In keeping with the tradition of further hackneying old, weather-beaten phrases, "you reap what you sow" never fails to make me choke.
And with song lyrics making up about a quarter of the posts at SDRR, here's another for you, this time delivered by the lofty likes of the New Radicals: " You get what you put in / and everybody gets what they deserve ".

Such insights are so hard to come by, and even more difficult to ignore. As has typified my relationship with these cliches, I have only one word in response. Here's a clue: it starts with B and ends in ollocks.

What utter, unblemished rubbish. Who ever gets returns commensurate with their effort levels?
Here's the cold, hard truth, and I'm pulling no punches while I'm at it: you get absolutely nothing if you don't put in anything in the first place. But even if you slave away all year, it doesn't mean you'll reap the appropriate reward. So all you can do is work at it. And hope -- that maybe someday Luck herself smiles on you, and it all becomes worth it in the end.

The stupidest thing to do, undoubtedly, is to just stop. Because not getting anything is a poor veil for recalcitrant laziness, and giving up is for those who're destined to be forgotten.
Bottomline: If you try and fail, you're nothing but a LOSER. But if you don't even try, you're an even bigger one.

Yes, yes, this could have been pulled off with a lot more elegance if a lot more thought had been put into it. Sue me. (When did I ever get so belligerent and implacable?)
Anyways, as an aside, the editorial staff at SDRR would like to offer our full assurance to our readers that the publication will be up and running from Wednesday, 8 June, and fire and brimstone will have to hail down to stop us fromgetting things back on track come 8 June.

Or maybe later. We can't say for sure.

- And they're off! -

We're off to the races!

- You can keep the Force -

An old concept, sure, and one deliberated upon not for the first time -- this time repackaged, the corners neatly tucked in, and decorated with the kind of ribbon that's conspicuous not to the extent of ostentatious. And finally delivered with such panache as to draw nods of approval.

The wage of sin is death but so is the salary of virtue.
May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb then.

- Drought -

For seven days now, they had come to the Royal Courts on a daily basis in the perhaps misguided hope that The Sagacious One would have spoken, only to leave dragging their feet in bitter disappointment each time. There was talk that there must be something in the constitution which outlawed this manner in which he deprived them so, but no one bothered looking it up. They merely sat and watched, enraptured, half in reverie, half in disbelief at their comparative fortune of being in his presence, an event previously unthinkable. In fact, many among the uninformed were of the firm belief that he was no more than a rural myth, for none among the riff-raff had ever seen him before (actually there was a rather elderly chap who claimed to have once dined with him, but he also believed himself to be Thaw, Lord of Frozen Thunder, and had taken to wearing his underwear on his head in recent months); a mystical creature conjured by those with overly fertile imaginations and too much time on their hands, to scare children to sleep or exploit as a marketing gimmick, as is the innately materialistic nature of Man, who somehow finds some way to make money out of every icon, building, event, and disaster (there were some down in the village who had printed The Sagacious One t-shirts and crafted The Sagacious One claymodels in the likeness of a wise, bearded, bald old man, and yet others who'd created similar merchandise for The Saggy One, depicting something much ruder). Indeed, he was held in high reverence, his legendary status placing him among the ranks normally reserved for gods and dragons and centaurs. And, unfortunately enough, trolls and ogres. But no-one articulated that. No, not if they valued their lives, at least.

He always sat behind a white screen, his silhouette illuminated by the glow of a flickering candle that never seemd to go out. He'd always been cautious to separate himself from the rest, to enshroud himself in the veil of mystery he'd worked so hard to create.

And then the unbelieveable occurred. A collective gasp broke the week of muted anticipation among the masses as the Sagacious One picked up his quill pensively and seemed to mull over his next move, seemingly finding himself in the unfamiliar territory of the writer's seat again. They looked on anxiously as he let out an "ah", in the manner of one surfacing from the depths of fascinated cogitation. He reached over to the inkpot, only to find it desert-gin-dry.

- We all fall down -

http://www.hawtalta.com/media.php?wmv=imperfect_world

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places
Worn out faces
Bright and early for the daily races
Going no where
Going no where
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression
No expression
Hide my head I wanna drown my sorrow
No tomorrow
No tomorrow
And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had

- hi jon can i -

Tempus fugit. Time flies. An old metaphor that flows from our lips naturally that concisely describes the fleeting, transient nature of time. Such succint elegance. Such brevity yet sufficency. But here's an interesting twist to things: has the phrase ever been interpreted as a noun instead? Non, mon cherie. I think not. That's right, a noun.

