Desmond and the Perpetual Tick-Tock.

It's not a lament of my aging existence on this bright blue-green marble... but really, time flies.

Put aside those 21 years that tick-tock perpetually in my mind's ear, nagging about how old I'm getting. Put that all aside, and just consider that my holidays are ending. (It pains me to even type it out.)

I still have a lot unaccomplished... a lot I wished I'd done, but my consolation is that the holidays have yet to end. And till then, I have the chance to make up for lost time.

Although, I must also say this: I hardly think I've wasted and squandered my holidays away. It has just been spent in a way contrary to what I had imagined it to be. Just because a different purpose has been fulfilled, hardly subtracts from fruitfulness.

(This individual knows it is a premature end to the entry, but he insists on stopping now. Because denial is the cheapest plastic surgery, ever. And if you never look into the mirror, you'll never see yourself age.)

Desmond and the No Show.

And so the historic moment passes. No sun to watch, no neck to strain, no eye to blind. Just rain and grey clouds. And cold air that calls for warm sweater.

The morning couldn't have been more perfect.

Nothing beats waking up to rainy weather. Nothing. Not even 500year-cycle solar eclipses. Plus, I got to wear real layers on our Sunny Island.

Yes, sweaters count.

Desmond and the Strained Neck.

I've been searching for a link to an official news article, but it seems that that's impossible. Regardless, (or really, 'linkless'), I will say this: Between 840 to 940am tomorrow, 22nd July, a solar eclipse will occur in our Sunny Island Skies. (Edit: Article here.)

Well, a partial one at least.

I'm not sure if we'd be able to see much, but I have a hunch I'd be up anyways. A man, crazy to the uninformed, straining his neck, staring into the sky.

It could be fun!

CAUTION: NEVER, EVER, LOOK DIRECTLY AT THE SUN. WORSE STILL, NOT THROUGH YOUR CAMERA LENS, VIEWFINDER, OR ANY OTHER MAGNIFYING DEVICE. YOU COULD GO BLIND.

(This individual gets his infomation from reliable sources. Honestly, he does! He read it online a while back, and heard about it again today. Although, this individual also bears no responsibility for the waste of a good sleep-in, should there be no partial-eclipse. Awaken at your own risk.)

Desmond and The Cheering Room.

The pillow beckons, and the room around you cheers in agreement. Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!

You are smitten, taken in. So you pull a willingly blanket over yourself, all snuggled up. Then, half a minute into gorgeous sleep, you beg for the fan to shut it, because his constant shrilling sends shivers down your spine.

But once that's over, you fall into deep slumber, as image after image nudges you into a sleep that's deeper still. Cradled in fantastical dreams of flying. Rockabye rockaboo... Until you jolt up, shivering again.

The blanket's off.

But best to sleep on.
Because sleep is key.

Desmond & The Fresh Dosage.

Ever so often, one is faced with the prospects of a better life.
Ever so often, one is presented with alternatives to existing lifestyle.

Ever so often, one is forced to remember his dreams and fantasies, then watch as they take off with someone else on some runway. And he's left behind, as if he missed his flight. Where's my passport? Shoot! My ticket! I should have checked, I should have packed... It should have been, could have been...

I've got a fresh dosage of wanderlust.

And considering that on any given day, I already have so much wanderlust, I think it's perfectly safe to say that I'm at a new wander-high. What the heck, I am wander-highest.

- For now.

Desmond & the Westlife Call.

I love British & Irish Boybands. I played some Westlife tonight, because when Westlife-Craving knocks, you always answer.

man, i am so tired. it's so tempting to give up.

Desmond and Worm Journalism.

It is nearly 6am, and having just woken from what must have been the world's sorriest excuse for Sleep, I am awake.

It is as it sounds -- World, I am awake.

And while Awoken Workers work, and Awoken Birds catch worms... somewhere on (in) this earth, Awoken Worms curse their sorry excuse for an early morn' walk. The irony? While the massacre happens, Awoken Bloggers make light of dying worms. We are Worm Journalists: Morbid, Cruel, and Awake.

I'm certain I will pay for this predawn musings later in the day, but I have given in to sleepless-ness. The sheep is counted and the milk is drunk, but the mind still wanders.

Maybe writing is the lullaby of the mind. For Worm Journalists, Writing is Counting Sheep. Writing is methodical. Who dies? Where? From What? How? Why? Why, why, why in the world, am I awake.

My writing is done. My mind is tired.
And I quit.

(But really, the resignation is necessary. This individual has been leeching wifi for almost an hour now. He requests that you look at his Morbidity, Cruelty and general Awake-ness, instead of judging him for leeching. Journalism is tough.)

Desmond and Michael Owen.

Michael Owen is joining United?!?

Of all clubs!

I have a usual disregard for all news sports, meaning that portion of the papers is moot to me. But Michael Owen is one of those very few football players I know, since the 98' World Cup. He and Alan Shearer were the first players I knew, and liked.

I don't have a clue about his playing now. To be quite frank, I don't care either. It's just that Shearer and Owen remind me of a younger-me. With younger-take on younger-world.

