Drinks

Goat's milk mango lassi is pretty darn good stuff...yeah...beats milkshakes any day...definitely OK. Luvvit. Fresh coconut juice is just heavenly...slurpy goodness pouring down your gullet...mmm...

Effort

Read the last four paragraphs; the first two are simply mundane chronicles. The last four are a return to my semi-incoherent-quasi-depressive form...

Ah - it's that time of the year again. The steamy tropical afternoon descends upon you as you rouse yourself from the air-conditioned-induced stasis, willing yourself to holler for yet another cool iced coffee. Thirst sated, you recline once again and doze off into an odd slumber, which hovers between a nightmare where you're being chased by ECG waveforms yelling 'ST elevation!' and a lovely dream involving a thrilling, daringly successful mission to rescue the beautiful daughter of the Vatican ambassador...hang on a second...Vatican men are celibate...okay - his beloved orphaned niece, then.

Went along with my uncle to his farm/plantation today; chose to unleash my 'inner oomph' by firing eight rounds (12 gauge shot) from a shotgun - yes, it's confirmed - I'm a cock-eyed freak who aims consistently to the left of the target and can't hit a can at 15 feet. Pathetic - my nine year old (female) cousin did better. Argh. Rather annoyingly some rotten thieves had stolen quite a few ripe mangosteens from the trees...putrid infidels...double argh. Cool comfort finally came as we hacked away at delicious fresh coconuts, squeezing sweet limes into the succulent interiors before draining out the life-force and plastering our hands, lips, faces and shirts with the sweet sappy juice. Simply divine. A stark contrast to the previous half hour of having to inspect farm goats while wearing my Sunday shoes as I tread daintily on slimy goat-muck. Where are boots when you need them?!

If you could do it all over again - what would you do? Terribly sorry for the poorly phrased question - I mean - what would you change if you could? Life is so very full of regrets, which I know only too well. My little 'motto' for the past year has been 'no regrets' and it's soon going to be time to think up a new one on August 20th when I turn 20 - hey! Turning twenty on the twentieth - just noticed - perhaps I ought to have a bash...). The big two-zero...

Anyway - time for a little pause and reflection. 'No regrets' is a bashful yet boastful, simple yet serene little phrase...as I arrived at my uncle's house on Friday afternoon I sat down in front of the piano in a very gloomy, sombre mood; before placing my copy of Beethoven's piano sonata no. 14 in C# minor (You know, the 'Moonlight' one) on the stand I shifted my cousin's sheets aside but the top page caught my glance - the simple title of 'No Regrets' paralysed me for a second that somehow drew itself out into an instantaneous eternity (yeah, yeah, I know it doesn't make sense but I haven't had the chance to use the word 'oxymoron' in ages - oxymoron oxymoron oxymoron!!!). No Regrets - none at all...? Really? No, no, no. I'd be a fool's fool if I was so presumptuous as to declare myself victorious in this ineffable quest.

If anything I've simply become much more impervious to the stinging pain of failure. It's all too evident in the way the roaring fires of rage are used to overheat the cold, mean problem-solving machine in my efforts at countering disappointment. No more tears - the flames evaporate those before they can even quench the parched emotions; instead, the anger burns within - it growls, groans and gnaws away at the self/non-self-inflicted burdens.

So what of the effort - does it help? Does the vainglorious quest to 'never regret anything' mean anything at all? In a sense it succeeds as far as the 'regret' part is concerned - you just slap the word aside and take every event as an unavoidable fact - 'what's done is done and can't be undone!' - iacta alia est - les jeux sont fait - the die is cast! I'm not speaking of a hopeless headlong rush down a path you don't really want to take - just that one feels compelled not to 'look back' but to keep one's eyes on the target ahead, 'for better - or worse.' Then again, the 'no' part isn't quite a resounding success - one breezes into the pits of the unknown, fearful of the consequences of having not done something. You stumble and bumble along until you realise that perhaps all this self-torture isn't worth all you make it seem to be in the grand overall game of averages. You push and push, not wanting to give up - ever. At the end of the day, whether squeezing a stone yields any water isn't up to you; the cliche's a cliche for a spankingly good reason: our call is simply not to question why but rather, just to do - or die.

