On apologies, politics...and imperial censorship

January 29th 2004, the day that will go down in infamy. The Empress turns down an imperial invitation to a feast in the royal court, resulting in a bitter argument, an insane warpath a and public declaration of emergency by the Prime Minister. The judge from the supreme court is immediately called back from vacation to preside over the matter. He shakes his head in disbelief, yet again when he sees the name of the accused-the royal jester, once intern, fake eunuch, and world class limerick poet. With the beating of the drums and the arrival of the guards of execution, Justice How reluctanly summons the chain bound jester to the stand. The Prime minister, the most important witness and biggest defender of eunuch rights, clears his throat and whispers into his ear, and his eyes widened in shock. The jester has taken vacation. Yes people of the empire, there won't be jokes, transexual stories and public humiliations of the Turbo prince! He left this picture, and of course a note for all the fans that read his bamboo sticks. He will be sadly missed, won't he?

To the majesty, the emperor, her majesty the empress and all the loyal subjects,

It is with deepest regret that I have hidden the original copies of bamboo sticks recently published. Much of the work has been banned and burned, to protect the interests of the royal family, but much has ensued since my prominent rise to riches and fame. Thus after much deliberation with my mentor the prime minister, I will be on sabbatical leave until this disaster subsides. For cultural posterity, all content inscribed on the last five bamboo sticks and prehistoric turtle shells and dragon bones have been brought to a safe place by my servants, if there are any. Also, rest assured that any attempts by the Vanguard or the Emperor himself to demand the release of these things will be met by fierce resistance by the Eunuch's chamber. The court of justice will inevitably demand another referendum for censorship, but I know deep in my heart that the supreme judge and myself have forged a good bond over my last few terms in office, and I believe that deep inside he would want the humor and gore to blossom for as long as the kingdom endures. Thus, all citizens of the Ming nation, yes, you who are poorly fed, jobless, or need government support for the top dynastic scholar. Do not grief at my retirement, for it is only for a while, a few days the most. I have been grateful to your support and encouragement all these years, especially during my anarchy campaign. The motion pitures of the flower monk will nevertheless continue under the directorship of the PM, and I promise more fun, more jokes and more castration when I return next season.

With laughter, in cambodia, and a pretty red toe,
The royal Jester

Simple Plan- No Pads, No helmets...Just Balls

Ok fine, yours truly isn't a fan of the punkish guitar-infused rock that weakling pubescents and rock star wannabies adore in this present generation. However to do these five dorks justice, every piece of lyric written fits my social, economic and emotional status to the core. Listeners get a good raw, untainted, honest -to goodness decent serving of teen angst and hangovers in all 12 tracks. Cashing on the past glories of their predecessors like blink-182 and sum41, Simple Plan's debut album, which was released in '02, was awarded the "Fav Canadian Group" for the 2003 much music video awards. Accompanied with screaming guitar vibes and, spitfire drum backups, their music makes good contenders for the epitome of young, reckless rock myths, who are locked in a never ending struggle with girlfriends, parents, and dull lifestyles. Call it the Great Happening if you want, but nevertheles, with such an outfit staying true to their American punk-pop traditions topped up with non-compromising declarations of independence and forsaken love, its no surprise that much of their tracks in the album have made it to the soundtracks of teen flicks. So at present, with all the trends heading in the minimalistic driection, its good to remind ourselves that music has taken a turn for the Zen approach too. Without a doubt, a little simplicity goes a long way in making the peace.

An Afternoon Dream

I consumed a plate a glutinous rice, and the fullness of a bloated stomach caused me to fall asleep.

I dreamt that I was reunited with all my friends, past and present ,in a large fastfood restaurant.

I walked from table to table, smiling and acknowledging as many as I could remember.

I shook their hands and embraced them, and the tears just kept flowing.

It did not matter one bit to them, they just kept smiling at me.

The objectivity of Bias

Last night, two of my friends came to the consensus that I was a biased person, and I went home feeling rather vexed about such a direct comment. The question that came to mind was, " So yeah I'm biased, I have opinions, but does that account for weakness? A glaring character flaw?" Or do those intellectual undergraduate friends of mine not understand the implications and impact of such a trait?

Bias, can simply be equated with prejudice or the passing of judgment without evidence. Now, on following such a train of thought, one would definitely be inclined to think of an accusation based on lies. Now, what if the truth, or the obvious reality of matter, invokes strong emotions, such that harsh words are issued during the discourse, hurting someone's dignity in the process. Is "biased'" thus the correct term to use against the one who harbors a significant opinion?

Truth has various interpretations, although limited by the confines natural laws. If such a concept were non-existent, there wouldn't be Democrats or Republicans, Fascists or Communists, Christians or Moslems. Even understanding embodies so much differences, both ends of an ideological spectrum can be so extremely polarized, what more a simple opinion on a friend made through years of careful observation and thought? In any relationship, the longer you are with someone, the more flaws you see in that person, and flaws are identified when they come into conflict with the principles advocated, the inherent view of right and wrong.

