Mural of Supposed Metaphors

Tunage

2010-03-01T00:55:00.001+08:00

The Sundays
Goodbye
Blind

I vow that it's goodbye
I vow that it's goodbye and God bless
Why did we have to assume
We're exactly the same?
O no, talking about yourself

I vow that it's goodbye to the old ways
Those stories were a good read
They were dumb as well
I could never be seen
Falling down on my knees crawling
O no, talk about a sell

O as the heavens shudder baby
I belong to you
O they said you get what you deserve
And all they said was true

So is this what it's come to?
Am I cold or just a little bit warm?
O well
Just give me an easy life and a peaceful death

Tunage

2010-01-05T11:35:00.001+08:00

Mr Bungle
Ars Moriendi
California

He who hears in the vast silence
He who wafts on the red wind
In extremis
He who leaps across the precipice
He who steals pearls from the ashes
Ride si sapis
'Ave atque vale'
I shall rise again
Bardo of the flesh
So feast on me
All my bones are laughing
As you're dancing on my grave
'Ave atque vale'

Badge of honor trout slap?

2009-12-10T05:14:00.008+08:00

If I were to ever make an educated guess on anything at all which pertains to the image of self and that of the fleeting, capricious vanity, I suppose it rings somewhat true that I'll never understand the appeal of "slumming it".

I don't know why certain people grasp at the scarce straws of apparent hardship in the way they act around people, in the way they present themselves, their ideals and socio-political leanings, do they actually wake up thinking somehow that by making it all seem a little less effortless, therein (for lack of a better venue for introspection) lies some potent validation that counters this notion of a meaningless, gilded existence which they're cursed to be stuck in.

Buying thrift store generics? Doesn't bring one even remotely close to knowing what actual hardship is. While being thrifty speaks of financial prudence, its not anything to walk around feeling awfully proud about, sod it, you're not the only one scrounging dollars and cents. Given the economic climate and the flawed from the ground up "bigger is better", bailout hegemony of our financial institutions, you'd be hard fucking pressed like amphetamine capsules not to want and ingrain financial prudence.

Wearing tattered clothes and shoes with holes in them might be the joie de vivre for the obedient, cocaine addled New York fashionista whore. Yet in the real dog eat dog sense of the world however, no one's even going to come close to batting an eyelid or accord even a damn for your banal existence. So please do not even attempt to pass of your bored hipster routine as being synonymous with street wise enlightenment. It's going to earn you a stern rebuke. One not by the word of mouth but by flailing appendages. Your middle-to-upper class goodwill campaign of reaching out to slum it via Vogue, Harper's Baazar or NME doesn't impress anyone outside of your equally deluded cabbagepatch pals who make with the douchebaggery in outfits paid for by platinum credit cards. Yikes, hard times indeed.

But I have to qualify my seething, quasi-blind, half indifferent, partly indolent rage, if only momentarily; the thing that fishhooks me and guts me into submission is the simple utterance of the phrase "I'm starving". Sure they'll say oh don't take it seriously, its just rolls off the tongue, its habitual, damn Americana's influenced us all.

Memory in hindsight being sharper than that of a pike's blade, I can tell you easy that most of these people who nonchalantly drop the phrase wouldn't know hardship if it was a venereal disease slowly and excruciatingly eating away at their insides and makng their loins secrete gelatinous amounts of cheese. These are the same people who sort their garbage by material, start book clubs and organize mass starvation to shine a light on to poor war ravaged nations hoping that in some sordid way, by them not gorging their fat fucking faces with food, the other half would feel appreciative that they've lowered themselves off their pedestals to live like animals for a short while, say 30 hours tops.

Do spare a dime for the sort of low-rent, entry level, intellect that knocks around a hollowed out head, the very same type of minds that came up with bulimia. Oh, what's this? It's the core neurosis in the psyche of the artist to be in a constant state of flawed conflict? Yeah, let me clear that one niggling trail of doubt as well, since this being the convoluted, jam packed, swine-flu incubating germ farm which is planet earth know that the original idea is a theory dead on it's feet.

Just as there are no real conflicts to present a worthwhile burden for humanity to bear, there too isn't such a concept as the original idea. There is only the emasculate conniption as opposed to the immaculate conception. We're not beacons, we're not the great new hope. Nothing more than apes who took advantage of the ability to speak and having opposable thumbs. I used to get partially peevish at the sight of this rat maze extravaganza known as humanity.

Now I can say in no uncertain terms that this is the pluperfect definition of hell and the sole purpose of its creation is to hammer us into a pulpfuck variety, farm-ready coterie of lord fearing, brainzero cretins screaming blood curdling entrails tearing murder.

Beware humanity. Oh yeah, this came to me at a rather strange time, but what I meant to say in the last post in relation to the Man of Iron is that the armor is actually the Mark IV. Labour well from my admission of nomenclature mistake. Like sculpting furniture from beeswax and taxidermy of human skin, their rash haughty expressions xeroxed from lost generations before, it was a simpler time as the hazy opium den melted sullied and ashamed countenances.

Yet he smiled because he has a big knife.

So why the frothy kerfuffle?

Maybe its the lack of truffles because vicariously through each and everyone of you, he's sick of himself. Before you throw your arms up in the air and squeal defeat. Remember, hate steels a person. Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.Hate.

Bah...humbug...harumph...I lied.

I need a cigarette.

Masturbatory

2009-12-01T08:35:00.012+08:00

Really excited about this one. Obviously they updated the Mark II, or maybe it's just a slight aesthetic change to the chest piece. War Machine looks amazing. I hope it turns out to be a good sequel. Can't wait to see Robert Downey Jr slip effortlessly into the domineering, self assured, snarky shoes of Tony Stark yet again.

Oh yeah, someone Googled the keywords "harem boys large thick penis" and somehow they were redirected and ended up here, at these hallowed yet dopey pages.

I don't know what the term for that is. But it is something. Misdirection? To quote one Agent Fox Mulder "I would never lie. I willfully participated in a campaign of misinformation". For what it's worth though, I don't see the correlation between that and the entered keywords. but I am feeling somewhat smug at being able to quote Fox Mulder. Yeah, guy draws cues of supposed mental superiority by dropping lines uttered by a fictional 90's television character, what a utter delight.

Old Pulteney is a single malt scotch whiskey. I have a tiny bottle right here on my desk, it fits in my palm, it's a gift, little novelty, rather telling that I should receive gifts of inebriating libations. Whoops did that come out wrong? I'm unsure as to what the portion's called, certainly isn't "bite sized", it being a beverage and all, right? Could it be termed as such? Unless of course, if it came already frozen. Anyways scribed on the back of the bottle is an invocation; "Old Pulteney encourages you to savor this fine single malt responsibly."

I have a problem with that because admittedly it's a tad vague. I don't mean that cogently as a blanket statement of course, its just that the actual drinking of it doesn't really bother me, its what I do AFTER the drinking which is wanting of more responsibility.While all that might have been somewhat poorly worded out the point here is that I've gotten used to zero accountability.

I get a kick out of people referring to Scotsmen as Scotch. Grossly ignorant but well...who gives a two-winged flying hoot? I personally like to pronounce Montreux as Montrooks. That's the way we do things down here in these parts, if you don't like it then get gone man, get real gone.

Err...what else, hmm panic...panic, right Malaysians haven't quite latched on to the concept of early morning greetings have they? Offer someone a hearty sincere good morning and in return, they'll give you this steely, stand-offish gaze as if you just whipped your schlong out and waved it in front of their face.