Spudling says...

"huwlo. i yam jaysonassssssssss broter. Ay hayve deeslexyya. I aym meentally reetarded. pleaas harlp. Theyave lockerds me inn chaynes inn thee baysement."

Unfortunately the paragraph above was written by my slightly overweight, (sober) 15 year-old brother. He's less of a misanthrope than I am but is slightly more capable at first-person-shooter computer games. It's 1.48am right now and we've just had a little session playing 'Dawn of War' (a computer game). He ought to be sleeping but is actually rolling on his queen-sized bed moaning 'I'm hungry, I'm hungry!' despite having had four (rather large) meals today.

In two days we head for the sunny (= parched) lands of tropical Malaysia wherein over-enthusiastic relatives (with whom we aren't really on a first name basis due to the complexities of Chinese naming conventions - but that's another story) dwell in their little cosy habitations amidst the palm trees. There we shall embark on 24-hour rotations of watching DVDs, eating six to seven times a day and spending the remaining hours entertaining our (elderly) grandparents by regaling them with half-baked stories about how much fun it is to study, work, eat healthy (=bland) home-cooked food, save money and do homework. Hurrah.

You know, I thought that this holiday I might actually have the chance to do a couple of interesting things - perhaps before I hit the big 2-0. Alas - alas! I shall be over the hill before even seeing the summit. It pains me. No climbing a mountain and river rafting. No hiking in Slovenia. No escapade to the steppes of outer Mongolia. Argh. They were all on the cards and now I shall be sitting alone playing solitaire.

Hang on - my brother's rolling around again moaning - he wants to play 'CS' which I understand to be either 'Counterstrike' (a computer game) or Cowden Syndrome...poor child. He's started having fits now...I think a little shot of diazepam (valium) might help.

Oh well - it's nearly 2am. I think I should sleep.
Cheerio.

What the young man asked of the wise...and his reply

By Jason Ho
(C) MMV - CMM = CV (hehehe!)

Sir –
Have you a remedy
For this intolerable malady,
An ailment incurable
With symptoms improbable -
Or more likely
Quite, truly, simply,
A sad manifestation
Of morbid infatuation.
It threatens my sanity
With profound depravity
While previous morbidity
Spawns new misery
Which all fecundity
On my part (but not wholly)
Conjures more visions,
Arising not from lesions
But legions of longing
Hoping, trying, yearning,
Yielding naught o’er the years
But tears, jeers and fears.
Is this awful hindrance
A faint passing encumbrance?
Living is dimming
My hopes of winning
The golden prize
That before my eyes
Beckons me nearer
Yet pushes me further
Away from the embrace,
While still seeking the chase.
I am lost and despairing
Of ever fulfilling
This desire so strong
That spurs me to long
For the faintest touch
That would mean so much.

Dear boy –
I know of what you speak,
This inner peace you seem to seek.
Troubled thoughts beguile your heart
Where the ailment seems to start.
Look at the moon tonight –
A calm veneer, bathed in light.
Not from its own!
It shines not alone,
But for the glory of a star
Like those around it but less far
The sun – yes, the sun’s golden gleam
Falls from the night sky’s paler beam
To earth where lunatics pine
With songs of women and wine.
Even a dark night ends, my friend,
As morning’s heralds portend
The chance of a new day
With each golden ray
That shall illumine your mind
For the truth you shall find.
The short answer is this
Doubt not, naught is amiss
For though little Miss
Might not wish to kiss –
You’re better off in solitary
Single, without alimony,
For singlehood’s a pleasure
Unyoked – without a tether!
It’s a foregone conclusion
That, by mutual exclusion,
Bliss and romance
Are best left to chance.
I know that your juvenile,
Hopelessly puerile,
Insatiably febrile love is not facile.
Well, at least you aren’t senile
Like me.

