorts, without even trying to verify the news. It's nothing. Pigs will fly, et al. Right? Right?

Right?

A few weeks later - right now - I realized that ignoring it was a big mistake, leaving me very much open to the painful fact that yes, Hollywood will rape our childhood.

Mine, at least, the childhood when I bought sheets and sheets of Dragonball Z teks and carefully cut them along the perforations, then stacking them reverently into my stash, the cards waiting to be showed off and traded with most of my classmates. The naive era when I made wallpapers out of several Dragonball posters, with some of them stuck to my ceiling simply because there wasn't any room left on the walls. When it became a religious habit of mine to tune in to Channel 9 every Sunday (6 pm, I think?) to watch the damn show even though I knew that it was yet ANOTHER re-run.

A Hollywood adaptation of Godzilla is okay - that's pretty much a given, since you can just remove the huge retarded ape and put a man in a huge dino suit in its place and the movie will still turn out to be fine. Hollywood ripoffs adaptations of Asian horror movies are also fine, since we all know how most US horror flicks turn out to be uninspired or stale, and the studios need to make some money off some Asian writers and movie makers.

But Dragonball? Jesus. It didn't even register in my head, not even once, that Hollywood has the gall to take something sacred, throw it onto the ground, and let a dozen or so crazed fanboys to splash it with their collective semen. They didn't even have the decency to cast a Japanese or an Asian actor for the main protagonist, who happens to be...yes, Goku. Justin Chatwin? But who am I kidding? We're talking about a Hollywood movie. It just has to be all about a white guy, like Forbidden Kingdom, yeah?

I'm looking at the IMDb entry for the Dragonball movie right now, and my mind is still rejecting the fact that yes, the Dragonball flick is real, dammit, and will be as real as the fact that my neighbor loves to clip his fingernails every morning outside their house, the annoying clip-clip-clip sound his way of greeting me "Good Morning" as I go out to work.

But you say, it's IMD-frigging-b! That's the same stupid website that also lists the Metal Gear Solid movie as an actual project that's currently in production! I know, and I'm taking refuge in that thought. But with the moderate amount of hype surrounding this abomination, I'd say that there will be at least one thing that's going to make me dread the coming of year 2009.

Something good in the midst of all the fantardation.

As someone working in the video game industry, I understand why most console owners are driven to schism; it's common to see Xbots flaming the Wiitards, Sonyfags gloating at the Xbots, so on and so forth. But I never could understand why the flame wars between "factions" had to exist, or rather why the fantardation had to explode to such proportions.

But alas, something good came out from the bowels of the intarwebz; despite the asshattery this certain imageboard is known for (bound by Rules 1 and 2 here), the above image happened.

Come on, Mario and Sonic are already participating in the same Olympics now; several years ago you couldn't imagine them having games in the same console, let alone star in a single game. But hey, who cares, right? Retards will always be retards, after all.

Assorted bag: Bucket, scribbles and half-tones, Cemetry Gates, and moar Yoko Ono.

1. I'm fortunate enough not to get bombarded by fuckwit YM messages, but I found someone in the inner drudgeries along the Information Highway (read: Rules 1 and 2) who can fill the need of inane conversations. Meet Bucket, and this was our conversation a few minutes ago:

Mai: How many fingers do you see, bucket
Bucket: Me bucket is bucket in my head up and stretch his arms outward, she felt his fingers slide under the influence of drugs.
Mai: Influence of drugs does affect the number of fingers that you see
Bucket: All the same, sex and passion is hate. Hate and love do you learn that i need to talk?
Mai: Yes, I know that you need to talk. Also, you need to learn how to count
Bucket: Me is not in need of a circle to its members and does not count.

Meets the required RDA of randomness and asshattery. Judging by our convo, it's also apparent that he can contribute to the required daily allowance of emo, albeit in small amounts. Bucket is made of pure win, only scuttling towards the opposite direction.

2. I was cleaning out my desktop when I found something that brought a smile to my face: Ema Skye drawn in Wind Waker / Phantom Hourglass style:

I really want to have the license to say "Hey, I drew that," but I wasn't the one who came up with the fantastic line art. All I did was apply half-assed half-tone filters, but I think that the colors fit the simplistic sketch, really. But the real reason why this little image puts a smile on my face is that its my first fan-art collaboration with someone, so I'm a bit proud of it, even if all I did was use the goddamn magic wand and the polygonal lasso tools > apply half-tone filter > ??? > PROFIT.

