Santa is Watching You

While I work on the war diary documenting my travels to the Land in the East, like a shameless commercial popping up just as the hero hangs precariously from a cliff hanging precariously from a cliff, I send you this message with great concern. Pay heed to this warning.

But not to worry! Because in these dire times of need, Santa is watching, and will be there for you. Whatever the place, whenever the time, Santa is always watching.

And so I learnt.

When I arrived in China, I was under the assumption that the regime was over. I was, in fact, correct. The first regime was over. The age of Mao is over. The age of Santa is rising.

It should be noted at this point of time that according to our tour guides, the chinese aren't particular about religion. But instead of turning to Dawkins and his il- like, they have chosen a more Samaritan way of life, or more fittingly, a more RPG way of life: always pray at altars, no matter what they might be.

So in other words, they can be likened to a house wife trying out five different brands of detergent, but never really deciding on one in the end.

This means that they will not hesistate to sing of the birth of Christ in the very same room where sticks are burned in front of tablets with dead people's names writen on them. Subsequently, this led to the same five Christmas songs being blasted at me in the hotel corridors and dining areas for five days continuously.

So perhaps the only thing that could send me into a berseker fury after such an ordeal would be the words:

Hey, Listen!

Pride comes before Fall, and so does Spring

Well, in just a few more days or so I'll be flying over to the land of Tim Sum and... you're going to have to give me a minute or two to figure out what else there is in China.

Well , there's not really much to talk about at this point of time. The orientation 2008 planning sessions have come to a standstill so far (which is ironic because Steph is in charge. No really.), but the possiblity of a meeting tomorrow stills exists as a waveform, and before the waveform collapses, I'm trying my best right now to gather as many people involved so that we can all assemble at school tomorrow and complain about the weather before going home and wondering what we came out for in the first place. Which of course, was for the purpose of coming to school and compla...

Before I hit Ctrl Alt Del, I'm going to announce the possibility of the existence of a waveform that I may document the whole China trip thing, just for the hell of it and because presumably the moment I stop typing, I stop thinking, and you can't get much of a rush from typing qwerty over and over again.

Don't call me. I'll call you. (*sniggers* right...)

Plot vs Themes

A warning to those of you who do not relish the thought of killing Covenant scum and saving the universe at around midnight: You may be the only people who actually bother reading this entry. Amazingly, today you will find that this entry is a discussion. Not just any discussion, but something you don't really find these days: an intellectual discussion (at least, not on youtube).

If you'll pardon me for my excellence in the previous paragraph (alright, i'll try and stop that now), I've just finished reading Douglas Adam's Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, and if you've read the appraisals on one of his books, you'll notice that all of them will indeed contain at least one synonym for "insanity" or "lunacy" and other mean words.

It should probably be noted that Adams' books have sold over eight million copies worldwide (I'm assuming that's worldwide, just to give the other authors face.). And the reason for this, in my humble and unworthy opinion, is the absolutely ludicrous yet brilliant plot that he magically conjures up everytime he writes a book. Whenever some power unknown entity possesses you to pick up one of his books (that was its end of the bargain), when reading it you will tend to go through the following process:

1. Read a few chapters, and find that they hardly have any connection with each other whatsoever.
2. Read the whole book, and nurse the wounds on your face when you finally realize the connections that the events in the first few chapters have with each other, and realize the great plot that Adams' has orchestrated.
3. Marvel at the great plot Adams' has orchestrated.
4. Finish the book and sigh in relief.
5. Read the book again, this time without the marvelling but still with a certain degree of sighing.
6. Marvel again after reading the book again and go online in a valiant attempt to actually understand the whole plot.
7. Marvel again when you find that you enjoyed the book regardless of the fact that you missed at least one major plot element.

Congratulations! Welcome to the Adams family!

But here's the question (yes, after half the entry):
Can Adams' work be considered literature, or just a smashing novel that's fun to read?

In other words, is a novel defined as a good one by its plot elements or by the themes it discusses?

Look, I apologise for this whole thing, and I realize that the holidays are here and you need a good rest from all this literary nonsense, but it should be noted that I'm suffering right now and you're all my friends. Right? (Where's my handgun?)

Anyway, back to the main point... Adams' works don't discuss many themes in detail. Rather, what he does during his novels is bring up a subject, muse about it a little in a very amusing and insightful way (is there anything else I could say, seriously?), then move on to the plot. In the end, what really matters is the smashing plot. But with such grand orchestrated plots, it seems far too unjust to say that Adams' works are not literature because they don't discuss themes into such a great depth like the works of Dickens' and the like.

Comments on the tagboard please.

The Occasional Blockade

It would seem that after what appears to be a writing spree for a week or so I have finally encountered the dreaded and nearly mythical entity that would make the Ring video seem like it was in full color with cheesy Flash effects. It seems to happen to every writer (or anyone who calls himself a writer) where at some point of time they simply can't get any words out as fast as they used to, and even telling people that they used to be able to get out some words faster seems to be a lot more difficult than the last time, whenever that was.

It would seem that I'm getting somewhat of a demo of this whole thing. My whole mind has seemed to be getting foggy somewhat of late, so much that a London weather girl could take one look at my cranium and sink into a deep depression at who anything could possibly outsmog London.


In other words, what I'm really trying to get across here is that my writing may not have been what it used to be, whatever it used to be, and that may or may not be a bad thing or a good thing respectively.

But meanwhile, a pre travelogue.

Knowing me (and if you don't, then well done), most people might already know that I"m flying over to China at popular request of the Japanese. And while all the negotiations and such are going at this time, I'm simply getting ready to fly over, and no cybernetically enhanced super soldier in green armor's going to stop me.

Anyway, not two days ago, I, accompanied by my mother (damn! mixed up the order again), graced a Winnings winter ware wearhouse sale with our presence.

I should probably say that at this point, I was rather charmed by the selection of coats that they had, that is to say, completely gobsmacked and on my knees. And while I could take this opportunity to make an even greater homage to the Queen (I mean, the QUEEN), I'm going to have to describe the coats now, so I have no choice but to move on to the next paragraph and let the QUEEN have this one.

The place could only be described as a coat hangar (yes, with an "a"). And while there were plenty of coats that were actually useful, the ones that I really grew partial to were the trench coats. Well, not so much trench coats as they were the kind that you would wear while trudging through the night streets of London with a smoke that was almost burning out, and with a case on your mind. It was simply beautiful, and would have descended from the heavens if it wasn't for the damn ceiling.

I would, at this point of time, like to say that I had gotten the coat.

While I'm wishing, I'd like a time machine.

And with that, I have nothing more to say on this subject that could possibly pacify anyone (or entertain, if that's what's popular these days), and I therefore must adjourn this session with a few pictures, along with some loose commentary.

Together, we can fight cancer. And fashion.

I'm afraid the Boss isn't in at the moment...

I don't have to tell you what I was doing in the wool socks section. (Yes, the ones for your FEET.)