The moral of the story is...

I stumbled upon the folk tales section in the library a few days ago. Up till today, I’ve read 2 books from that shelve, and I find the Canadian Inuit folk tales to be completely weird. Now, a normal story, especially a folk tale would carry a moral lesson in it, or at least a story line or something. But these Copper Eskimos, I don’t know, their stories are simply weird!

Take for example, the story of The Deceitful Raven. It is less than a page long and tells of a story of this bird who told the people of a settlement that visitors are coming and they should make way down the foot of the cliff to meet them. So they set out and when they reached the foot of the cliff, they took shelter there. Seeing this, the raven flew to the top of the cliff and when everyone was asleep he jumped and danced and caused an avalanche, burying everyone beneath it. The raven waited in eager anticipation for spring to come and the snow to disappear because he liked to peck out the eyes of the victims. The end.

Yeeeerrr~ Did you just feel a cold gush of wind? Creepy… All the tales are like that. Either kill someone, or take revenge, or no storyline at all. The Ghost Hunter is an example of one that has no purpose. It started off with this guy fearing ghosts, but he ends up living with them, and then the story changes on to his hunting trips, completely abandoning the idea of ghosts in its theme, and finally he disappeared in a bowl of water. Uh…okayyy…

And then there’s this one, Kidnapped by Wolves, talking about two wolves trying to steal a couple’s baby. The male wolf took of his skin and thus looked like a man. He walked over to the couple working in the fields and invited them to dance. Coincidentally, the couple loved dancing so they agreed. The wolf started singing magic chants and soon the couple was under his spell. Seeing their trance-like state, the female wolf sneaked into their house and ran away with the baby. Soon the couple woke up and chased after the wolves. When they found the wolves’ den, they waited till night fall to kill the wolves. When the wolves were asleep they emerged from their hiding place and ‘let their arrows fly’ killing the wolves instantly. But the female wolf had been holding their baby to her chest so (let me quote) “The arrow that pierced her chest killed the child at the same moment.” And that’s it. The end. Whoa. Award winning story. Perhaps this story does have a moral. Never dance when a wolf invites you to.

I have to say, reading what I’m blabbing here, or reading someone’s blog about what he had for dinner yesterday and the rest of the days before that, would definitely have made more sense. So the moral of the story is, don’t live in an igloo if you don’t want you brain to be frozen.

My father never drove a car

I just want to share this story which I got from CY's blog, a story which he got from Kopi. I don't know why but it made my cry. Hmm...I think it's in a sign that I've got some wires in my brain tangled up. I have wires my brain! Perhaps it's because the story meant a lot to the person who wrote it. It mattered to someone.

My father never drove a car

by Michael Gartner

My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car. He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet. "In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."

At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in: "Oh, bull!" she said. "He hit a horse." "Well," my father said, "there was that, too." So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford but we had none.

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My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines, would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.

My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that. But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first.

But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown. It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.

Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother. So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. "Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying once. For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps though they seldom left the city limits and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.

Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.) He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home. If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church He called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."

After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along..If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio.

(In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored."). If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream.

As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?" "I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre. "No left turns," he said. "What?" I asked. "No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic. As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose
your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn."

"What?" I said again "No left turns," he said. "Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights." "You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support. "No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works." But then she added: "Except when your father loses count." I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing. "Loses count?" I asked. "Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again." I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked. "No,"he said. "If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."

My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90. She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102. They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000..(Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom the house had never had one. .My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.) He continued to walk daily. He had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to kee exercising and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.

A happy life. One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.

A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred." At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer." "You're probably right," I said.

"Why would you say that?" he countered, somewhat irritated. "Because you're 102 years old," I said. "Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day. That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night. He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said: "I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet." An hour or so later, he spoke his last words: "I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have."

A short time later, he died. I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life. Or because he quit taking left turns.

Michael Gartner has been editor of newspapers large and small and president of NBC News. In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing.

I pulled the string

I finally pulled the string. You can never guess what happened. Okay I don’t have much time, so I’ll keep it short.

So I went there on Wednesday and went straight to the shelf where the string was hanging down. I looked around, and signaled my friend to keep watch. I grasp the string and with a deep breath, I pulled. Immediately the lights which lighten that particular shelf went out. My friend gave a slight giggle.

“Keep watch, you!” I reminded her.

Then I heard three beeps and the next thing I know, all the lights illuminating each alley went out one by one. Oh no! What did I do!? I pulled the string again but there was no response. The lights continued to go off one by one.

“Neko, someone’s coming!”

I could hear quick footsteps heading our way and I knew we had to bolt there and then. We rushed away from the footsteps and my mind was frantically searching for an excuse to bail us out of the situation if we were ever caught. At the same time I was also blaming everyone for encouraging me to pull the string. Damn you guys!

“Hey you there!” a man’s voice called out.

We froze in out steps. I knew he was referring to us. There wasn’t anyone else there. My friend made sure of that before I pulled the string. I turned around and said the stupidest thing ever.

“I didn’t pull it.”

It’s true. I didn’t pull it. And the friend? She chickened out at the last minute. She didn’t even enter the library with me. At least I did, alone. I went to that floor and searched for that alley with the string. It was then that I noticed every alley had one, only that they threw the string up the shelf so you don’t see it unless you were looking for it, that is. And now that I was looking from a far, I also noticed that next to every triangular cone which the string hung to, were two fluorescent lights. I was pretty sure they were for the lights.