Wireless!

Hip hip, hurrah!
I'm wireless, at long, long last!
We're all wireless! I'm so incredibly pleased...it took quite a while but in the end the simple solution wasn't quite the 'cold hard reboot' pattern I tend to prefer - no, sir - a nice and easy 'reset' does the trick. Oh goody goody goody! So very happy!

I've settled into the ol' summer routine rather quickly...
Swim. Library. Piano. Clearing mail/old books/papers. Attempts to learn fairly useless (for my life, anyway) but rather interesting languages (hieroglyphs this time - Aramaic last summer failed before it began, as did Swahili the year before) - oh, I'm such a pretentious twerp.
Awfully hot weather - a forecast of four or perhaps even five showers (I mean the bathroom kind) to cope with today's heat...lovely, I say.

My heat-addled brain struggles to manage the copious volumes of information I'm trying to process in time for July 8th. Oh yes - the month after that just so happens to be August - birthday month. Hurrah! I'll be turning 20 - this year's motto was 'no regrets' - next year's shall be 'effortless maturity.' Popes have mottos, silly third-year (to be) medical students can have them too...

The EU looks set to collapse. Pity, that. I completely disagree with the French CAP handouts - agricultural pests. I do seem to recall that Britain is a much greater net contributor both in absolute (pound for pound) and percentage of GDP terms....

135 Laos!

I must be the happiest loser alive. Skin of the teeth, as they say. Reprise July 8th...revenge of evil Sith Lord Jason (Darth) Ho as he takes on the goody-two-shoe Jedi foes...
Many thanks to the four lovely supporters who showed up (AJ, Lucy, Linden and Saphira).
Time for Sin City and a fantastic dinner.
I'm so terrifically glad I didn't have the chutzpah to yell out anything stupid like "I love you, Marlene!" in exasperation.

Flying home to Singapore tomorrow - 1830hrs. Somehow, something feels 'unfinished' - I shall find out at the start of next year, I suppose. At least I won't be the only one...it's a two-way thing, this whole business of don't-kiss-don't-tell. You never know when poetic justice decides NOT to slap you in the face and instead of whispering "get lost" chooses instead to tenderly put an arm around your shoulders stooped with desperate loneliness and calmly say "Hey, what's your favourite pancake?" Dream on, you sad shmoe, Jason Ho, dream on!

The sharp end

I've just completed several hours of packing - the final count is 32 - including flute, microwave oven, printer, several bags, several boxes, etc etc etc.
Was reviewing the Queen's Birthday Honours list - who gets which gongs - noted that they've decided to give knighthoods to Iqbal Sacranie and Jonathan Sacks - the Secretary General of the Muslim Council of Great Britain and the Chief Rabbi. Heh - that's the way, Mr Blair. I do recall an article from long ago the mentioned how Britain would never have lost the 13 American colonies if it had made Benjamin Franklin a Fellow of the Royal Society, Thomas Jefferson a knight, George Washington a Lord, etc. The key is to ASSIMILATE 'em. If you can't beat them, join them. If more gongs were given to people who feel 'underprivileged' and discriminated against, they just might feel less inclined to feel that way. Naive, I know - obviously you shouldn't degrade the honours system more than you absolutely have to...and they should definitely make me Lord Privy Seal and give me diplomatic immunity so I can go and shoot people I don't like - I mean, harrass people I do like - I mean - oh shucks.

The mover arrives in twenty minutes.
Lunch with Rashod - after an entire year - ought to be interesting.

Dreams and comments

I've had some rather interesting comments lately - to the dear person who wanted my babies - darling, you flatter me - they're available for auction; please send applications for vetting to:

The Rt. Hon. J. Barot
Physics Department
Westminster School
London

Alright - this is weird. I've been having some rather strange dreams lately - one of them involved somebody I know being hanged at a metro station near my home in Singapore; the previous night's mental escapade had me careening down a motorway (I can't drive) with somebody I know quizzically asking me whether I had any driving experience. Enough!