History is significant bceause of human being's potential and ability to initiate change idependent of the environment. But is change the result of the acceptance of present circumstances, or the intolerance of it? If humanity was so easily satisfied, we would not have achieved our present level of technological advancement or self understanding. Turning the other side of the coin, self-destruction has negated the repurcussions change has played in our lives. I would like to see the phenomenom as a neutral, ambivalent entity. However, its profound significance can never be ignored.

In dealing with human relationships, there is a natural inclination for both parties to displays a degree of denial whenever a fault, or blind spot is identified. the underlying principle is always similar, but the reactions very according to temperanment. Some people start ranting in bitter diatribes, churning up dubious excuses for their actions, while others remain silent and wait for the write moment pose the most potent, venomous question, " what about yourself?" The latter thus induces a reveral of roles, they become the victim, while the one who so wisely knows and attempts to fix the problem becomes nothing better than a cold blooded murderer.

Familiarity breeds contempt, it also reduces credibility. Time only proves how imperfect we all are and how the simplest actions can be exacerbated into homicidal turn-offs. So must it take a rock bottom crisis to brings us to our senses and finally admit that the things said by our friends were all true? I do hope I won't fall prey to such a breakdown.

Looking for Wendy

Every time he thinks about her, all he ever wanted was to go back in time to tell her just how much she meant to him. But he can't, because time erodes all memory and the foolish things he told her as a child can never be erased, no matter how much he tries.

He was an outcast, a boy isolated by mass paranoia. No one bothered to talk to him, they thought he was a crazy maniac, and they despised him. The words he said became filth to their ears. He tried to befriend them, but it only made them detest him more. He was beaten, spat upon, yet he did not fight back, because they were too strong for him. At home, things were not any better, his father was a crazy preacher and his mother quietly buried all her sorrows. The boy became withdrawn, and wherever he went, he kept to himself, afraid to face the world that refused to give him a chance.

Every night he prayed, and he cried for someone to listen to him, to be his friend.

Her best friend was Wendy. Everyday during recess, she walked into his classroom, to look for her. Whenever she could not find Wendy, she would ask him, the lonely boy sitting on the corner, of her friend's whereabouts. They wondered why she should ask him such a simple question, or even smile at him. She didn't care, she knew she could trust him, and he would never lie to her. Sometimes, she would tease him about Wendy, thinking that he had a crush on her. He was only thirteen, he had a vague idea what that kind of feeling was all about.

One year later, she came to ask him the same question. They were attending class together, and she was waiting for her friend to come.

He was sleepy, and she waved her hands at him, smiling at him in her same childish, innocent way.

"Are you okay?"

Everything else around him faded away. His heart seem to shrink, but it kept beating faster. His eyes were on her face, her round puppy eyes, her slender sharp nose, and her luscious lips. He never imagined she could be so beautiful.

Months passed, and he kept all the feelings inside. He could not bear to tell her, for in their eyes he was an utterly undesirable freak, and he was sure she could never love him. She was his friend, and it made them envy him, for they wanted her for themselves. In public they mocked at him, in private they asked him about her. He had no choice, he wanted them to accept him so much, he had to endure their hypocrisy.

His teacher knew what he was going through, but she never gave up on him. She knew he was a special kid. She made him write, to express his feelings and frustrations all in words, to focus his imagination beyond his own tormented reality. He won a prize in the school competition, beating many others who were brighter than him. They had nothing to lose, but he had everything to gain.

Through those times he grew, and he was blessed with two good friends, a gangster and an artist. He did not mind being their lackey, for they shared weal and woe together. They changed others' perception about him, and that was all that mattered.

He never forgot about her. He did not want to lose her as a friend, but to him she was more than that. He wanted to tell her, but he could not find the guts to express himself, to be there for her whenever she needed him. If he had to choose between love and friendship, he would choose friendship, for it was tangible and real. Love was an empty bottle of trapped ghosts, a road leading to nowhere. He felt helpless, vulnerable, and he was ashamed of revealing it.

One day, she came up to him, and asked him the same question as before.

"Where is Wendy?"

"Is that all you can ever ask me?"

He chided her, and he saw that radiant smile gently fade from her lips, those eyes of hope turning to hurt. He ran away, for he could not bear to see sadness in the face of his love. They never spoke to each other again.

He wanted to find her, but no one knew where she went, even her closest friends do not display her picture. He has taken back and tasted everything society stole from him as a child, and he wants her to know, to be proud of him

It has been six years since he last saw her. He remembers how she walked past him for the last time, and he smelt her hair, the scent of a woman, reminding him of what she was all about, his friend,his first love but most of all, his inspiration.

-the end-