Plane of Oneirology

An Insomniacs Journey

2010-09-08T14:10:00.000-07:00

I fear for my sleep,
For tonight I fear that my dreams would haunt me.
I fear for my slumber,
For tonight I fear that my nightmares would find me.

Awake I stay,
Eyelids heavy but unyielding,
Forehead throbbing with anxiety,
And mind heavy with thoughts.

Oneiros find me!
If God indeed placed you in rule of the dreaming!
Have mercy on me!
Let me find shelter in your realm,
The endless green meadows of the dreaming.

From where do I seek comfort?
And where do I find solace?
For my mind is weary,
And in need of rest.

My days are filled with strife,
And every waking moment consumes me alive,
Let me find my rest in the little hours of dream.
Give me an escape,
For I could not face another day.
Not on my own.

My Conversations With the Monster; A Schizoprenic Moment

2010-09-08T13:41:00.000-07:00

Even if I'm no better than a monster,
Don't I too,
Have a right to live?
Don't I too,
Have a right to love?

"No you don't. The monster haunts. The monster is hunted. Wherever you go,"

But don't I deserve a second chance?
Everyone deserves a second chance.
Just one more chance to make it right.
One moment where the clock turns back.
One moment where you make everything right.

"No you don't. The monster lives to be despised."

But I'm not the monster. You are.
We're so different.
I feel things.
I'm weak.
I have not the strength.

"You are me. We are one and the same,"

How could I?
When all I could do is love.
And love wholeheartedly.
And care for the things and people I cherish most.

"But you do not. You are a destroyer. You break what is perfect, just as I do."

I was fragile,
I was emotional,
Perhaps I did not think,
Before I acted.
What have I broken?

"A beautiful budding relationship that was not yours to take,"

To my eternal regret,
I'm afraid I might have,
But I am not evil.
I don't want to be evil.

"Oh yes you are. More than you know. How could you? How would you do it, if you weren't as heartless as I am? The very same evil, the very same destroyer,"

I couldn't.
I was not heartless.
I cared..
Wholeheartedly,
Honestly,
I really cared.
Pray tell me monster,
What is my fate?

"Just as I said. To be hunted. To be despised. To be haunted by the very essence of the things you fear."

My dreams are already haunted,
My nights are already sleepless,
My burdens are heavy,
and the days cast its toil on me,
How can it be worst?

"Your every waking moment will be an eternal nightmare,"

My sleep is taken from me,
I no longer hear her songs in my dreams,
And now I'll cease to find solace in my days.
This I truly cannot bear.

"Bear you must. For it was your choice, it was your decision to destroy what was not yours,"

Then bear it I will,
For it is my responsibility,
My rashness,
My stubborn head,
My inconsiderate actions,
That brought misery into her life.

Yet allow the angel of fate to be merciful to me,
To softened her striking lashes,
To lax her fury,
and ease her punishment.

For even if I'm no better than a monster,
Don't I too,
Have a right to live?
Don't I too,
Have a right to love?

Heartless in Kuala Lumpur

2010-09-08T11:51:00.000-07:00

The street lights are passing me by.
One by one they shift,
almost in a beautiful blur.
The city streets are once again mine,
In the still of the night,
Roaming its curves and winding roads.
Kuala Lumpur is my city,
And you've never seen the beauty of it,
till you've driven her lonely silent roads at night.
Tonight,
My city screams.

And she lectures me on the little details I never fail to miss,
She guides my thoughts to places that count.
"You're all brains and no heart,"
The words my city spoke kept repeating in my mind.
She mouthed it as a matter of fact.

"Fuck you! Everyone tells me that. But if I didn't have a heart, then why do I feel this way?"
Her silence punishes me.
And when she spoke,
she did so in hushed whispers;
"Look in yourself. You'll find the answer."
I'm furious.
"I don't need all your Zen shit! Just spit it out goddamnit!"