A sincere invitation to unfurl he velvet curtains and peer into the inner workings of this sordid, parody of a thing called my life, I answered an ad yesterday looking for customer consultants who speak fluent Thai and English. I was told that while they were looking for Thai speakers, they're not looking for foreign ones, even me, Prodigal Native Son and such. Let me clear something up, Thai, is a language and vernacular that is wholly unique to it's geographical diaspora, it's not an international tongue like say, Spanish. Alright maybe not Spanish, let's stick with French. Widely used language am I right?

Wanting to hire Malaysians who speak Thai? Well, that's mighty fucking laughable ladies and gents because when you pare up the statistics, the average Malaysian wouldn't know his thumb from his own dick, let alone have the initiative to pick up a language. Unless of course you're talking about the urban dwellers, that coterie of soul-dead, latte-foam sipping, Harper's Bazaar worshiping pundits who saunter around marbled flooring, exuding effortless douchebaggitude.

Even then, they're highly likely to choose to want to learn some European language. If it's white, it's without a shade of doubt, right.There, I said it. To which you reply, well go back to your country then border jumper.

In case you didn't know this, there are no actual walls that barricade Malaysia and Thailand. It's all a misconception that's perpetuated by portrayals of American-Mexican immigration ties ; shown to us on trash television. I know, it's a fantastical notion but it's the only one we have to go by.

So says the theologian with his back against the wall, surrounded by an army of frothy Bill Maher spewing twats. Yikes, like dykes on bikes.

Laters, poop makers.

Anchors on my shoulders.

2009-11-17T14:36:00.003+08:00

You know who you lot are.

You're my Rock of Gibraltar.

I play the fleeting fool with an errant and unassuming ease yet for all that it's worth, your kind words and more importantly your sincerity, warmth and grace have kept the quicksand from engulfing me and pulling me under.

I have this fascination with the car-crash pace and as such I won't expedite the demise of the eternal adolescent whose soul's only purpose it is to perpetuate the disinclination of normalcy. I'm lucky to have been caught by every individual one of you at the right junctures, who would've known how this might've been in another lifetime?

Thank you.

Oh and to those who posed, do kindly assume the position so that I can fucking stick it in.

Guns N' Roses
Yesterdays
Use Your Illusion

Yesterday, there was so many things
I was never told
Now that I'm startin' to learn
I feel I'm growing old

'Cause yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that I'll always see
Time just fades the pages
In my book of memories
Prayers in my pocket
And no hand in destiny
I'll keep on movin' along
With no time to plant my feet

'Cause yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that I'll always see
Some things could be better
If we'd all just let them be

Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Got nothin' for me

Yesterday, there was so many things
I was never shown
Suddenly this time I found
I'm on the streets and I'm all alone

Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that I'll always see
I ain't got time to reminisce old novelties

Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday

Secondary School Student Wins Appeal to Return to Primary School

2009-11-10T08:47:00.002+08:00

A 15 year old boy today won the state's and probably the nation's first ever educational appeal to be allowed to return to Primary 6. At first, staff members, and commentators alike had pretty much collectively thought that Jerome Gan's decision was one that had an actual scholastic merit because they've considered that since he barely passed his rudimentary motor skills tests, he should be readily pigeonholed and accommodated for in the special needs class.

Initial findings proved this to be a suspect and rather dangerous assumption as the student's records were mistakenly mixed up with a mentally impaired child's. Moreover, what proved challenging was that Jerome was already nearing his state PMR examinations as well and withdrawals in these sort of cases are about as common as a male dog pulling out mid-hustle. Yet for the most part, Jerome is an intelligent if somewhat overly dull and boorish person. Faculty members, students and even the janitors have increasingly singled him out to be on the receiving end of viciously timed jeers and even called him names during his almost 3 year ordeal in the unnamed secondary school.

While most of the alleged perpetrators have remained mum in light of these allegations, further probes have revealed that upper management have in fact, repeatedly ignored impassioned pleas from the perpetually sweaty and bescpectacled Jerome. "We don't entertain it" says Jahan Adri Eusoff, discipline teacher and former prison warden, "his allegations are preposterous and disgusting. We need them to know that while we are here as the communal Big Brother, they too must understand that we are not their emotional wheelchairs."

However, the awkward, pimply and pockmarked teenager stated that his decision to demote himself 3 years back was because he missed being the "head honcho and Big Kahuna 'round these here parts" gesturing his hands with an almost religious reverence towards the sacred grounds of the primary side courtyard. He remembers "Oh three years ago was probably the best time of my life, I was the biggest kid in class, no questioning that and sure I was somewhat big boned and my zipper would always snap when I laughed, but I was way too large for any of the puny little shits to call out on me."

Secondary school hasn't exactly been a dream ride for Jerome, when he entered as a freshman, he found that his hitherto unchallenged authority had waned and gone soft, as he puts it "bent like the crooked back of a politician, or Hugh Hefner's cock" His first few months consisted of daily beatings from the smaller students who had experienced extreme growth spurts over the holidays. "It was horrific," exclaimed a bemused Jerome, "It was almost as if Satan squatted over me and let the excess recesses of his rectum fly free right in my general direction, and some of that entered my mouth". To date he has been tormented and bulled on an almost daily basis and even the usual suspects have turned to the aggravation. It's a simple case of the hunted turning into the hunters.

The appeal process was further compounded by the fact that the child's parents are absentee authority figures in his life who would occasionally tag team as "Thunder & Lightning" and beat the child senseless in Morse code, as they put it, "for the sake of discipline and you know, just in case." However, when Jerome related to us the sequence of his parent's methodical beatdown, it spelt "We love you very much" and that immediately put them in good stead with welfare child services who considered their conduct to be fit, appropriate and becoming of concerned parents.

On his first day as a Primary 6 pupil after a 3 year absence, the student appeared calm if somewhat uncomfortable as he managed to squeeze himself back into his primary school uniform. By the time he ascended the staircase, his shirt was already saturated with the stink of a child unused to menial labour. As lunch time came about, Jerome was causing a fair bit of disturbance at the canteen by flipping an entire tray of lunchables at some year 4 pupils who failed to bow at him. Prefects and teachers alike are very worried as Jerome has already worked up an impressive list of 14 distinct breaches and infractions of the school's rules. When questioned about this the smug, mouthy teenager said "This is my homecoming, and these crop of new students aren't unlike adoring subjects to me, I shall stamp out dissent and lord over them, for I care about their situation. They can think of me as an unofficial big brother and that all this is merely a mentor system. What's that? Breach of school rules? Well, I don't know about a breach but school, for the first time in 3 years, thus indeed rule."

Complaints have gone unnoticed as the state's education authorities have deemed that it's only a manner of time that Jerome finishes primary 6 so until then, their hands are tied. But they have conceded that if the student fails to pass his year end examinations, he can stay. At the interim meeting, Asokamaniam Punamoorthy of the education board was seen burying his head in his hands and muttering "Dear God...we've created a monster, Malaysia's very own Billy Madison".

Disclaimer.

2009-11-06T18:09:00.004+08:00

I'm hoping that this is the last "personal" blog post which I'll write about in a long while. I'll be frank, I'm neither too inclined to spill the beans nor am I all that crazy when it comes to divulging private matters on the fucking internet. Even to the sparse number of friends who I keep; I have been extremely, almost deathly judicious about the details. I don't think I am any special, I just don't like the idea of a having person know too much about me.

Now I don't think my travails are any more enduring than what a lot of other people have to go through but shit happens yet if you keep at it, life will inevitably, go on. Twat's twat and that's that. I've probably mentioned this before but I have something of an antisocial streak in me. I'd like to say that its a seasonal occurrence but for the most part, I know that statement is about as real as pro wrestling.

I don't like people to begin with, I've gotten fairly good when it comes to playing the social game but as a rule; I'm being very generous here yet I think that a high number of people are nothing better than walking wastes of oxygen and skin meandering through this absurd state of bodily being.