Me. Art. It's been a long while since I dabbled with drawing, my real frustration. I tried, but recently my right hand cramps up whenever I try to draw. I'm not sure if this is a result of me being getting used to the keyboard too much (I lost my feathery handwriting, too), or if this is something psychosomatic.

It's such a shame. I like colors. I like crayons and color pencils; sometimes I find myself wandering to the crayons/watercolor section whenever I'm in bookstore, even if I don't draw anymore these days. Old habits die hard, I suppose, even if you abandoned them several years ago.

But I'll try again, someday. :3

3. I've reverted to my habit of leaving my Winamp on while sleeping. This reminds me of the days when my cousin and I nursed our hurts in my room, reading Murakami novels under the pink light of my lampshade, with The Smiths playing in the background (Laurie, I hope you're okay, boozing your brains out with someone who's going to be your bedfellow for the rest of your life. And you still have my Hello Kitty hankie >:[).

So like old times, I let my Smiths tunes play in the background while I was trying to sleep last night. There was this certain tune that I really didn't connect with before, but has now become my favorite tune du jour. Check out this excerpt, taken from the lyrics:

You say : "'Ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn"
And you claim these words as your own
But I've read well, and I've heard them said
A hundred times (maybe less, maybe more)

If you must write prose/poems
The words you use should be your own
Don't plagiarise or take "on loan"
'Cause there's always someone, somewhere
With a big nose, who knows
And who trips you up and laughs
When you fall

You say : "'Ere long done do does did"
Words which could only be your own
And then produce the text
From whence was ripped
(Some dizzy whore, 1804)

The Smiths, Cemetry Gates

To this day, I'm still thankful for friends who recommend artists and songs to me. Experience has taught me that recommendations from my friends almost always never go wrong. So...I know you're not reading my blog, Rich, but I still thank you for pointing me towards The Smiths years ago. And the Weekend Memoirs rocked too, even if the lyrics didn't make much sense at all.

4. So here's the obligatory Emo That Shouldn't Be post. And no, I didn't save the best for last. Nor is this post emo, but since the person concerned is, let's just say that this particular post is emo by osmosis.

You - as in my friend, 'you'. Not me, not the reader, certainly not my beloved partner, but YOU, that guy who gets trampled on by your love interests and probably gets sexual satisfaction from it...yes, you - probably don't read my blog, so I guess writing this here is okay, and I'll just wish that you wise up even before you get to bump into my blogspace.

Passive-aggressive ways rock.

Anyway, it was good, you know. It was us and our small group of friends, and we were peachy cool. Then you met a Yoko Ono - a person who's an individual equivalent of all failed rallies that never achieve anything but annoy people - and you let the person quite easily into your (and by extension, ours) life, and now our circle of friends broke up.

My beloved, a John Lennon fag in his own right, told me in his usual succinct way about how much he hated the person's namesake for breaking up his favorite band, and branded Yoko Ono as...yes, Yoko Ono, in his utter rage.

You, who turned into an Emo Who Shouldn't Be...you're actually the last person that I'd suspect of turning towards cut cut stab stab tiem. What was once your penchant for spouting out fail-hard attempts at humor and general positive outlook in life now turned into "Woe is me, woe is me" eulogies. It's a bit sick. You deserve better.

But you know what's the saddest thing? You actually seem kind of like it. Well, wherever you are, I hope--no, WE hope--that you're happy. But its your life, and we don't have the right to rrraaaaaage.

This particular post is just my way of telling you - again, despite the fact that you don't read my blog - that we miss you, we miss our old circle.

Untitled, because I can't write shit anymore.

Sometimes, I sit down and try to write something good, something heart-wrenching. I think about trying to get my groove back again; to crack my knuckles and type away like it was one or two years ago, when my head was brimming full of ideas for a snippet, or a full-blown story.

But I can't write anything substantial anymore.

I try to imagine monsters, or maybe a little treachery every now and then, or some amount of intrigue. Maybe a little banter between two good friends who think the world of each other, maybe a granter of wishes who yearns to have a wish of his own.

Maybe a little love, perhaps.

But I couldn't think of anything. I couldn't find it in my heart--

Then I look to the person sitting by my left side to ask for his help, but before I call out to him I suddenly realize the reason why.

I remember him saying something like our own inner demons giving us the will, reason, and impetus to write.

I smile, and hold his hand. It makes sense now.

***

So you met a Yoko Ono. You really, truly deserve better.

No Ryan, I'm not talking to you, you R-R-R-RAAAAAAAAAGE-filled bastard. :3