But to turn on the lights by going through each alley isn’t very practical. Surely you’d want to wire them to a common spot. Any smart person would have thought of that, no? At least that’s how they do it in the other library.

I was still doubtful. It wasn’t practical at all. At least not for a lazy person like me. so I thought I’d pull it. But there was a room with glass walls directly overlooking that particular alley and a man was in it. And I hesitated. The next thing I know, I was outside, reminding my friend of her promise to pull it with me, which she broke.

I might still pull it. When there really isn’t anybody around. Well, you should be glad I didn’t because if I did, I’m sure the only scenario that will probably happen is up till where that particular light went out. Then it’d be a boring one-of-the-lights-went-out story, and not the interesting story you just read.

Harry Potter is dead!

“…It seems Rowling, intent on being one step ahead of Christian Poterresque writers, sets Harry up to sacrifice his life--out of love for all the muggles, mudbloods and magic folks alike. He is then to be resurrected and will thus spoil Voldemort's afternoon tea.” – Philos, of the Chickenmafia gang

Joyfulchicken of Chickenmafia announced a decree two days ago. In the spirit of link love (as he puts it) you have to tell everyone that Harry Potter is dead, and the cause of his death.

“Harry Potter is dead! Dead dead dead dead dead! Oh, how tragic! Now cry, damn it, cry!” – Joyfulchicken, of the Chickenmafia gang.

So here goes:

After escaping from her cell, Dolores Umbridge, who felt betrayed by her beloved ministry, turned her disappointment for the ministry into love for Voldemort. In order to win the attention of the one-who-can-now-be-named, Dolores went all out to practice the spell Megatronus Primus, a hybridization of the forbidden transforming spell. After succeeding, she immediately transformed into Cho, Harry Potter’s love interest. We shall now refer to her as DoloCho. However, the spell also transformed Cho, turning her into Dolores. Unfortunately for her, the ministry thought she was Dolores Umbright and threw her into the fat lady’s jail cell.

“Harry! Shall we have lunch later?” DoloCho asked as she ran up to Harry.

“Why, sure,” Harry replied in a rather deep, evil voice. “Why, sure,” he said again, correcting his tone.

“Great, then, see ya baby,” DoloCho said as she pretended to be in delight, thinking that was what Cho would say. Of course she thinks everyone is a flirty bitch except herself, which we all know is not true. Well, at least we know she’s a bitch. I’m not so sure if she can ever be successful in flirting. Puke bag please!

The hair all over Harry’s body stood like Hogwarts’ school anthem was playing.

[Later at lunch]

DoloCho switched one of the chopsticks with a wand and placed it on Harry’s bento. She had prepared sushi for him ala Japanese style, although she is not Japanese. Dolores probably didn’t know that.

“Hie, Cho,” Harry called as he walked up casually to their table.

“Sit down, Harry,” DoloCho ordered him.

“Oh, my! Sushi! My favourite! And they all look so yummy! Aw…Cho…you shouldn’t have…not your native country’s food!” Harry gave her a chorus of flatteries. Harry probably didn’t know she wasn’t Japanese too. Or maybe he didn’t know what sushi is. But he did get one thing right, sushi is yummy. ‘Nuff said.

They both should have taken up Asian studies.

“Well, why don’t we start….,” DoloCho paused. Harry was already eating away. “Wow, you’re good with chopsticks, Harry,” she continued.

“Of course I am, my ex was Indian,” he replied, proudly. Indians use chopsticks? Seriously, do some Asian studies.

“Are you trying to test if I can use the chopsticks?” he asked.

DoloCho smiled.

As Harry reached for a Mayo Kani (Mayo crab), DoloCho interjected.

“Do you know what that’s called? It’s Deprimo*.”

Harry took it between the chopsticks and looking at it, he said, “Deprimo? It’s…” KABOOM! Before he could finish his sentence, he was thrown 10 feet into the air and then all the way down he came, landing with a loud thud. A deep hole penetrated his brain through his eyes. DoloCho looked down at him and his handsome face was no longer handsome. He now looked like DoloCho’s big crush. Yes, Voldemort.

With his index finger pointing at her, he said, “You…you…it’s Mayo Kani! Kani neh*!” His hand fell back and as he took his last breath, he said, “I am Voldermort, the one who must not…”

“Eikkkkkkkkkk!!!” DoloCho shrieked! She realized that she had killed her love. No, she had made him kill himself. Why, of all people, why would my beloved Voldemort be so stupid as to fall for my trick!? She thought, and hands over her head, screaming like a mad woman, she disappeared into the woods.

On the other end of the land, Harry was running about in circles, mumbling, trying to figure out a way to make him look himself again. As you know – if you don’t already know, stupid you – Voldermort also used the Megatronus Primus spell, and Harry had transformed to look like him. Unknown to him, DoloCho’s screams had brought about dark clouds across the sky and… ZAP!!! Lightning had struck Harry, and he dropped flat onto the barren field, with a lighting bolt-shaped scar over his forehead, still looking like Voldemort. Harry is dead.

Footnote: *Kanineh is a foul word in Hokkien. EDIT: And it also means "It's crab, isn't it?" in Japanese.

*Deprimo is a spell that causes an explosion to occur where the wand is directed at.

P.S: I want some sushi. For the record, I had the most sushi this year. And this year is not even over yet. Yay!