I remember when I was 19, I was approached by a friend of a friend who pretty much cornered me and spilled a truckload of her worries and woes onto me. I may be tooting my own flute here but I'm very good at listening to people converse, I know that much, the skill is in being able to sift through what is purely melodramatic dreck and what is the perceived sense of injustice towards oneself. In short, it's just in one ear and out the other.

Something that has been occurring with an increased frequency lately is the invitations to go out. I'll admit this, I hate leaving the house. I'd much rather be crushingly bored and alone at home than have to go out and force apparently jovial reciprocation with a tragic wasteland of subservient corporate drones who value the annual gross, the banal gloss and the price tags. I'm not peddling some bullshit mystique here that I am all that and then some. Knowingly, I don't think too that I am exalted company. Rather, I just much prefer the idea of a friend who knows when to rarely play and continually stray. If I feel that I have to stretch myself thin, then well, as Satre aptly said, hell is truly other people.

It's like a fancy meal, if you imbibe it too often you'll find that sooner rather than later, it too can become overwrought and stale.

See you in the future, man.

Incubus
Soft Sculpture
Look Alive

Area People Fete Brooding Avid Reader

2009-11-05T02:57:00.006+08:00

A resident living in the enclave of Subang Jaya has caused quite a stir among local female residents because of his incessant reading. The idealistic, strong headed man, 27 year old claims adjustment coordinator for KLT Assurance Jeff Wong has been sighted in various places holding on to books and poring over them with the curio and intensity of a dervish.

Eyewitnesses accounts claim that the man has a steely demeanor and that sort of wily, quiet intensity that leaves them feeling threatened, intrigued and weak at the knees all in one fell swoop, some even going as far as to say that they wouldn't mind jumping his bones. To date, Jeff has been spotted on the bus, at the train station, in a delicatessen and at the post office, not once tearing his eyes away from his copious collection of musky smelling, leather bound tomes.

When questioned about this, 21 year old student and part time designer of pet products Abby Fong had this to say, " Yes I've seen him around often, he actually came into the store where I worked once, at that time I just started here. He was looking for cat food and when I directed him to our stock pile, he proceeded to read through the ingredients of each can with the ravenous gait of a scholar. He obviously is very intelligent and his "here but elsewhere" ways just makes him that much more desirable. Can I just go on record to say that the whole time he was in my store, my clitoris exploded a few times over!"

Locals young and old alike say that while the mysterious, dapper gent everyone calls Jeff seems friendly enough, they are quite apprehensive of him because he seems to carry himself around with the temperament of a skin-covered sledgehammer yet his anti-hero ways has definitely won them over .

Retired postman Awang Bin Mokhtar offers "I'd like to think that in all my years of letter-delivering, in some way I've reached out and touched a soul by bringing to him or her letters-laden with literary qualities and moral lessons, it was one morning where I saw Jeff and I knew that my purpose in life was met a long while ago. Most people seem unable to look past the smoldering gaze and the nonchalant way he ignores everyone yet I know there's a warmhearted wily do-gooder in there somewhere."

Cheerleading captain Cadence Chen recalls a day when she and her squad were practicing in the park, and Jeff was a mere 10 feet away from them. He was sitting on a rustic bench, blissfully unaware of all the potentially criminal, barely legal teenage twats he could've tricked into climbing in a soapy hot tub with him. When asked of that fateful day, the vampish teen said "It was like so totally strange you know? We were forming the cheer-pyramid and all of a sudden I see this like totally vintage, burnout guy who is like just totally Twilight sitting there on the bench. We totally tried uber-hard to get his attention because he's pretty hot but he was reading like some book called Crime & Punishment so we were like ew, freak but that's okay. I went home feeling fat and ugly and I'm like the hottest girl in school, mmmkay?"

Others however aren't all that swayed by this alleged happenstance of smarts, one of them being the captain of the local chapter of foosball players. Dexter Lee of Metropolitan college claims to have had a run in with Jeff once, "It was whacked dude, we were playing foosball, having a real awesome, bitchin' time socializing and meething chicks and this like satan dude comes in and sucks the cool like outta the room. The guy's obviously mildly retarded from what I can tell because he's always reading books and stuff, why? Because he forgets the lessons we were taught in school, see, moronic right? I'm right, right? Anyways, I play foosball and its a great way to socialize and meet chicks. If anyone should know how to read a person, its me. People aren't all that different from the foosball men I control in the table, you just have to skewer them like chickens for the roast and that's why I play foosball because its a great way to socialize and meet chicks."

Although a vast majority of people are too willing to feel put off by his gruff demeanor, a coterie of dissenting voices were heard in stating that Jeff should be afforded some mental help. Just because he seems infinitely impassioned in his own world, it's obvious that he is very judicious with his emotions.

At press time we spotted Jeff entering an eatery in USJ 10, looking rather nonplussed by the increasing amount of women who gawk at him in silence. His inherent propensity to mope and read has thus far left him relatively sheltered in a perpetual loop of aloofness and that, is exactly what the makes the women fall hard for him.

Asean Leaders Unite To Respond To Hula Gate

2009-11-02T22:13:00.004+08:00

This past week and a half, the world's media has literally devoted copious amounts of air time towards covering and dissecting Michelle Obama's hula-hoop demonstration or as President Obama calls it, Holla-hoop. On a sunny afternoon, whilst promoting fitness for children and tots alike, America's First Lady giddily defied behavioral standards and protocols of her office by throwing all caution in the wind by showing off her ill skills nearby Capitol Hill.

Currently being one of the most recognizable women in the world, naturally news agencies on both sides of the Pacific gave the incident so much coverage that the gathered Asean leaders could not help but collectively feel a tad slighted.

This year's Asean Summit, being held in Thailand had to fend off strong rating hits from Mrs Obama's story. In an issued statement, Thai Prime Minister Abhisit Vejjajiva said on behalf of the leaders in attendance, "When she wore shorts to an official White House visit and it garnered intense media coverage, I personally shrugged it off as purely sensationalist drivel yet again she has usurped our time in the spotlight and well...to cut it short, it's on girl, on like donkey kong, it's time to throw down.”

The charming Thai leader then declared the fourth day of the Asean summit to be one not of round table discussions on bilateral trade and co-operation between nations but as a day of "playful physical retaliation for what are we if not compassionate liberals who know how to let our hair down as well. "He went on to outline an itinerary for all Asean leaders in attendance and said that failure to attend could possibly spell economic sanctions and deletion and blocking of Facebook accounts from the Asean page.

At 7:30 am, on the shores of Cha-am in the Hua Hin province of Thailand, PM Abhisit divided the leaders into groups of two for what he called Survivor:Thailand. Internationally beloved comedians; Malaysia's Najib Tun Razak and Cambodia's premiere Hun Sen were paired together as they were the only ones who had difficulty finding a partner. The rest of the leaders naturally gravitated towards one another because of long standing peace and fruitful economic relationships. One incident of note was that PM Abhisit and the Phillipines' Gloria Arroyo have been virtually inseparable since the two leaders met at the beginning of the summit.

Sometime around noon, the winning team was predictably that of Brunei's HRH Sultan Bolkiah Hassanah and Singapore's Lee Hsien Loong, both having a potent interest in athletic pursuits since their youth. Japan and Laos were disqualified and given a walk of shame for having cheated in the race by burning the instructional envelopes handed out to all attending nations. Unfortunately, Mr. Hun Sen deserted Najib Tun Razak by joining the leaders of Myanmar and Vietnam and to add insult to injury, Najib suffered a harrowing case of gastrointestinal infection because of his self imposed 1Leader concept.