To describe the one-time acquaintances, the users and abusers. To bring them into perspective, to give them more recognition than they perhaps merit, to ridicule them, even. I speak rather brusquely of those annual friends, those who don't give you the steam of their piss all year round, until the month of May (it is thus not by chance that May coincides with the highest concentration of obsequiousness all year) each year when they decide to dig up your number from their organisers housing the parties they never thought to invite you to, the concerts they forgot to ask you along to, the date of your birthday that lies empty.

And these Time Flies (get it now?) troop down on you all bug-eyed and with all the ebullience of a teenager with his/her first iPod/PDA/Blackberry/electronic talking parrot.
True to their nature, they buzz about your face like the incessant critters that they are, returning again and again having been swatted away, importuning you with requests to let them lay their feelers or tarsuses (all 6) on your notes and answers (Holy Grail, anyone?), the only part of you they have any interest in, oblivious to and apathetic of the truth that your own mountain of problems needs scaling, and offering nothing in return; no help, no sympathy, no sirree no. Having extracted whatever surplus they can out of you and satisfied with their harvest, they proceed to retreat to their bins and disappear for yet another year to recharge in preparation of their next assault on your bulwark of resources.
Tempus fugit. We are dying from the moment we're born. Just so you know.

Maybe such perspicacious commentary ought to be limited to the narrow confines of my mind. But where's the fun in that?
Some badly-needed emollience in my currently implacable state to prevent further harangues and diatribes please.

In any case I've edited the plane announcement entry below slightly.

- In the event of a sudden descent, carbon monoxide masks will fall from the compartment above to make the process painless -

Hello and welcome on this flight to the one-dimensional land of Jonathan, where we hope to gain some insight into the man and his delusions.

You are encouraged to move toward the back of the plane and fill up the back rows first. In case you were not informed of this when you checked in, the front and back of the plane are going to the same place. So do move in, and help yourself to the seat between the crying baby and the slightly large man with glandular issues. You may find youself having to lean toward the baby in order to fit in your seat.

As is the case with all flights, we are legally bound to deliver some perfunctory instructions to you prior to the flight while you read your newspaper or smother your baby with a pillow or take your shoes off to altruistically allow the aroma emanating fom your feet to insidiously permeate the entire cabin from which there is no escape on this 13-hour flight, and ultimately ignore us completely.

In the event of turbulent weather, you are advised not to leave your seat at all. For this reason, you will find that the engineers of this plane have omitted lavatories. If you were looking for an airline which provided a repository in which to relieve yourself, you should have indicated this on the card. And perhaps paid a ton more.

In any case, reaching our destination would be a relief, for both you and ourselves. We trust that our wings and our lone engine will remain intact for the course of this journey. For this purpose, we would like you to sign on a slip of paper at the start of the flight. Please refrain from reading the text on the paper as this will hamper our administrative duties, and you wouldn't want that now, would you, seeing as lunch will be served by the same people collecting the papers. For the uninitiated, "indemnity" is a common alternative for"just sign it, dammit".

Should you be rudely awoken from your peaceful slumber by a shrill, ear-piercing scream, please do not be alarmed. There is no cause for concern, as this is merely Wailing Wanda, our resident apparition who has graced this plane with her presence for - oh, almost 10 years now! Congratulations Wanda!

The in-flight entertainment today will be provided by Helen Headrest and Tommy Turntable in front of you. The feedback is that they aren't particularly engaging, but that may change on this flight if you're lucky.

Please be informed that this is a non-smoking flight, and smoking in the cabin or in the non-existent lavatories (or where they should be) will trigger off the smoke alarm (Wailing Wanda) and you will be brought to the nearest emergency exit and requested to leave.

Upon the onset of turbulent weather, you may experience a sudden decrease in pressure, as if the plane is in free fall. This is entirely normal. You may also see the cabin crew parachuting off the plane. Please be assured that they are merely doing this to lighten the load of the plane -- in your interests.

Finally we suggest that you do not fasten your seat belts, as this will impede your movement in the event of a crash, which has been strangely common. People who failed to heed this advice were found to have been burnt to death. While this was not necessarily always the case, it happened with relatively high frequency. However, do feel free to buckle up if you'd like to lull yourself into a false sense of security, but don't say we didn't warn you when you burn. And die, if you're lucky. Statistics show that a man suffers a heart attack in one of out every 3 of our flights. He is a very unlucky man.

Thank you for choosing to fly with our airline. We hope you have a pleasant flight.

- You were wrong, you were right -

I have been cheated. Lied to, deceived, had the wool pulled over my eyes, fleeced, swindled, suckered, ripped off. And while my misplaced faith to which a blow has been dealt is nursed, there is nought to do to seek redress. It is a long 3-day wait before I can finally confront the situation, to settle this score. O woe betide!

Shotgun fired­ anybody home
I got two dimes in the telephone
Alright­
It’s not easy tonight
Don’t know where I’m going yet­
But I sure am getting there