Another long silence.
Then she hit me with it,
The whole motherfucking mother load;

"Right now, every little feeling that you may just have.. Every little emotion, your brain is trying to synthesize into words. Words that you alone understand. And even as you're talking to me, and perhaps yes, if you had a heart and its breaking, your mind puts it in perspective and numbs the emotion. Words words words words! That's all you ever are. So choked full of words. Do you find it clever? Does being smart dulls the pain? When was the last time you felt like hugging someone instead of just writing about it? When was the last time you really made an effort to meet someone you miss instead of typing it out in some ridiculous online fetish? When was the last time you actually understood anyone by feeling, instead of theoretically? You don't have a fucking heart because you keep running away. You won't even let it hurt for long enough. You can't feel a god damn thing! People use words as an outlet but to you, its a sick addiction! And you know what? Fuck me huh? Well FUCK YOU!"

And then I was silent.
Either I knew she was right,
Or I couldn't figure out a better comeback.
Both ways sucked.

But my city loved me.
My Toyota roared as if to agree.
And I guess,
Things would not have turned out any other way,
For an asshole like me.

Heartless in the bosom of my city's streets,
Her curves entice me.

Heartless in the warm embrace of my sweet Toyota,
Her mad giggles crack me up.

Heartless in the cancerous grip of Mr. Marlboro,
His curls and twirls of smoke makes me sick.

Just another monster,
Heartless in Kuala Lumpur.

Times Change...

2010-09-08T07:32:00.000-07:00

The times often move by so fast..
I can never seem to catch up.
Things change,
Yet I'm still in a world of my own.
Not knowing how the times have passed me by.

I know I'm old fashioned,
A foolish boy who fell through the cracks,
And ended in the wrong era.
Fish out of water.
Man out of time.

It is this stage in which I perform,
A lifetime of bittersweet drama,
I hope I can make my audience laugh and cry,
Just to give them pleasure in viewing my antics.

An old fashioned fool,
Who thought he could be king.
Oh, how they would laugh!
How I'll brighten their day!

For what is a fine performance,
if not one that stirs emotion?
What use is a fool,
If he does not provide relieve and laughter?
and what is an exciting life,
if there was no bitter humor?

So now.. at the end.
When the curtains close.
The audience begin to leave their seats.
The light softly dims.
I take what I hope to be a graceful bow,
and whatever is left,
of a dignity that I have ruined,
And leave this empty stage in tears of self loathing.

A Little More Grown Up Now

2010-09-06T10:24:00.000-07:00

So its been so many months since I last updated my blog. I guess its not from the lack of material but from my own inability to persevere. I'm making a new resolution to see this through to the end this time. (Yeah, I know I always say that)

Browsing through all the little items I've posted before, it's funny and more than a little overwhelming to see how much my perceptions have changed in the past few months. I no longer hate the Twilight series for one. A very special person saw to that and really changed my mind. Right now I almost enjoy it just because it reminds me of her.

Just a few months back I used to have so much angst, and its a complete turn around considering I am now a real lovey dovey softy with more estrogen than testosterone. It would seem that my mental faculties have redeveloped itself to a season of cheesy script and even cornier lines; but hey, it's a great feeling to be in love.

Don't get me wrong though, I'm still the asshole I used to be. I would still critic the pants of any party or persons making movies without heart or passion. Hollywood still churns out uninspired flicks that destroy the industry with every release. So I guess its up to me to save the day! Well... maybe not right now. But someday I'm gonna be a big movie director you see? Hey, we can hope right?

So yeap! Thats it for tonight! Just a short ass post. Gonna go to bed and catch some shut eye.

Arthur signing off!

On Twilight

2009-12-15T12:12:00.001-08:00

It’s no surprise by now that I find it hard to digest fresh and young material. Almost as though my mental faculties have been aging at an alarming pace all my life; often requiring an extra dose of reality, inspiration, wit and genius to capture my imaginations.

Yes, you read the above right reader. Your eyes do not deceive you. This author has just unabashedly and shamelessly confessed himself to be a genius of sorts; perhaps even admitting to a dash of the savant. Scoff as you may skeptical reader. For the genius is always unappreciated during his time.