In what has become almost legend in the diasporas of Malaysian protocol, Mr Najib had his entire retinue of assistants dismissed and stated that he would be attending the Asean Summit by himself, being the solitary wolf that he is. This duly included his demure consort Rosmah Mansor, who by most accounts, didn't seem to mind much having to miss the meeting of regional leaders and their spouses.

When he arrived at the hotel in a self driven car, the accomplished urologist sported a blond wig, aristocratic French clothes with embroideries, ruffled sleeves, a cape and Jackie O shades; looking almost incognito by his subtle standards. Unfortunately the second he alighted his car, he was immediately indentified yet this was wholly avoidable had he not walked around telling passers-by "What? I am not Najib Tun Razak, I am merely a mortal. Nothing to see here folks" He then left morbidly stern instructions with the concierge desk that he be given the most Spartan room available and only be allowed one morsel of a meal per day.

On the first day itself he caused veritable controversy as he sat at his own table; grim looking and carrying aloft a banner stating 1Man 1Table. At the insistent jeers of his counterparts, Mr Najib started roaring in consternation across the room of the august house; "This is my table! There are many tables like it but this one is mine! Without my table I am nothing, without me, my table is nothing!" HRH Sultan Bolkiah of Brunei, a known military man, ceremonially rapped his walking cane on the carpeted floor, apparently signaling approval before bursting out into uncontrollable guffaws, prompting all leaders to do the same.

At this time Hun Sen came over and sat with Mr. Najib while the two doodled the day away with crayons and Play Doh; listening to Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers while the other leaders mapped out the road to economic recovery.

The gathered leaders feted the winning team of the treasure hunt with congratulatory slaps on the back and giving of props. Miss Arroyo then broke out into an impromptu showing of her Double Dutch skills and she continually beckoned at PM Abhisit who, egged on by his fellows, blushed like a bashful teen and joined her in creating one of the most memorable moments of the Asean Summit as they hopped and jumped with nary a care along to the soothing, melodious strains of N.W.A.'s Fuck The Police.

The entire room quickly became reminiscent of the 8 Mile rap battle scenes as almost all leaders in attendance were visibly seen hooting back and forth with cat calls and shows of support. When Japan's PM Aido asked Sultan Bolkiah if the inscribed B on top of his walking cane stood for his country's name Brunei, the majestic leader retorted, “My good man...evidently, we're Ballin'”.

After proper rest had been accorded to all leaders, they were invited to the hotel's exquisitely decorated ballroom for dinner. Everyone in attendance tucked in to a fine meal of grilled Thai catfish, truffles, Northern Thai styled dishes of beef and chicken. This was followed by various desserts and multi-flavored sherbets. Mr Najib however merely requested a bag of Lays Potato chips, a glass of water and a clay sculpted bowl of warm oatmeal. When the guests have all dined and watched the prepared pictorial montage of the day's activities, PM Abhisit made his way up the stage and delivered a rip roaring stand up routine, roasting all the leaders in attendance, saving the most acidic lines and aiming it towards himself.

After his speech was done, the halls darkened and a series of well times pyrotechnic rigs exploded with ferocity of Dante's Inferno, starling some of the leaders. The back lights then lit up revealing a fiddle band that began playing a hearty and jaunty country tune. The usually reserved leader promptly broke out into song and well, you wouldn't have known it but just about everyone in the hall was an accomplished dancer. All of the leaders, guests and world wide media exhibited commendable line dancing skills.

Round, round twist and twirl,
Jump around like a flying squirrel!
Dance, dance move your pants
Don't let go of your partner's hand

Jive, jive swing on by
Lady Obama you best not try
Feel the rhythm, step in time
Ain't any reason not to feel fine

Move, move get on the floor
Knock yourself out, don't be a bore!
Swirl, swirl cherries on top,
Asean Summit, the cream of the crop

As the night carried on, things became more exhilarating to a point where even the petulant and reticent Najib danced wildly through his excruciating abdominal pains, telling everyone "watch me, watch me!" as he channeled his inner interpretive tap dancer. PMs Abhisit and Arroyo set tongues wagging as they re-lived the Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers dance. Inhibitions fleeted away errantly as ice melted and friendships were cemented. The alcohol free flow contributed in many ways to the heightened sense of camaraderie filling the air. When midnight struck, the free flow and the euphoria hit its zenith as PM Abhisit was seen doing a handstand on top of a table; legs akimbo in the air to a reverberating trance remix of the Asean theme song.

He executed a deft head spin and stood up, grabbed the microphone, thrusting his hips back and forth suggestively; saying"Gloria, Gloria you're gonna want some of my coffee, you know why? Because I grind so good! I ain't black but you better be ready for something hot and dark in you tonight!" At the end of the night, all the sweaty faced leaders, their shirt tails out, stood in a long line chanting and laughing "Where you at Lil' Kim?" in reference to Kim Jong Il who has for the longest time continually stood up invites from the Asean forum of leaders.

The evening died down as the gathered leaders were again paired up and invited to slow dance to some Lionel Richie songs. While the business community isn't exactly overwhelmed by the monetary outlines and fiduciary schemes advocated as a result of this meeting, they were glad to know that all the leaders brought their game faces in responding to Mrs Obama's antics.

The very next day, the leaders got together to celebrate an early Halloween and the costumes and outfits adorned by the leaders ranged from the playful to the downright wrong. Najib Tun Razak turned up in an open roof sedan with a battalion of Malaysia's Gerak Khas (Unique Moves) Squadron and announced that he had come as his childhood friend and one time university lacrosse team mate Kim Jong Il. Abhisit and Gloria Arroyo showed up respectively as a slightly goulish looking Michael Jackson and a vial of Propofol and coyly announced that they'll be together till the bitter, rigor mortis and coma-inflicted end. The rest of the leaders came as themselves and this unfortunately, has rocked the Asean community as those who dressed up felt that they've been had by the short and curlies by these party poopers.

Malaysia Tables Motion To Host 2020 Olympic Games

2009-11-01T21:10:00.001+08:00

In a move that will surely signal fair warning to his Asean neighbors, Malaysia's tightrope walking champion, premier lion tamer, cave painting advocate and sometime leader Najib Tun Razak today vocalized his plans to see Malaysia crowned as hosts for the 2020 Olympic Games. He told this to reporters whom he had invited along to ride with him on a convoy to a non-descript village in the rural backwaters of Kangar, Perlis.

Najib stated that this was very much more than merely a goodwill tour, this was his way of reaching out to his subjects or, as he affectionately calls them The Naj Entourage. Visibly proud of his cat-like verbal quip, Najib dusted off imaginary dirt from his shoulders while saying "Don't trip...shoulder chip..uh" while his minders all echoed "Hollaaaaa". In addition to all this, he also said that he'd been hankering to be photographed by the press in the midst of doing menial, country boy chores for days.

He stated, "We can go by Rio de Janeiro's example and host the 2020 Olympics as well to solidify our place in the world. Most of you are probably aware that 2020 is a date we all hold dearly in Malaysia, as do I". When a few press personnel chimed in that it was Vision 2020, Najib smiled and nodded his head benignly, bit his lip, uttered a calm yes and subsequently opened the sun roof, bolted right up in the moving vehicle and bellowed, "IT IS THE YEAR CHRISTINA AGUILERA TURNS 40!! ROOARRR!" He then sat back down, adjusted his poncho and smiled warmly at the gathered media, displaying the effortless panache and ease of timeless, evergreen showmanship.

He continued with the candor of a seasoned raconteur "Also, I would like to clarify that I too buried a time capsule sometime in 1980, and at long last I would like to see what has become of it after all these years." The jovial leader looked out languidly into the serene Malaysian rural paddy field strewn land, placed his hand on the almost completely blackened out windows of the SUV and whispered,.. I am coming for you...my precious. At this juncture, one of his minders stealthily reached his hands from behind Najib's seat and gave the leader a timely fist nudge behind the head, mumbled words of encouragement and he was jolted out of his midday reverie.

