(Shout out to Dr. Strangelove, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, which in my opinion is the most awesome movie title EVER. That is totally unrelated to this post, as per usual. I apologize: I am evidently a failure at staying on track. I was talking about the Dr. Strangelove movie last night while explaining my very convoluted and evidence-backed dissertation on the central theme of Watchmen to goosey, who is, unfortunately for him, the favoured receptacle for my half-baked ideas on life, the universe and everything. So now I have the movie in my head, because the war room scenes in the Watchmen were just like the war room scenes in Dr. Strangelove, minus crazed character with phantom hand. Also now I am talking about Watchmen again. I apologize again! I have an obsessive personality and inability to STFU! Also I blame this on the book, which I started reading last night. Actually I blame this on a colleague who somehow persuaded me to buy the book during lunch yesterday although I had made up my mind to be patient and wait for a copy from goosey's brother.)
Anyway! This guitar toting hippie sang, specifically, Hotel California and Wonderful Tonight and Belaian Jiwa and a bunch of other old songs of which my faulty memory does not permit recollection. And maybe it's because these were the songs that I used to coerce my father into playing for me on his guitar every night before I went to sleep (I am very capable of making up my own bedtime stories, but am not too proud to request for help on the bedtime song front) when I was young enough to get away with such extravagant coersion, but as soon as he started playing his songs and I got my ikan bakar the night became a little bit balmier and a little bit prettier. It is surprisingly romantic being serenaded by an aging bohemian while eating in an outdoor food court of questionable cleanliness on a sultry KL night with my kind of comfort food, baked fish and rice, in front of you, and a gooselike significant other all to yourself. I very much recommend it.
Must mentally step away now from hybrid happy place of my bed in my bedroom in bungalow in Brunei at 12 years old seeing father's silhouette in doorway holding guitar, and random food court in Uptown with fish and goosey, and return to the excel spreadsheets that are chanting my name in ominous tones.