So it is with great skepticism that I began following the teen phenomena that is The Twilight Saga. Obviously, like other men of my age, we do it to impress our female counterparts with our studious understanding of the mystic and romance. Life is all about the ladies. And the boys out there better agree with me before I hurl the gay comments. And trust me. I’m one of the best at pinning gay accusations ;)

Of course, do understand that this is not an in depth review of the entire book. Just my personal thoughts on specific plot and writing techniques employed and opinions on its successful appeal to teenage readers.

The book takes off at a rather slow pace. The first 30 pages serve as introductory material to our heroine Bella. This is rather acceptable, considering the fact certain romance novels tend to use a hundred pages to describe its protagonist; right down to every minute detail and repeating trace information with obsessive abandon till it leaves severe burns in the readers head. (Yes I know Ms Delilah has long hair. I know it’s wavy and naturally curled. I know its reddish with a hint of mahogany. I know she doesn’t shave her armpits. And I really don’t care. Can we please move on with the plot?)

Now we know that Bella is a fresh face in the misty town of Forks and is attracting more than a little attention than she would like. Fitting right into the shoes of our new kid on the block, every day in high school turns into new discoveries of love interests and new friends. This plot tool has interestingly been used repeatedly in various manga and japanese high school dramas. New guy/girl comes along. Stirs up interests. Garners the sort of attention that most dreary eyed teenagers would crave. Hmmm.. its even used in games like Persona. So it feels kind of generic and a little clichéd by now. But of course, there’s no need to fix what isn’t broke. As long as it sells right? After all it’s a tried and proven storytelling method.

Next we have the introduction of our male protagonist, Edward. The scene where he sits next to Bella in biology class almost had me giggling. I doubt any guy on earth would have got away pulling off something like that and not be called a freak. He is described as sitting upright and stiff. Fists clenched. Glaring antagonistically at God only knows what. The description brings back vivid memories of the movie adaptation where Robert Pattinson got this SPOT ON. I was half expecting him to lick his lips and swallow saliva while staring. Personally, I would have added the part where Bella gets up, smacks him on the face and calls him a pervert to mirror real life situations. Of course, this whole scene serves as interesting comic relief.

There was this particular excerpt where Stephenie Meyer attempts to describe Bella’s initial affection for Edward.

“It was difficult to believe that I hadn’t just imagined what Edward had said, and the way his eyes had looked. Maybe it was just a very convincing dream that I had confused with reality,” (Page 74)

Okay. I get the picture. Edward is dreamy. I know. Let’s move on okay? That line was so corny. But I guess it’s what the ladies like though. So I can’t complain too much unless I want a pack of angry girls coming at me with sharpened knives threatening to cut me down for being an insensitive male chauvinist.

As I continued reading, I couldn’t help but notice the supposed charm and wit of our resident vampire Edward feels a little too forced. There were moments when the author feels the need to place interesting banter to build a basis for affection between our two lovebirds but it rarely feels witty or smart enough to justify the character of an age’s old vampire. Which really makes Edward feel sort of… Amateurish?

Just a few of the lines Edward sprung that I though wasn’t very smooth and really quite a letdown. But hey, we aren’t smooth all the time either right? Everyone has their moments. So here’s a few:

“Don’t be offended, but you seem to be one of those people who just attract accidents like a magnet. So… try not to fall into the ocean or get RUN OVER or anything, all right?” (Page 109)

“I’m the world’s best predator, aren’t I? Everything about me invites you in — my voice, my face, even my smell.” (Page 263)

“Yes, you are exactly MY BRAND OF HEROIN.” (Page 268)

“And so the lion fell in love with the lamb…” (Page 274)

To those ladies who are offended by this, it’s just my opinion alright? You don’t have to agree with me.

Perhaps my idea of a smooth and charming (but ultimately vulgar and insane) vampire always tends to conjure comparisons to Anne Rice’s Lestat. Here are some of his retorts:

"I'm Gentleman Death in silk and lace, come to put out the candles. The canker in the rose."

"I can't help being a gorgeous fiend. It's just the card I drew."