Immediately, the Prime Minister launched into an enthusiastic presentation of his plans to ensure that Malaysia will host the Olympics. More importantly though, is to show how Malaysia can secure the nomination and win it. Showing deft arithmetic prowess by counting only with his fingers, Najib forecasted that by 2020, Malaysia's economic landscape would have improved drastically because; we would would be the only sovereignty in the world with a functioning Iron Man Mark IV prototype armor ready for mass production.

More importantly, half of the country's imminent wealth will come directly from the 1Region1World self help motivational movie DVDs which Najib himself will write, produce, direct and star in. Of the DVDs he said "I am very proud of this artistic endeavor for it certainly magnifies that inside of us everyday lays miracles that are just waiting to break out and bedazzle the world."

He also said that the while he was strongly in favour of singing the theme song for the DVDs himself, having proved his vocal mettle many times over, he felt that it should rightly be a collaborative duet with him on sole lead vocals and being backed up by Siti Nurhaliza and Christina Aguilera. "I like my voice” mused the leader, "it's sonorous, commanding, definitely has a baritone, come-hither feel which in a very understated manner, requests due attention, each octave, each timbre just oozes with passion, certainly very much on par with Freddie Mercury’s, if not better. The 1Region, 1World ideal is something which we can definitely market to the international arena of inter-dependence and on top of that it will definitely earn us a handsome profit. To quote the great Vanilla Ice, if my rhymes were a drug, I'll sell it by the gram."

On shedding further light on his 1Malaysia plans, the leader felt that it was more a preordained destiny rather than a responsible undertaking for him to be both the team principal and number one driver in the 1Malaysia F1 Team. He said "Let's face it, this entire notion of 1Malaysia is by and large a labor of love borne of my obviously superior mind, I like being a leader, I am good at it and last I checked I'm not too shabby a racecar driver myself. It also doesn't hurt either that we stage the annual Sepang F1 race and that the world shines it's light on us."

However when further probed on the feasibility of Malaysia garnering enough regional support to host the Olympics, Najib stated that, "Well, if you must know, my uh, how the Americans say, ace in the hole is actually Cristiano Ronaldo. I've tabled a motion to the Ministry of Defense; asking them to sell off their newly acquired Sukhoi Jets and submarines. Obviously they did not agree to this, some even had the temerity to question my omnipotence, ha! Well, I rallied my troops and threatened to stamp out political kickbacks so in the end they relented and my will was done." The wily leader then stated that it was his modest estimation and hope that the proposed clearance sale would generate a transfer kitty of at least RM7 billion, a majority of which will be used to pay off the Portuguese ace's buyout clause estimated to be 1 billion euros. The remaining monies will be used for Ronaldo's weekly pay, in addition to him being bestowed a Datukship. All remnant funds raised would be directed towards sponsorship, jersey manufacturing and advertising.

When further pressed by hardnosed, determined journalists wanting to break for an inside scoop, Najib stated that has in fact, already signed Cristiano Ronaldo. He quipped that it was the easiest damn deal he had ever done in his life and that Twitter should be used as the official avenue to conclude business arrangements. The leader said that he direct messaged Ronaldo but was never accorded a reply so he had to utilize the "when push comes to shove" tactic.

At press time we've not been able to confirm with Real Madrid if they have in fact ,parted ways with their record setting player . Word from the grapevine is that Ronaldo went to the management to complain that for weeks he had been harassed by a certain strange man who would email him mathematical pictionary equations titled "Choose". It's contents were (I) Real Madrid = Ronaldo + Car : BOOM! or (II) Malaysia = Ronaldo + Najib = Smiles All Year Round and this has evidently left the Portuguese ace rather unsettled.

Shortly after this interview Najib arrived at the village amidst great fanfare and the trumpeting of elephants. When his convoy stopped, the shadowy, Ninjitsu trained leader alighted the vehicle , barged his way through the crowds and he quickly spray canned the town's hall with the words Kampung Ronaldo and returned to his vehicles which sped off blaring Thin Lizzy's "Jailbreak" and Najib laughing maniacally shouting over the loudspeaker "Y'alls just got spray-tagged."

For Wired News Corporation, this report has been sponsored by McDonalds, who...after all these years are still counting how many they've served. Indefinitely plagued by the crippling weight of insecurity.

Can I Get A Witness?

2009-10-21T19:32:00.004+08:00

I know I'm not in a very good place in my life at the moment.

But I don't complain much. I'm a born absurdist. I don't allow these things to take precedence because logic kills creativity. I see no point in attracting attention to these so called injustices.

With that said however, please refrain from condescending to my supposed plight.

You don't have to be a religious person to be thankful for the things which you have.

It has been said that you should give what you have for what you might lose. What that means, in case you're rather too distorted to understand the metaphorical connotation of things is that a certain level of humility should be at hand at all times. With that said, please stick your head up your arse alright? I'm certain it fits.

You have been warned.

The Rolling Stones
Gimme Shelter

Perambulation

2009-10-16T21:57:00.003+08:00

Due to some unforeseen circumstances which led to The Man cutting off my internet service, I'll not be able to consistently blog for a while.

I remember once I was walking to the BAR Council library with a senior lawyer. He liked to walk because he says its the only exercise he ever gets. He parked his car outside the Kuala Lumpur city centre and we walked inwards. On the way, there's a steep staircase leading downwards to a railway track. It caught me unawares because the elevated walkway we were on was sunny, lit and livened by the bustle of a deafening city din, yet the woods at the railway were cool, illustrious almost begging for a heightened sense of appreciation.

I saw an old Indian lady sitting there at the top step of the stair case and she wasn't wearing any shoes. Her clothes were mere slum rags; fabric of the dregs and she wore an expression of profound pain and loss on her creased sullen face. It was the afternoon and as the sun beats down upon us, it's heat is potent enough to damn our minds, to roast our thoughts for we are nothing if not indelicate delicacies on the face of this earth.

She looked at me, and she looked at the train tracks, all her worldly possessions packed into a non-descript plastic bag, little bangles of contrition or of beauty, the saffron of some wayard temple tucked underneath her arm, the ash on her forehead smudged. She bites on her lower lip, her arms shake and she begins to wail loudly, gesticulating madly, cursing at the unseen gods who although unseen, people have no problems whatsoever in firmly believing.

I don't know what it was I felt on that day, maybe it was a feigned ignorance, maybe a part of me died there, but yesterday in the market place here in this Thai hell hole, I saw beggars, shabby and inglorious, mere remnants of humanity dully emanating in their eyes, struggling for the change so languidly strewn by the tourists, maybe out of penance; given up by people who couldn't care much lesser for them than for a skewed rat under a pile of industrial metal waste.

I hate this blind eye which we employ towards others' suffering.

I hate this potent sense of apparent religious retribution which we all hide behind.

I hate this indefinitely delayed promise of a world on fire.

Clarion Call, Weekend Tunage, Quotable Quote

2009-10-10T05:52:00.007+08:00

Hullo!

First off, 18 days shy of being a full year in absentia, I've finally wrote a new article on Blurtsomething. Please check it out for I subsist wholly on 95% human approval and the remnants of that, by nicotine and caffeine.

Secondly, I might actually consider watching Sex and The City, yet normative behaviour dictates that I will do so if only to mute the volume down and make up my own dialogue, I still will not concede that Meryl Streep looks like a horse. She's perfection incarnate to me.

I have to say though that getting at least one person to comment and agree with me on Gong Li after all this while is just satisfyingly righteous.

