Karma Police

Karma.

Most of us have a hazy idea of what it is. And when pressed to provide an explanation for the concept, invariably talk of being reborn as a cockroach if you have been a bad person.

Well, I suppose Karma is a state of Being which is defined by our deeds and actions. Build up sufficiently good Karma and be released from the cycle of Re-birth (Samsara to the more religiously-inclined). Do evil and the bad Karma will see you entrenched in the pain of being born and eventually dying over and over again.

I suppose if the Karma Police ever existed, they would enforce the rules that would determine our next step based on our Karma quotient at the point of death. If you've been a Karma Chameleon ( ok a big dig at Boy George and Culture Club), switching in between deeds of good and evil depending on life's circumstances, has done you no favors. The Karma Police would have a say in whether you have sufficient Merit to be reborn as a someone and not a something.

In this sense, the Karma Police could also be the Bodhisattvas or Monks, sent to patrol our world. Nudging its denizens into a path of righteousness in thought, word and deed. In which case I think a Squad car needs to respond pronto to my cries for help.

Before I really become a Cockcroach.

Boo! Its Valentine's

Happy V-Day!!!

And for a change, since I have been streaming Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman's oh-so-soppy Come What May for the past 2 Valentines, thought some Chris Brown should get the Love Quotient up and groovin' for you guys.

So for all you Lovebirds, whether your Boo is here or faraway, still loving you or want to murder you, is already someone else's Boo or simply a big Boo Boo...

Enjoy!

I need you Boo
I gotta see you Boo
And there's hearts all over the world tonight
Said there's hearts all over the world tonight
I need you Boo
I gotta see you Boo

You Can Call Me Marx

Hello, my name is Max but u can call me Marx.



That's how my Austrian Daddy says it should be pronounced. He's giving me up because he broke his arm while biking. No, I didn't bite him. Although once, while he tied me to his wrist while doing sit-ups, I did try to lunge at that tasty looking jogger who I swear looked like a piece of moving steak. Poor Daddy tore a ligament.

Other then that little mishap, I'm a fit little boy with nice tanned fur and plenty of muscles around my tight, sinewy frame.

I also like running and intimidating stupid humans, who suck their teeth and make funny noises at me, with my set of pearly white fangs.

Today, someone came to see me. I hope he becomes my new Daddy cos I like him. He says he will bring me jogging.

I am a thoroughbred German Boxer. Let me show you how I zoom like a Porsche.

Woof.

The D.C

Statisticians call it Sampling.

You know, randomly picking out a few individuals from a big group and looking out for a particular trait, which, if present in adequate numbers, is deemed to be a representation of the population in question.

I joke that if the Ministry of Community Development, Youth and Sports (this Sports thing is a stupid, Wannabe appendage added on as a conveniently vain after-thought) were to take a particular circle of my friends as a sample of Marital Bliss in sufficiently successful 30-somethings, I think the dear Minister would have his work cut out for him. There are 6 of us. And by some cruel stroke of fate, not divine intervention (but a couple would beg to differ), we are all divorced. Yes, a Divorce Club if you like, the D.C. Not to be confused with the other D.C straddled in between the states of Maryland and Virginia. My D.C wanted to plan a trip to visit D.C. But that was a month ago and I am being really corny.

Its an unspoken support group of sorts. Where thankfully, there is no pitiful reminiscing of the good 'ole times or lots of Wallowing Whisky. OK I take that back. There is some Scotch involved but always in a happy, drunken stupor kinda way. Geddit? Instead, we concentrate on biking, trying to fill our dull Saturday evenings with makan at new places or a night out clubbing and generally try to be there for each other when the going gets, err, lonely.

We are thinking of expanding, since we need 5 more to start a football team. But recognise that that would not be in line with National objectives. We're all for Make-Ups, not Break-Ups. Although we giggle that we have the latter to thank for bringing us together. Oh yes the irony.

And now, one of us is down. Like a fallen platoon mate shot in the foot and who can proceed no more into this Jungle we call Life. It is as if fate has not been sufficiently unkind, so it has to deal another awful deck of cards to the sextet of sorry Poker losers. Just for kicks.