"Ah, come now. I look like an angel, but I'm not. The old rules of nature encompass many creatures like me. We're beautiful like the diamond-backed snake, or the striped tiger, yet we're merciless killers." (A direct comparison to Edward’s world’s best predator quote. I’m sorry to have liked this one better.)

“Merciful death. How you love your precious guilt.”

So yeah, I believe Lestat may be the vampire with attitude that appeals more to male readers. Infinitely complex and witty.

But anyways, this brief comparison is really of no consequence. I did enjoy reading Twilight. Stephenie Meyer’s narrative provides a simple and relaxing read that doesn’t strain the mind as Anne Rice’s offerings often do with her grotesque depictions.

I guess this post is long enough as it is.

Till the next time then.

Ocean of Eternity

2009-11-23T22:42:00.001-08:00

Once again swept off into the limitless abyss of inspiration. Standing on the precipice of a cliff edge with the wind soaring against my cheeks. Infinite blue over yonder as far as the eye can see steals my breath away. The beginnings of uncreation and reimagined expansion rises like the waves on a wind blasted day hammering itself on the cliff face. Its ferocity cannot be calculated by human numerical systems of velocity or weight. No physic could describe the infinitesimal anger of the rushing wave as it pounds itself relentlessly, folding the water over itself with blinded rage. This is the birthplace of imagination, the source ocean of inspiration. The rise and fall of the tide signals the coming and going of an idea gifted to a random individual on the face of the rock known as Earth.

I question The Dreamer as he looms over my shoulder as to the reason I am here in this plane of indescribable magnitude and beauty. My companion merely grimaces and continues his silent vigil growing ever more sullen as he breathes in the salty tang of the air. Regardless, I already know the answer to a thousand different questions that may seep through my lips. And I know the definite answer to one ever since I was a child.

The Dreamer does not speak.

As I stood there admiring the beauty of the scene, marveling at the thoughts of Man; I feel overwhelmed as to the creator of a place with such gargantuan proportions. I have always believed in a God of Creation. I have believed all my life that such a God exist and He is unchanging. I also believed that He sees all, knows all, was there in the beginning, shall be there at the end, everlasting, never changing, omnipresent, the Alpha, and of course, Omega.

I have also doubted Him from time to time. Often questioning His existence.

Regardless of denial, I believe every Man feels that every so often. It is in our nature to question, to doubt, and to deny what we could not see, hear, smell, taste or touch. Yet, it is also in that same nature to believe. A conflict of ideals. A war raging inside every Man with the brilliance to rival a thousand suns.

Yet here I am, my companion The Dreamer standing beside me. I could not see him in reality, nor could I feel him physically. I could not smell, taste or hear him yet I do believe he is real. And then there was the matter of this place. It could not exist in reality, not without consuming countless Earths. Yet I do believe it is where it is. The only place it could be.

Here. In the Dreaming.

In the dream of The Writer.

No smaller than a twig snapped in eternal forest. A change in perception. Comprehension of surroundings shift into an amalgam of contused and stitched ideas. Patchwork in my thoughts. Pounding at my brain. Feeling the urge to free myself rise and fall in surges of crescendos and the humblest of pianissimos.

Without hesitation I walked. Onwards. Towards the air that is freedom. Going into a sprint now. Ever excited. Each step with so much significance knowing that it is the infinite I seek. Coiled now. Ready for anything. Springs pressed into its hidden tensions unleashed in sudden motion. Leaping into the Ocean of Eternity.

I fell with the sort of grace that puts ballerinas to shame. I could have sworn I grew wings. Falling never felt so composed. The dynamics in my mind calms and unifies as one. The crashing waves no longer seem so strong. Contented in free fall stuck in motion that is frozen through time. I could no more express the feeling than I could comprehend every facet of the universe. Nor do I care to. Vertigo in its full glory. Alfred Hitchcock was wrong.