Common
Resurrection
Resurrection

I stagger in the gathering possessed by a patter-in
That be scatterin
Over the globe will my vocals be travellin
Unravellin my abdomen it's slime that's babblin'
Grammatics that are masculine
I grab them in, verbally badgerin broads
I wish that Madelline, was back on Video LP
I went against all odds and got a even steven
Proceed to read and not believin everything I'm readin
But my brain was bleedin, needin feedin, and exercise
I didn't seek the best of buys, it's a lie to textualize
I analyze where I rest my eyes
And chastise the best of guys with punchlines
I'm Nestle when it's Crunch-time
For your mind like one time
If poetry was pussy I'd be sunshine
cause I deliver like the Sun-Times
Confined in once-mines on dumb rhymes I combine
I'm hype like I'm unsigned, my diet I unswine
Eatin beef sometimes I try to cut back on that shit
This rap shit is truly outta control
My style is too developed to be arrested
It's the freestyle, so now it's out on parole
They tried to hold my soul in a holding cell so I would sell
I bonded with a break and had enough to make bail
A misdemeanor fell on his knee for the jury
I asked No for his ID and the judge thought there was two of me
Motion for a recess to retest my fingerprints
They relinquished since, cause I was guilty in a sense

I ride the rhythm like a Schwinn bike when in dim light
I use insight to enlight devices hit the skin tight
Words of wisdom wail from my windpipe
Imaginations in flight
I send light, like Ben's kite I've been bright
Get open like on gym nights
And in fights I send rights
Don't hook with skins my friends like
I spend nights up in dykes
In spite I've been indicted as a freak of all trades
I got it made
I bathe in basslines, rinse in riffs, dry in drums
Come from a tribe of bums
Hooked on negro and mums
Had to halt with the, malt liquor
Cause off the malt liquor I fought niggaz
Now my speech is lost quicker
Cruisin Southside streets with no heat and no sticker
U Ak got my back and we don't get no thicker
U Ak got my back and we don't get no thicker
U Ak got my back and we don't now check it
I'm a hoe but not a hoe nigga, ain't scared of no nigga
But it's my turn to go I gotta go
And I'm gone with the storm

The thing about performance, even if it’s only an illusion, is that it is a celebration of the fact that we do contain within ourselves infinite possibilities. - Daniel Day-Lewis.

Conscription

2009-10-09T01:25:00.003+08:00

Seven years ago, I went up to Thailand with my parents because they had some land transaction issues to iron out and well, me just being a pimply faced, fresh out of school child, decided to tag along with the parentals, for whatever reason, who knows? Maybe they'll let me go to a skin joint? Maybe my old man and I will take a day off and go on a revelation-filled fishing trip? Maybe not. For the record, I hate fishing, it's cruel and the same pretty much applies for titty bars or as they like to euphemistically call it, "Gentleman's Club". How disdainful.

Now, I don't remember much of this trip except for the tail end of it. My parents thought that since we were already in the capital of the motherland itself (it's not Zion, it's Bangkok) we might as well get the newly issued identification cards made; the ones with the snazzy looking, Minority Report-ish microchip embedded in the center of the card. Two things out of this trip stand out in particular to me. Firstly, I have to confess that I'm a disgrace to any Thai citizen worthy of being called one. I speak Thai, I'd like to think that my command of Thai holds more poetry than anyone else yet that is a conclusion which is overcompensating by any standard of measure. To make matters worse, I do not read or write the Thai language. At all.

However before you point your judgmental fingers at my parents, accusing them of being one of those who have forsaken the traditionalist and timely value of nurturing and passing on one's true mother tongue to their children, I have to let you down though. It's purely my fault. I still remember how my mother tried teaching me how to read Thai, she bought charts, cassettes, folksy morality laden story books for me to read and practise my Thai yet it never quite stuck. I suppose if anything, Thai kiddy tales just aren't as good as the ones released by Pickwick Studios. When I was around 9 she even, much to my petulant resentment, signed me up for Thai language classes at, of all fucking places, the temple. Looking back on the Miseducation of Tupps, I'd much rather flay my midsection open and take a dip in a bubbling jacuzzi of battery acid.

Coming back to the issuance of the identity card, I filled out the forms in English, and my mother helped fill up the blanks on the sections in which written Thai is required. I even reluctantly let them take a picture of my unsavoury, soon-to-be-on-a-criminal-line up mugshot. When it was all said and done, the woman in the counter called me up and I languidly sauntered to the counter, in my head offering copious amounts of undeserved libations to the powers-that-be who regulate the department of social security or whichever righteous sounding Thai equivalent. that applies I was almost unceremoniously hurled onto my tush when she told me that I had to write and sign my name all over again.

I can very much wholeheartedly concede that I do not have little pet peeves as much as I have seething, resentful hatreds toward certain things novel abbreviations and misspellings such as dunno,wtf, gr8, ttyl, etc, people signing forms and credit card bills (admit it, there's a certain self important, douchebaggery look on their faces) and lastly, filling out forms, if only for the blood curdling tediousness of it all. Alright then, so I take the forms and I'm about to spell out my name and abruptly she puts her hand on the form, looks me in the eye and says son...I'm going to need for you to fill this form out...in Thai.

I'm certain that if I had concentrated hard enough that afternoon, I could hear the guttural, rumbling of Satan's laugh barely able to contain itself in the pits of the woman's stomach. Bear with me here, I'm not the most independent person around, it's not that my parents have mollycoddled and oversheltered me or anything but I always fall back on calling on either one of them when I'm in a bit of a jam you know? Well, then again I was breastfed until I was 7 so that might be telling of some late developmental behavioral pattern. So my mother walks up to the counter and the three of us just start busting out with the Thai like a bunch of catty old dames and my mother informed the woman that I wasn't born and raised in Thailand. I may speak the Thai language but in asking me to read or write it, she might have better luck toilet training a newly hatched dragon youngling.

Her somewhat brusque reply was, I'm sorry but rules are rules, he has to write it in Thai or else he will not be eligible to receive his identification card. My mother then writes my name out for me in and tells me to scrawl it out identically to the allotted spaces on the form. I did as I was told and predictably, it took a hell of a lot longer than I'd expected because Thai is based largely on the root language of Sanskrit; its elaborate and pretty damn confusing. Think of how arresting it must be if you were required to write in Hebrew or Mandarin. Whilst I'm writing, both the woman in the counter AND my mother are not so subtly encouraging me, "Yes dear you can do it, just a little more honey, almost there, ohhh who's a good boy? who's a good boy? You are! Who's going to get an extra treat after this? Yesss, you!!" All of a sudden the people in the vicinity of the counter area start to take notice and they're all looking at me, bewildered, intrigued, taken in by the sight of this 6ft mass of possibly retarded manchild lump of meat. It doesn't help either that etched on my face was this mirthless, almost clown like pain-addled grin which declared they're not laughing with me, they're laughing at me.

Finally after what seemed like an eternity of applying hemorrhoid cream on to Freddie Mercury's anus, the ordeal was over. There was even a collective sigh of relief as the personnel in the department joyously screamed, he did it! *cue triumphant movie soundtrack, group hugs, doves being released in the air and such like trivialities.

I pick up my card at the counter, mug for the camera's, flashing my one million rupiah smile and proceeded to leave the building. Then my old man takes me to the side and marches me up to the second floor towards this rather cramped office to the left of the corridor. Inside it sat a sinewy, insanely tanned man in his mid 40-s. He had an extremely thin, untrustworthy looking mustache and a pair of aviator shades on and he was wearing starched-pressed khaki colored clothes with insignias on his breast pocket. Army man.