Owen was just 18 when he played in the World Cup! Watching him then, I used to think 18 was old. And when 18 finally came, it passed by so quickly, I didn't realise I was already 19.

The United fans might have an adverse reaction to this addition, but for me, I will always remember him as England's youngest player in the World Cup (at that time). He was good. And I liked him then. Even his sickly days will not discredit him in my memory.

At least, not until the next I see him play (for the meh team). But if my disregard for sports holds, that might be never.

Desmond and the Flickrish.

I like hanging out at Flickr. It's a hobby that on most days is obsessive. I sometimes spend hours just photo-surfing.

But it's more than looking at that one picture. I love scrolling through someone's photostream. (That would be Flickrish for 'album'). It says a lot. I learn a lot about some stranger who's willing to share little tidbits of his/her life with me. And I'm not obliged to react.

It's a window into a different view of the world. Often, it's crazy and wacky. And it does not overwhelm you. They accompany their photos with clever lines, which is always a welcome in my book. Like "Can't believe Pluto has been downgraded! My faith in science has gone. (must do religious backflip)". Or "Even after all the cosmetic surgery, Molly couldn't change the fact that inside she was still an awkward primate. And, "Before the cleaning lady comes to make my bed... man I'm spoilt. Thanks Tourism Queensland."

All that said, I have to admit this has got to be the longest I've worked on an entry. I've been feeling a great desire to write, but I've just about run dry discussing my love for rainy weather. Not that that's a written agreement to never blog about it again, because it is my blog.

I know this entry reads jump-ily, but I've typed each part in blotches of concentration. Yes, that will be my official excuse. And I want to go on rambling randomly. Really, I do. But all good things must come to an end.

And if even good things end, then nonsense should too.

-Dear me, am I tired.

Desmond and The City of Black & White.

Whoopee! Mat Kearney's sophomore album is out!
(And in my opinion, better than his first!)

Changing my playlist to this, since playlist has the entire album.
And because I can.

Desmond and the Cold Tap-water.

Weather-wise, Today has been splendid.

The morning started off with a rain shower that did two things for me. First off, the soft sound of rain falling on the ground, gently nudged me awake. Second, that very same splishing, splashing, rain-is-falling, cradled my consciousness into a state of indecision -- "back to precious sleep, or get up to a beautifully cold morning?"

My said-Consciousness finally settled for "laze in bed half-awake". I agreed, of course.

The cold morning carried on to a cold afternoon which, considering the recent spate of oven-weather, I welcomed with opened arms.

I love waking up to cold mornings. And snuggling under my oft-unused-blanket. And turning the tap to find cool water drenching my hands. Rainy days like today do these for me.

Even now, 60 ticks to midnight, the roads outside are covered in a sheet of fallen-rain, reflecting the warm orange glows of the street lamps.

I love these sights.
I love rainy days.

Desmond and gRoss.

Of all the Friends, Ross is my least favourite by a far mile.
Enough to want to blog about it.

Desmond and Other-Him.

It is the bustle removed from the room. The TV droning no more. The sink always unfilled, uncluttered. The water boiled a day ago still sitting unfinished in the jug. The claustrophobia breathing down on you expelled. Make space for Space.

You are silent for the most of the day, because being alone dismisses the need to talk. Until you realise you should talk, even if out loud to other-You. So you begin a necessary self-monologue, the starting of which startles you -- "has my voice always been so low and muffled?"

Therein lies the necessity of talking: because I need me to sound like me. I need my voice opened, not closed. Posture straight, chest out, deep breaths. Chest out (again). Resonating the things already known to myself out of my head, through my head. Am I more supported now? Maybe.

Maybe support is not as pressing as the need to remember voices. To clear your head. So we talk, of bustling rooms and jugs half-full. Of blackened TVs and empty sinks. And of Claustrophobia as a man. We talk to empty our heads.

Or maybe, we talk to our empty heads.
Shush, other-Me.

Desmond and the Modified Ice Cream.

(Click to view video: How Smelly is the Durian?)

Durian season is back in town, and so demands the arising of the Pro and Non-pro-durian factions.

For the record, I am Pro-durian.

Why? Because I love the durian, and it's creamy goodness. There is a bittersweet taste that lingers after you bite into the soft, tangy, flesh of the yellow drop of heaven. It's like ice cream that has been modified to melt slowly, so that the delight of the durian is prolonged, stimulating every tastebud. That, and because it irritates my friends who hate it.

That said, I have to admit I'm not a fan of the durian's interesting smell. I don't appreciate its funky smell on my fingers, even if I do not think it is as smelly as the video above suggests.

But we must pay the price for the things we love: Smelly fingers, and ten dollars a box.

(You may go out into the highways and the by-ways, into markets and super-markets, to feast on the wonderfully-and-fearfully-made-durian. Afterall, it is the durian season. And while this individual does not hate the smell (prefering to say he is unappreciative of it), you might want to use a spoon or chopsticks, like he has done in the past. Although, he reckons bare-fingers is the way to go.)