Wave after wave of pure inspiration calms and soothes the mind. The unending fall lends such an unreal yet beautiful quality that is impossible to deny. The source ocean responds in kind. Despite its anger, the Ocean has always been kind to me. Day after day it lends me its strength. A gentlemen’s gentleman. My prime butler. Old and wise. It shares with me its knowledge. Nurtures me in its understanding.

The Dreamer glides alongside me; as he always does in dreams such as this, to the places where he can no longer logically follow. He cracks a smile through the hardened glare of his expressions and opens his mouth to utter words of no sound. Yet in The Dreaming he is an extension of my mental faculties. The illogical personified and made manifest. My guide and eternal companion to this otherworldly realm.

And he tells me the stories.

Just like so many other nights.

He tells me that here in the ocean renders the beginnings of all magic. The source of all mystic left in the world. An entire universe of magic to be harvested with barely enough hosts to contain its ebb and flow. Magic is best left to its own devices. To be forever silent and alone with its secrets. Hush. In the unspoken techniques of the eternal. To know is to ruin the beauty and luster of magic. Therein magic resides. Deeply folded in its privacy. Forever in bed with secrecy.

He tells me that countless writers of old have dashed their feet on the jagged rocks below in search of inspiration. He tells me the Shakespeares have come and gone. Yeats has come and gone. I didn’t need him to tell me I’m soaring. To view the full splendor of it all.

“Count yourself blessed then,”

Of course I would.

If at anytime I believed a God existed, it would be now.

My Visit To The Dreaming

2009-11-23T09:03:00.000-08:00

Blitzing in the space between dreams. Phasing in and phasing out. Like a walk between different planes of existence so foreign yet familiar at the same time. Sky is almost blue overhead yet not quite the same. Dark hues and shades of monotone sephia tinted againts a milky canvas.

My figure drawn chalk-like with graphite in quick etched routine. Every movement an accentuated blur with skin peeling off the sides almost flying. Closest description comes to mind; a table cloth pulled without warning from its place with silver cutlery and glass steady and unmoving left to their own solitary peace.

I ponder if the birds flying overhead find comfort in the company of each other where people rarely do. A singularity of existence that becomes you. Closer to each other we ignite a Hedgehog Dilemma that often pulls us apart instinctively as effectively as pain sensors would on nerve endings when you hold out your hand against naked flame.

I ponder if man should fly or be left to stare at the sky and ponder the flight of birds. I ponder if men should be left to ponder on the subject of flight. I ponder if I should be pondering about the idea that man should fly. I begin to question my sanity in this strange and ever shifting realm as I further ponder on the validity of my questions and even ponder the anchorage of my sanity to begin with.

Is a man truly sane if he has question to doubt his sanity? I've heard that the truly insane has the firm belief that they are indeed and ultimately: sane. But perhaps that is where the Dreaming begins. A subconscious presence that lurks in the mind and presents itself in unimaginable flavors fantastic and flowing where the mere tongue could not even begin to taste and the full spectrum of human 5 senses can hardly begin to identify.

Perhaps I shall speak to the sky and merely ask for the gift of flight. To be blessed with altitude and loved by the wind. Soaring with freedom through the fluff of clouds soft and white. To close my eyes and enjoy the full freedom of the sky. To no longer be subjected to the gravity of the cold and hard pavement on my face. Bruising when allowed the chance to play its turn.

Yes. That, I shall ask.

Yes. Was the answer.

Perhaps you believe a man can fly? I certainly did. And I was loved by the wind. Soaring against clouds. Racing the birds. Daring them to go faster, glide lower. I would have put David Copperfield to shame.

I flew.

And I fell.

Back to the dreary mundane gravity of every living.

Did you believe a man could fly?

I certainly did.

And I still do.

Alone Again, Naturally

2009-11-04T20:36:00.000-08:00

In a little while from now,

If I'm not feeling any less sour,

I promise myself to treat myself and visit a nearby tower,

Climbing to the top,

Would throw myself off,

In an effort to make it clear to whomever what its like when you're shattered,

Left standing in the lurch,

By the church with people saying,

My God thats tough she stood him up,

No point in us remaining.

