Pet

If I can ever choose a pet, it would have to be menacing. A little fuzzy and unclear in terms of species, but it definitely needs to be unfriendly.

Maybe a Tarkus will do.

You know. That psychedelic, gun-toting, fuzzy, tank-morphed thing from the 1970s. The one that roam around the rainbow-colored vista of Mr. Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s twisted and egocentric little minds?

Time Travel

I’ve always dream of doing time travelling. 

Somewhere in central Europe. Early 1970s. Midwinter. Grey cobble-stone roads. Tacky elevators. Tacky fur coat.

Watching three Britons ‘progsters’ doing a live session, where a Hammond organ gets abused like a mull in a medieval market.    

Time To Kill

What do you do when you have more than enough time to kill? Some might actually try to do that stupid thing called holiday vacation. Others learn how to become couch potatoes. Still some others would actually try to get a side job.

Actual work during your actual day off. What a concept indeed. A concept made necessary by the fact that asshole employers never want to pay you more than what their greedy sense of comfort would allow.   

Someone should definitely go to work on those motherfuckers’ assess someday soon.

Now that’s a worthy gig to do on day offs.

Exhibition

I can never really understand the point of art exhibitions. That is not until I check out the Chapman bros’ delightful exhibitions…Those two gave me lots of wonderful ideas indeed. Particularly with the human-like figures they presented.

Anyway, what is missing for me, on any ‘gratifying’ exhibitions, would be a suitable soundtrack to have a walk through it. The right choice of music and art, surprisingly, can have some sort of soothing effect for this restless mind. 

No, I’m not talking about music presented in the exhibition, but something that one can listen on their own, with an Ipod, or whatever. 

This one has given me great times at exhibitions

俳句

When the Apple Blossoms Bloom in the Windmills of Your Mind, 

I’ll be Your Valentine

Or Perhaps a Gutter Full of Slime

Where Your Throat Shall be Slit In The Presence of None

Come, My Slimy Valentine