When the doctor said, "2 servings of fruit a day," he probably didn't mean the durian.

Desmond and Stupid Game Show Answers.

Suddenly the 1980s seem so much cooler.
Although, 1987 has always been so.

(While it may be so that I embedded the videos, view at your own risk. I take no responsibility for the things you might hear, or the stares you might receive from bewildered family members.)

(Not kidding about the stares. Turn volumn down.)

Desmond and the Sky High Mic.

Along with Carrie Underwood and Melinda Doolittle, Michael Johns shares a special place in a part my brain that's labelled Memorable American Idol Contestants. (Kelly Clarkson doesn't count because I didn't watch the first season.)

"Michael Johns," you say?

"That Australian guy who sang Bohemian Rhapsody? Who got axed on Idol Gives Back? With that quirky-jerky-dancing? Who sticks out his butt, and lifts his mic high into the sky? That Michael Johns?"

YES.

I still think he got prematurely booted out of Idol.

Season 7 of American Idol was crazily fun. With Brooke White's restarts, to David Archuleta's lyric flubs... right up to the disastrous cover of Shout to the Lord, where they colour-coded white, as if Idol night was Laundry night... Season 8 never replicated such insane fun, in my opinion.

(Not like it matters though, because this individual had to strain his brain to remember the names of this year's finalists, Adam Gokey and Kris Lambert. Guess they're just not in my MAIC happy place.)

Desmond and the Overdriven Glands.

I honestly believe in global warming, as I should, with the irrefutable evidence that is the sweltering heat of our Sunny Island.

How I hate that self-declaration, 'Sunny'. As if we don't already have enough sun on a normal "island-day". Seriously, I'd love to apply for citizenship to a country that declares itself Rainy Island.

(This individual believes we should switch off appliances that are not in use for the sake of our sweat glands. His are already in overdrive on a normal-sunny-island-day, and he shivers at the thought of the liquid output that should occur on a global-warmed-sunny-island-day.

And warm shivers should never be.)

Desmond and the Bejeweled Bandrocket.

That's it. Full Bejeweled Blitz BETA Embargo.

Incidentally, as I was looking for bejeweled pictures on the net, somehow forgetting that one page on facebook I have a love-hate relationship with now, I found a woman who sells a bejewel guidebook.

That actually sells.

Yes, I lift my eyebrows in quizzical wonder.

(If you have not jumped on the bandrocket that is Bejeweled Blitz, and want to foolishly do so as this fool has, click the link above. Be forewarned: the only way off the bandrocket is a self-imposed embargo, in less severe cases, and full-on exile from facebook in the worst.)

Desmond and His Merry Land.

(Edit: The video does not work on my laptop, and I am rather disappointed. But I'm going to post this entry anyways, because it's my party and I can cry if I want to. Click here for Danny and Kris' duet performance of Styx's Renegade.)

In my happy little world, where I am happy King of my happy little people, I can understand why I even know this song by Styx. And in my happy reign with my merry making and cherry drinking, I can even accept why I like the song.

But dethrone me, and oh my word... I listen to the weirdiest things.

I haven't been following American Idol as much as I could have, considering the holidays, but when I saw this video, it triggered a Royal Monologue, sans the trumpet players: "

I know this song. Dear me. I know this song. Why do I know this song. Shoot. It was on repeat for awhile. On repeat?! Why in the... how could... No I was... EH. The original was better!"

Taking a line out of Simon's many, I say, "no disrespect to either of them, because they were brilliant," but the original was better.

In any case, it was a mighty good season with Kris, Danny and a few others. And while I will not disclose the results from last night in respect for the ones who have not watched it, I will say this: Kate Perry is weird.

That's that folks, Desmond, out!

Oh what the heck, Desmond, in! IT WAS DANNY! WHY!?

Okey (G)okey, Desmond, out.

Desmond & the Steam Roly-poly.

I woke up this morning feeling strangely like a failure. You know how it's like -- you wake up one morning and your hair rejects all commands to "stay down"; the tube of toothpaste is almost all out, forcing you to take on the role of a steam roller, flattening out whatever little mint-flavoured paste there is left for the toothbrush -- that you've just knocked into the toilet bowl. You can't find a proper shirt to hide the beerbelly, your pants are splotched pink from what you suspect must be your lucky red underwear (which probably isn't red, or lucky, anymore) and OH MY WORD MY HAIR JUST WON'T STAY DOWN!

Well, this morning was something like that, except the rush of negativity hit me before I even got out of bed.

The moment I awoke, I stared into the ceiling wondering why I was feeling frustrated and unaccomplished. It took just a few seconds, and then I realised that I was dreaming about being confined in a guarded semi-abandoned house with secret passages. In the dream, I was about to escape when I met an actress and some guards, and decided to help them open a chute, thereby forgoing my chance to escape.

That was why I felt so frustrated. I didn't get to escape! Some dreams feel so distant and unachieveable.
Must have been all those reports of quarantines in the papers. (That said, I'm glad the situation is getting better.)

Sometimes dreams make for great fun.