We may as well go home,

As I did on my own.

Alone Again.

Naturally.

To think that only yesterday,

I was cheerful bright and gay,

Looking forward to,

who wouldnt do,

the role I was about to play,

and as if to knock me down,

reality came around,

And without so much as a mere touch,

cut me into little pieces,

Leaving me to start with a heart so badly broken,

despite encouragement from her,

No word were ever spoken

In my hour of need,

I truly am indeed,

Alone Again.

Naturally.

Madness Equates To Excessive Thoughts Messing Up The Membrane

2009-10-29T11:08:00.000-07:00

Random appearance of tight enclosive spaces conjuring images of the dark nothingness that engulfs each and every living thing on this planet no matter how tiny regardless of species as carbon reduction has hopes quashed in a helpless struggle to save a fair bit of intellectual cancer from passively spreading like an insignificant parasite killing indiscriminately all in its wake till the dawn of armageddon unleashes its mighty hellish stranglehold upon dreamers and false facets spawning from decades upon decades of decadent decaying decompost delivering its flavour of discriminating descent into the unfathomable abyss of a delinquent lone renegade soul on its journey to deliver an undisguised message of hope with much reluctance ensuring the encumbered might of the general populace might stay true to its uncharted course sailing into the dim fog of treacherous waters to drown out the everyday toxicity of an urban living surrounded by ever increasing highrise cocoon forming an over heated ovenbaked concrete jungle which we call everyday life mesmerizing the unidentified life forms as they start to disseminate their spawn like seeds of the pollen left to fly on a cool breezy summers day and their younglings return to haunt us in an exceedingly creeping fashion like curls from puffed ciggarette butts twist and churns its defiling smoke into the surrounding air till we can no longer breath in the presence of such unanimated character that paints a stale rotten picture of the inane stupidity human kind has on offer at the peaks of its depravity and naive desperateness in gaining a sense of false solitude when standing on edge coupled with the need for flimsy achievements gained over a lifetime of turmoil and unending strife for completeness in spirit calling forth nonsensical yin and yang equations which bring forth even more ethical predicaments that never really ring true or apply in the practical side of things we require to keep life going at an acceptable pace so that we may catch our breaths and pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off and carry on again in the process. Peace

They Should Shoot Winnie The Pooh

2009-02-21T11:35:00.002-08:00

So I was just sitting there enjoying a particularly potent brew of intoxicating liquid (Bear Beer; if you need to be specific) when a revelation jumped out and hit me smack dab in the face. The details are simple:

Maybe they should cook Winnie the Pooh.

Okay. So that isn't consistent to the title. but I figured "shoot" is a more dramatic word than "cook". How else was I supposed to catch your attention right? I know that might scare some conservative boy scouts and a couple of kids. But I think its an excellent proposition for global happiness in the long term.

As far as I can tell, Winnie the Pooh happens to be one of the most depressing cartoons I've ever viewed as a kid. Watching it back then, I thought to myself "If this is what life is all about, I'll probably be better off shooting myself."

In every episode, there would be Eeyore who can just make any situation sound completely futile and hopeless. As if that wasn't bad enough, our title character happens to be this obese little bear who sits around and consumes gobfuls of "HUNNY" each day.
(My little nephew just came up to me the other day, smiles all over and told me that they spelled "HUNNY" wrong. But for the life of me, he couldn't possibly think of a proper way to spell it. He just knew it was wrong because his kindy teacher said so. The little cutesy!)

Of course, many may argue with me that Winnie the Pooh teaches about the importance of friendship. And depending on one another. And trusting one another. And bumming around talking as though strung out on ecstasy. Woops! Piglet anyone?

My point is, the kind of friendship portrait in Winnie the Pooh is quite a flimsy fantasy compared to the real thing. You need to work hard for real friendship. You need to strive for better relationships. You have to be willing to give it tons of effort in the first place. And most importantly, if you believe in something close to a religion; you have to entrust your friendships and relationships to a higher power (In my case, that'll be an Almighty God alright?) So don't fret about every little misunderstanding that comes your way. Chill out! And know everything happens for a reason. Probably so that we might be able to learn something from it.

