Gesamtkunstwerk

i was at king's confectionary in the carrefour beside queen's park, buying portugeuse egg tarts. and since it's the weekend before chinese new year there was also the queen mother of all jams - humans and shopping carts queued halfway into the aisles. it's more sien than a traffic jam, becoz u have to stand - doing nothing between inching your feet forward and listening to the banal bullshit from everybody around u. 2 people manned each checkout, 1 cashier and 1 packer, and the sonofagun put the box of my portuguese egg tarts in UPSIDE-DOWN.

i gave him an evil stare, turned my palms upward, and openly, mutely gestured "WHAT THE FUCK" to him, becoz words completely failed me. he noted my disbelief with dull lemming eyes, and went on methodically packing and ignoring me.

much, much worse than the other time when i opened a red/yellow maxim's box, releasing the enticing aroma, and found my chicken pie on top of my egg tart's crumbs. (makes u think of the irony if that was the same chicken's egg... poor chicken got minced up, her egg got beaten into a tart, and even in death she's destined to crush it again. haha.)

it's these kinda scenarios that i like to imagine. and today i heard a novel idea from a girl, who says i supposedly think like that - i.e. this novel idea came forth as she was trying to think like me. either i'm getting old, or she's a latent psychopath. i mean, u wouldn't dream of it, she looks so sweet. she said, rave party on a landmine site. which is, if u think of it, genius. morbid genius. melbourne-shuffling lemmings.

i think it helps to watch a lot of simpsons for this. the premises are ludicrous and lucid, the storytelling simple and succinct, and everything is dedicated to advancing the plot. by the end of a half-hour u'd have had a story - exposition, development, brilliant resolution - with a heaping helping of nonsense, and also a dash of morals.

for the record i've been at arachnid for 4 weeks now, and since been relocated to another desk. this one is smack in front of the functional tv, which makes it hard to work at times. we still watch a lot of american idol, like lemmings around the showcase of "self-delusions". mid-afternoon, the bold & beautiful will prompt a switch to the discovery channel, which also makes it hard to work at times. later at night, the stretch of sit-coms make it harder still.

today i remembered late. 6pm - simpsons. i will not forget again.

he stood in a long corridor. lining the left wall was a row of regal statues. to the right, a file of hideous gargoyles. and having nothing else to do, he walked. and walked. and walked.

the two opposing factions were sizing the other up, and he felt like a lone intruder venturing into the crossfire of a hundred blind gazes. a very real, tangible tension hung over the frozen faces, as if an invisible battle was at the moment, being waged. the cold unblinking eyes peeled him and stripped him and long before the gauntlet ended, he was depleted. and he knew who had won.

he came to two doors. a thought crossed his head and he knew it to be true and the right door opened in automatic motion. his advertising executive passed through, looking smart-casual and suave, still with his impeccably funky hair, shutting the door quickly behind.

"sorta expected to see u here, hahaha!"
"alex...! yeah... yeah, told u we were doomed."
"u said it buddy, u - me, same boat."
"god i feel fuckin, fuckin, terrible."

"yea the Walk does that to u. cigarette?"
"that's the best suggestion u've had in ages."
"yea? be nice. i'm the one taking u through."
"ok, alex. i'll say this one thing nice. i'm glad u're the one here ushering me in. familiar face makes it that much better. and u were always the one saving our asses, making the shit jobs look good."
"now thaaat's what i'm talking about. makes me feel warm inside, me making shit look good, hahah! now looky here."

he angled his cigarette box outward, and it was hollow, but for a single stick turned filter-up. the lucky one, the lucky last.

"it's bad luck, taking someone's last fag."
"awww c'mon, not if i offer it. besides, what more bad luck could u have? and u and me, we go way back. this one ciggy here, is blessed. trust me. it's the Neverending Cigarette."
"Neverending Cigarette..."
"u heard it right, i swear. when life hands u lemons..."
"make lemonade."
"at's right. when life hands u fire, light a fag. tell me u've ever heard of a better door gift to hell."

with a dramatic flourish, he pulled the door wide. fire and brimstone, heat and stench. transparent clouds of cloying petrol, blurring and distorting everything in view. and with not a word more, advertising alex booted him in the rear and he dived.

the door shut. a demon popped up.
"alex, u sick fuck."
"what i do??"
"i thought i was good, making the Neverlit Cigarette. but i gotta hand it to u, that's a better name."
"hey i make shit look good, didn't u hear?"