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Spartacus Blood and Sand

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It is very unfortunate that as I write this blog I realize there will possibly be no Season 2 of Spartacus Blood and Sand. It is, as well, very unfortunate to hear just this month that the star of the show Andy Whitfield was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma. This unwanted tragedy is all but merry for each and every man. Started watching this the day before and as much as I like this new series it is not without error. The pilot episode was one to blame. It was weak, cliched and at moments laughable. The performances were meh. It seemed only a sour reflection of its predecessors, Kubrick's Spartacus, Miller's 300 and HBO's Rome. The premise is not only a la 300 it is almost identical to it. It even has Peter Mensah, also known as Mr. "This is madness!". The fight scenes are fun and awesome but the gore makes you laugh which isn't really that much of a deal depending on your perception. But towards the latter episodes everything seemed to bear fruition to eff...
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Longstanding fascination with haiku

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I have always been an avid haiku enthusiast. Haiku is fun because of its non-complex set of rules. It is possible to create one in just a minute. It's good for wordplaying and mind exercise, making you count a lot with your fingers the 5, 7, 5 syllables. If only I could have spoken Japanese it would have been much, much nicer. Since, well, haiku originated from Japan. I try my best to inflict haiku pain upon the world as much as I could starting with forums and social networking sites such as my status box in Facebook. The results are at times hilarious and most people would find it extremely annoying but at the very least I get to enjoy what I do. People have yet to complain. Perhaps soon but until then I'll be showering the blissful ignorance of some people with this haiku: C to Z lazy That is undoubtedly me I adore haiku
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Verboten

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Her disguised eyes spoke to me infidelities, simply a warning of what was to lay ahead. I crawled through the narrow path leading to the oasis carrying only my sanity. Hers was long gone, anchored deep below the red tide, whispering profanities as if the faults were mine. It was both ours to share, including the long weeks leading up to the tragedy. The direction her lips face, her body language, her lost desire for pleasure, even the outward positioning of her hands. I punched the air more than once to vent the frustration. It was of no use. The damage has been done, tonight something has to burn and someone's head has got to roll. 'Fuck you!' she yells at me, her eyes squint, full of rage, with desire to spit in my face. I could have slapped her there and then but I didn't. The little cunt thinks she can just manhandle me like that. I lost my footing for a short while, only realising that my hand is up in the air very much prepared to end her misery and mine once and...
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