The D.C is sad. But we'll rather be shot ourselves then to leave one of us out there alone with a festering wound.

The Chinook is on its way. We're sure of it.

Ree-bit

How many frogs must I kiss before I meet my Prince, she said.

You've had one too many fugly froggies, I replied. Are all handsome boys bastards?



Yah but its so hard to ditch a cute bastard, the pretty girl puts on a monkey face.

And I give a big Gorilla Grimace.

Feed Me Some Style

Its nearly 6am.

I'm disturbed that a good friend may be down with Cervical Cancer. I totally blew my top at work today with my guys and gals who have been procrastinating with some work I dished out weeks ago. And my back is still irritating the hell out of me because I'm still feeling the pangs when I bend down to pick up weights at the gym.

So what does an angry boy do when he's down? He attempts some online retail therapy only to stumble upon this thing called StyleFeeder.

And I can't really put my finger on it. Its alot like having your own personal shopper reccomend and put everything you crave for into one cool list. Plus it lets you see what other people around the world are looking at and what has tickled their atas, designer bones. Its evil I tell you. Pure temptation.

But its cool. Keeps you up to date with what's rocking the international Shopping Fraternity. And I think I can retire StyleFiles@Unkster because in one little Flash Badge (see below), all my lascivious desires are made known. Many of them, sadly, will remain just that. Desires.

Anyway, since I can't sleep, here's a list of the brands/places/bands/authors that would float my rubber duckie anyday. I'm such a Quack.

Alessi
Banana Republic
Abercrombie & Fitch
U2
Aston Martin
Bose
David Sedaris
Quiksilver
ScubaPro
Adidas
Apple
LandRover
TREK
Paul Theroux
RX8
FCUK
Panerai
IWC
OASIS
Philippe Starck
TAG Heuer
TODS
Ermenegildo Zegna
Macallan
WMF
Nikon
OAKLEY
PRADA
Calvin Klein
Cambodia
MIZUNO
Botegga Veneta
Brooks Brothers'
Alfa Romeo
illy
Timberland
San Francisco
Suunto
Cannondale
Maroon 5
Ferrari
Super Potato
Sapporo
Absolut
Hugo BOSS
Artemide
Georg Jensen
Milan

As if FaceBook isn't enough!

Big Boys Don't Cry

Yup, we all know that.

Sometimes it doesn't take sadness for you to shed a tear or two. Anger, fustration and a sense of helplessness often do the trick.

But big boys don't cry. At least they don't do it for all the world to see.

And its these silent tears that are the hardest to dry off, leaving tracks of wet scars running down the cheeks that were, only awhile ago, flushed with the bitter contempt of boiling blood.

Lager Bugger

Sloshed.
1 pint too many.



Over the past 3 weeks, I've imbibed more than I have in the whole of 2006.
Its in my genes, she says.
I hope not.
Seriously.

Rubber Ducky

Well Ducky here is abit of a voyeur.

Small, yellow and perched in an obscure corner of the bathroom because I don't have a bath tub to float the fella in, he watches me as I shower everyday, since souvenir-ing him from the Conrad Bangkok 4 years ago. Someone's ponytail bands are still around his neck, like a couple of miniature Aloha garlands in cheerful welcome.

Ducky hasn't squeaked in ages.

And just now I nearly tipped him over the window sill with a jet of water from the shower-head. Accidentally of course.



Funny how a little rubber ducky can make you happy and sad at the same time...

Rather stupid.

Key Rebel

Someone asked me in the middle of a meeting today, when she caught sight of my keychain, does it say anything about you? I said Yeah, I AM a rebel.



Uncanny...

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeks!!!

In a little corner of my bathroom...But its not so little this fella...=O

Draw A Puddy Kat

At a course I attended today, we were asked to draw a cat. Out of the blue. Freehand, no thinking, just draw.

We were then 'psychoanalysed' by the details of our drawings. Shan't let the cat out of the bag (no pun intended!) here since I have asked some friends to draw pussies for me to analyse as well =))

Here's my pathetic pussy...



You can tell I got a D for Art in skool =))