The conclusion is, I guess at the given moment, I really can't help it if the first thought that crosses my mind is that Winnie the Pooh should be brewed into something wondrously enticing and intoxicating (Bear Beer folks!) that probably would make millions of manically depressed executive workhorses mightily happy every evening.
So cheers guys! Drink up and lighten up!

Peace out.

On Movies

2009-02-21T11:35:00.001-08:00

The Academy Awards are coming up.
As the adverts go, it is (apparently) the only day where all the movie goers stay home.

Many among you may beg to differ; but to this one author at least, the above adage holds true. Being and avid follower of the oscars for many a year, I could not recommend it quite enough.

Of course, audiences do argue that the high brow selecting criterion's behind this event regularly come up with "boring" pictures. Well, here's a little bit of fact that you might not want to overlook. ALL the nominated films do turn out to age incredibly well as the years go by. Many of the films go on to be classics that continue to mesmerize film buffs the world over.

Bridge on River Kwai? French Connection? Sting? All movies that just refuse to stay in the past or feel old, but to name a few.

But as all good things go, there can be flaws as well. Certain incredibly well made films have been omitted in the past. (Spartacus; prime example) But that is little reason to tarnish the solid selection that appear at the awards year after year.

As of late, (2000 onwards) there seems to be a rather interesting shift of perspective among the voting panelists. Relatively more mainstream titles have been included in the nominations. Fan favorites such as Lord of the Rings, There Will Be Blood, The Departed and this year's very own Slumdog Millionaire have all threaten to overrun the show.

This author could definitely go on and on about the specifics of each year and practically lead you on a critical review of the nominated films all the way back to Adam. But why be a smart ass and ruin the magic for everyone? I leave you then, with this piece of thought.

If you've never watched an Oscar ceremony in your life thus far, it is quite possible you don't enjoy critiquing films. But know this; that the medium can stand for so much more than mere entertainment. A subtly well made film can mould and shape the thoughts and culture of people the world over. (No exaggeration there. I shit you not.)

So on that rather personally fueled and opinionated note, I leave you in the good faith that you will catch this year's broadcast of the Annual Academy Awards and cultivate a sense of respect towards the grand art of the past century; film.

Trust me on this. Just watch it.

Peace out.

Teen Online Culture (aka "Facebook? What Facebook?!?")

2009-02-21T11:31:00.000-08:00

Right.

So it seems like most of my acquaintances have now secured their personal space on some newfangled networking site called "Facebook"... wink.

Call me a digitally challenged whelp.. but the concept of Facebooking is still relatively foreign in the stagnant world of Arthur. Its amazing to marvel at the pace which online trends emerge and subside. Whats popular.. and whats definitely not.

Back in the old days, it was relatively simple. Dial up with your 56k modem. Hear it ring like a little gerbil in heat. Open up MIRC. Enter a chatroom and ask nonsensical online gibberish such as "ASL please?" hoping to eventually get laid.

Then came windows based text clients. ICQ anyone? Repeat all the above steps. Only more private. And you get the all annoying "uh oh" every time someone decides to bombard you with L337 speak.

Bring on MSN. When the online community suddenly woke up one morning and decided that ICQ was old school. Heads up to the campy avatars and increasingly insane nicknames.

Of course, somewhere in that chronology came Friendster. The massive web trend that coined the phrase "Social Networking Website". Before this, I never really knew that making friends could become such a technical chore.
Nevertheless, the uber popular cyberspace people told us that we will all get laid by adding a ton of beautiful women to our "friends list" whereupon we would sit and stare at them all day long. Of course, this turned out to be a major disappointment for most. Yours truly notwithstanding.

Well, now we have this thing called Facebook. And once again we hear words like "so cool", "More advance", "User Friendly", "Da bomb", "Da thang".....

Da shits.

So yeah, why not give it a try? What have I got to lose? Hello everyone. My name is Arthur... And I'm new to Facebook. Nice to meet you. :-D