Movers schmovers...yeah - it's that time of year again. One is faced with the endless delight of boxing and bagging all and sundry for a big (final, hopefully, fingers crossed) move.

I'm going to be in a TV studio next Monday. It should be an interesting encounter with Mr Jeremy Paxman, whom I missed once before. Perhaps he'll go easy on me on account of the 'ickle lad's youth and inexperience'. Dream on, Jason.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet. Bitter, cynical Jason (who tries to hard and falls flat on his face) thinks to himself - perhaps if you dance like a lunatic, pray like a man on death row and facilitate the continual transmission of parabiotic 'happiness' to other people (i.e. hugging and kissing) something good (no, I'm not Hindu so I shan't desecrate the concept of karma) will happen to you...of course you shouldn't expect something in return. Life's just not fair, but (I'm sure I've said this before) it's a game of averages, I suppose. Regression to the mean. Regression to the mean. Regression to the mean. Perhaps we should be mean to the regression - I'm not making sense anymore. Given another half-chance I'd go back and do things differently. Oh, so differently.

The little voice inside my head attempts to (smart-arse) pre-empt any attempts by others to correct me: "Quit whining, you little twit - get on with your packing! Oh yes - make sure you do an internet/'phone check-in and perhaps this time you should think a little harder before you choose to a (left) forward aisle seat at the bulkhead next to a screaming baby. The extra legroom you gain is offset by the bassinet and peripheral baby-gear..."

Days until I climb a mountain and check whether I'm prone to altitude sickness: 44

'bye, Nick

I love pancakes.

Good luck, Sandra.
Yeah, you too.
Nick turned around and saw the red light but decided to cross anyway. 'I fear neither man, nor motorbike,' he thought to himself.
Sandra screamed.
Nick was hit - by a small white van. Kersplatt. Blood-stained pedestrians were aghast at the carnage on the road. 'Ugh' said one.
Sandra fainted.
An ambulance arrived and paramedics loaded him on a stretcher - infusion of fluids was initiated to prevent hypovolaemic shock and organ ischaemia. Upon arrival at the hospital, doctors stabilised Nick's blood pressure - blood loss was approaching 20%.
Serum LFTs were sky-high; Nick would need surgery.
10 days later Nick died from an acute MRSA infection.
No multidisciplinary team was needed. Nobody needed to bother with PEG tubes, NG feeding, haemodialysis for damaged kidneys, physiotherapy for injuries, nutritional supplementation for an acutely ill patient (with occult cancer that would have compounded his little problems).
No, no, no. Nick happened to have TNF-a, IL-1, IL-6, TLR-1,2 and 6 polymorhisms that predisposed to severe septic shock and consequent multiple organ failure. The lovely nurse who greeted him after his operation forgot to wash her hands and plastered Nick's bowel drainage tube with a lovely dose of hand-carried MRSA.
Rest in Peace, Nick.

Now for the comments. "You're sick, Jason." "Shut up." "You need to get a life." "I'm not even going to bother writing- you suck."
RIP, Nick.

IMperfect

Message to the 'person' who enjoys anonymously and surreptitiously posting blithe comments, e.g. 'shut up jason' and 'you are thick':

Unless you just so happen to be one of the few 'friends' I happen to have in this awful world, PISS OFF. Yeah. PISS OFF.
If you do happen to be one of my 'friends' - I'm sure I'd love to get to know you better over a cup of arsenic.

Alternatively, you could tell me who you are...otherwise, PISS OFF.

Jason tries to iron a cat.

Nothing to post. Nothing nothing nothing at all.
Food for thought (okay, it's not really food - it's total parenteral nutrition because it's pretty trivial stuff):
Is Y a vowel? If so, why is Y a vowel?
Why do lawyers earn so much money?
What sound do ferrets make?
Why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut for a while?