Probably a field recruitment officer or something. See? it's not only the celebrities who wear sunglasses indoors. My father introduced the man to me so being the filial, young, strapping, respectful Thai lad which I am, I offered him a wai and he extended his hand out to me, I firmly gripped his hand and shook it. As I was about to pull it back to my side he grips it harder and turns my palm upwards and he says ah...soft hands, very soft hands for a boy, well I'll see to it that you get straightened out for that's what you need, boy. I've said this before, I like to think that I'm a hard man of the streets you know, getting in to fights, talking jive, doing all kinds of silly trash, all the while in my head a roving, whip-em-up good Guns N' Roses song plays but the real me is pretty much the antithesis to that.

So I look at my father and I'm thinking to myself oh no...he cannot be serious about this, I'm going to college, I'm going to undertake my pre-university A-levels studies and go on to law school, graduate, take a course in creative writing and journalism, write a book, woo a prim looking stargazer lass, get married, have kids, get arrested for lewd public misconduct, retire, travel and get cancer and waste away listening to the Ramones and Rolling Stones catalogue.

The recruitment officer told me, son, I know you're not born and raised here, I know you plan on pursuing your studies, that's a good young man right there. A lot of children don't get the opportunities which you're getting so I suggest that you continue with your studies. I'm going to give you an exemption out of national service for the Royal Thai Military boy but you'll be on call as a reserve until you're 42; barring ill health and unforeseen circumstances." I think I must've gotten a little misty around the eyes because well I'm a sucker for the waterworks, sadly.

Now we flash forward to the present and I'm a month shy of turning 24, a second year law school dropout with no employment prospects and quite frankly I'm straight out of going "In the Name of The Father and The Son" way, a drain on my mother. Don't misconstrue it, it's not as if I haven't been trying to seek employment, I have, its just that they're not permanent placements, there's no official paperwork, no permits and such so quite frankly, I do not want to get mixed up in something that might potentially be considered illegal under the scope of the law.

Conscripts to the Royal Thai Army report upon turning 18, and if they're chosen, they are subjected to two years of national service. Most parents pay bribes to the recruitment officers to strike their child's name off the list. Anyone past the age of 21 who volunteers will be chosen based entirely on the level of education and will be assigned to a maximum of 18 months service. If I do enlist, I think it could me some good, let's face it, I'm not the most disciplined person around. I hate authority which is a surprise why I even went to law school at all, I have an almost insatiable need to question everything and anything that spurs my mind. Predictably, my tenure would most likely consist solely of extra punishment drills and getting my ass kicked all over the place, that's the only conclusion I can glean. But, I don't think its a wistful waste of time for the unambitious though, joining the armed forces, by and large is always a good thing. This really isn't a last resort, boyhood, want to be John Rambo sort of fantasy, I think this could be a good, learning experience. Besides, how much better of a pick up line can you get than, Miss, tomorrow I get enlisted and stationed in the insurgent filled hotspots of Southern Thailand. Can I put my pin in your grenade?

You want to know what I think is a waste of time? Joining the clergy/monkhood, that to me is pretty much the next logical step for a mind utterly devoid of inspiration. Free food in the form of alms? Check. Tax-free monetary donations? Check. Shelter which I don't have to whip out a dime for? Check. All one has to do is indulge in a little reading, ham it up for the masses and speak on behalf of an ignorant god, as opposed to speaking of him.

Religion is pretty much the longest running purveyor of bullshit, Ponzi scheme in the history of humankind. So, me in the Army? Any thoughts?

Iceblended Bodily Fluids Latte

2009-10-07T05:51:00.005+08:00

Audio Appropriation : Guns N' Roses, or rather Axl Rose and his frat boy cover band are being sued by German electronic musician Ulrich Schnauss for copyright infringement as portions of two of Schnauss' compositions have ended up on Riad N' the Bedouins. I love Axl Rose, I'll defend his manic, bipolar and petulant schtick to no end but this is really much too hilarious. Had he not embarked on his "eclectic troubled genius produces electronica music" trip and instead made a straight rock record then none of this would've happened at all. I like to imagine that an in-studio Axl Rose works pretty much in the same vein as how Dewey Cox does when he was recording his Brian Wilson Smile-esque inspired seminal masterpiece. 50,000 didgeridoos, "Cuh-cayne" and such. All the same, kudos to Schnauss, getting your name known outside the elitist bleeps and synth crowd surely is a crowning achievement in and of itself because you're no Aphex Twin, sir. However, when you think of the time, effort and money utilised to make the unicorn known as Chinese Democracy a reality, it is indeed depressing news to even think of the word "sample".

One Ostentation : Celebrated occultist, harpsichordist and champion equestrian rider Najib Tun Razak gave his maiden speech at Unesco's General Conference’s opening plenary session Tuesday. The Malaysian leader outlined his ideas towards propagating, nurturing and eventually bringing the 1Malaysia concept of racial harmony to the world. He proposed that 1Malaysia is merely the beginning; merely a nascent concept to be followed up by 1Region and 1World. He concluded by saying that Malaysia is prime to teach the world how to get along for Malaysia herself is something of a noted leader in the areas of equality, justice and harmonious inter-racial dependence. And of course, the slam poet laureate couldn't resist bringing up the fact that Malaysia was helping Indonesia by providing aid and relief. I get this almost gut feeling that these worldwide summit meetings are very much like a global "Show and Tell" and that Najib is the showy but neglected do-gooder prat of a child. He sorely just wants to ingratiate himself to the bigger, more athletic kids in the classroom yet fails miserably because of his debilitating socially inept self.. Finally his chance came and predictably he carries the occasion with the charisma of a cadaver. On the other hand, its nice to know that his wife can live out her Sophie Kinsella fantasies, 4 days in Paris? Taxpayer's expense? Schweet.

Spam Suckerpunch : I rarely, if ever check my email inbox and I have 3 accounts to begin with. Yeah, I like overcompensating for things. Anyways so I was in my gmail inbox, just looking at older emails from the last 3 years or so. I then decided to clear out the junk mail and curiously, I've been getting a lot of emails a sender who goes by the obvious codename of "Me". "Me" seems to be quite an angry person who could do wonders for him/herself if s/he listened to some advise from noted super-quack Dr. Phil or alternatively, cut down on the compulsive masturbation. Some of "Me's" greatest hits are taken from the subject box of the emails I receive: What's all this mess about? Answer or I'll Kick You! I'm home alone Tupps!, Friday Madness at Mikes!, Want your stick to stay stiff? Make him sign it and dress warmly, Jolie under constant microscope observation, Strange question; but can you help distribute? What's in Obama's butt?, It's a torment for me, You Pissed Accountant Off!, You betray me, bastard?! and lastly, Marriage Details. I realise that I have rather poor sleeping patterns and that I'm slightly cataleptic but this is some Tyler Durden mess going on here. Help me, I'm really worried.

Jarring Jests
What do you get if your donkey ate my rooster? My cock in your ass.
Acne usually comes on a boys face after he turns 12, much later than a Catholic priest.
I've not heard from you in such a long time! How was prison?
Can I touch your belly button...from the inside?
You remind me of my Grandma except I haven't slept with you yet.
What do you say we rape one another?

It's a good thing you're short, when we have sex I get to do the Heimlich maneuver.
I've not been fucked like that since I milked Uncle Leroy when I was 7.
I'm willing to bet you almost anything that I can quit gambling.

Bite Sized...If you have a large mouth, that is.

2009-10-05T10:05:00.003+08:00

Excise Eruption

Dearly Beloved Leader of All Land Mammals, Hoofed Beasts, Aqueous Finned Creatures of the Seven Seas and former Dixieland ragtime bebop band leader Najib Tun Razak has today released details pertaining to the annual re-evaluation of excise duties for cigarettes by declaring an increase of 1 cent per roll, a 5.6% increase from 2008's staggering 20 percent rise. This announcement came with a fair amount of aplomb as the taking of the 2010 Malaysian budget hasn't commenced yet, not for another 3 weeks at least.

Under this directive, tobacco companies within Malaysia might or might not immediately increase the retail prices even if it helps to offset their own burgeoning deficits and in effect, the government's one as well. A spokesman for the Philip Morris company called the move a prudent assessment on the government's part in light of having to trim the fat of the land. Admittedly "deficit" in the context of tobacco companies most likely mean that their executives may no longer be able to afford topping off their Kobe Beef & Truffle power lunches by snorting their gold-plated cocaine mixed with crushed, grainy bits of diamonds.

Analysts estimate that at a minimum, the retail increase for a pack of 20s will be 20 cents and 40 cents at most. However, this isn't the first instance of excise duties having been increased ahead of the national budget. In 2007, three months ahead of budget time, the government announced a whopping 10 cent increase in excise duties. On the other hand, it should cause sweaty brows among the powerbrokers that walk the corridors of power that the incidence of illicit cigarette trade has leaped to 36.5% this year from 2008's recorded estimate of 25%. So with that in mind, I edge just a wee bit closer to my "tenner and no returns" policy. I've always decided that if I paid RM10 for a pack of 20s and the checkout clerk hands me no change, then the time is nigh to finally kick the habit.

Incidentally, when I was 10 years old, I had this t-shirt featuring a cartoon cigarette being crushed, with the bold printed caption reading "Stub it out of your life", a little less than 3 years later I was hooked on the heady mix of I’m not a boy, not yet a man deluded sense of James Dean coolness. It should come as no surprise though why an annual tweaking of the excise duty is so vigorously enforced by the government. Supposing, if marijuana didn't cause idiots to careen down the highway recklessly and maim or possibly kill innocent bystanders, if crack cocaine isn't an affront to all common sense, basic motor skills and human coherence, meaning if it was a partially safe gateway drug, then you'll have lesser halfway house ragamuffins to care for as they'd be too broke to afford government controlled disco biscuits. Yet, it's all about personal choices though; I’ve come to find that sadly, a lot of people are inherently drawn towards self destructive behavior anyways.

Crime Conundrum

Filmmaker and muppet doppelganger Roman Polanski has for a long time been teetering between eventual convict and exonerated troubled genius auteur. With his impressive array of films spanning decades, the opinion could more than likely be swayed towards the latter as his movies have always portrayed seething and wily, against all odds characters who present highly sympathetic accounts of the tragic human flaw. I’m a fan of his movies man, Rosemary’s Baby, Chinatown, The Pianist, it all just makes for time well spent in being watched and appreciated. I don’t think anyone with a functioning brain could actually dislike his movies. Polanski was last week arrested in Switzerland in relation to his outstanding arrest warrant issued in the United States in 1978, Just the bare facts; a 30 year old charge stands that Polanski, suave beast that he is, plead guilty to and was convicted, of being the principal offender in a lurid, seamy affair of knowingly intoxicating and having carnal intercourse with a minor.

To mildly put it, he engorged his schlong into persona non-nookie; a 13 year old girl whose mother he had told he was merely going to photograph for the French edition of Vogue magazine. His detention has sparked an outrage among his peers and people of note who are urging that the antiquated charge be dismissed and expunged in its entirety. Now if this was to happen, I would want it, if only to give the victim some closure. Tough luck, film-folks for there are no statute of limitations once a guilty plea has already been entered and recorded. Now I know and could semi-sympathetically understand why people go to certain lengths to get their rocks off. Some shave all manner of hair on their bodies and pretend to be undergoing extreme chemotherapy; others exude naiveté vagina-fearing, God-loving tendencies and lay it on thick by being the virginal saving-it-for-marriage-types to have their knobs polished. What I cannot wrap my head around is how does one go from Sharon Tate to Megan’s Law violator? Secondly, wouldn’t it seem suspicious to you that a person’s vindication hangs in the balance of his notable celebrity friends coming in to make the case for his release?

These charges aren’t spurious ones; it’s not a Lindsay Lohan Jagermeister-fuelled fender bender, its drugged defloration. The reasons of course range from the outrageous to the very ridiculous; oh it’s an ancient charge, he has repented, he’s a noted advocate of performance art and films now, he has endured a harsh life in Nazi occupied Poland. We are all lied to with this myth that there is no one above the law yet that’s blatantly false.

Since we’re already on the subject of pleading for absolution spurred by the contribution-to-the-arts-and-social-betterment argument then why is it that no one ever came forward to defend Michael Jackson? Why is it that, only in death was he globally lauded? I’d like to think it was all sincere but the bandwagon mentality does cast a lingering doubt over the whole debacle. No one is to say if he was guilty or otherwise, but the least they could’ve done was speak up. for the guy, in light of his evident contributions to music, right? Wrong, he's a taboo topic, Instead celebrities, noted politicians and activists alike found it something of a worthy crusade to fight for a stay of execution when Stanley Williams was on death row. Williams, a convicted serial killer and founder of the Crips gang enjoyed a certain notoriety (children’s book author, anti-gang activist, 5 time Nobel Peace Prize nominee) leading up to his state execution by lethal injection because people seem to like to champion this tragic and distorted view of “redemption”.

In death, he was regarded as a martyr of sorts, that his sweet demise was the impetus for mass-activism against a skewed justice system. Its very telling that people are running out of bullshit to believe in if they can find sense in holding a death to be significant of anything. If death holds for us all this sweet, existential release then please, the next time you get in a car, do not buckle up for that seat belt only serves as hindrance towards attaining exuberant joy of solitude 6 feet under. Yet, at the very opposing end of the spectrum, the death penalty itself is neck-deep in this idea of almost-Biblical retribution and full of legalized revenge and as such, it does nothing. It certainly isn’t a firm enough deterrent against crime.

Similarly, William’s activism itself too wasn’t pervasive enough to drastically diminish gang-related activities. To cut a long, long tale short, you do the crime, you pay with time. Safe for making a movie that tops The Dark Knight, coming up with a practical worldwide mechanism against poverty, famine and inventing a functioning Iron Man Mark III suit, I sincerely don’t think Roman Polanski should be absolved of any wrongdoing.

Buffalo Bother (Beef Body Parts Redux)

I’m a Buddhist, on paper at least. I know how people seem to propagate this idea that Buddhism itself isn’t an actual religion but more of a guidance science yet if that is so, then what’s with the nitty-gritty rule? Certainly anyone worth a damn knows that thou shalt not kill is about as urgently required advice as thou shalt not dig and scratch thine ass-cameltoe in public, right? Far be it from religion to gauge the heart of men and vice versa, it’s just alarming, and rather insulting that we need to be told of such things. Anyways when I was a child, I was told that because of certain “celestial allegiances” the Mattaraj household is not a beef consuming one. For years I longed for the succulent, tender, juicy, flat out orgasmic taste of having a substantial piece of meat in any of my orifices, before settling on the notion that a beef flavored suppository wouldn’t be a grand idea, at least not pragmatically.

The closest I’ve ever come to that was when I was around 5 or 6. I’m Thai and I can trace half my roots to the Northern part close to Chiang Mai, where it’s chockfull of salt-of-the-earth, do good simple farming folk. So I was taken to my dad’s village, well actually it’s a small town and somehow, even at that infantile age the romanticized view of the gruff, hard living, cowboy butts drive me nuts, Marlboro man must’ve already subliminally sunken in for I wanted to ride on a buffalo which was standing around near the outdoor picnic table, doing buffalo-y stuff.

My parents, either out of sheer bemusement or already knowing the preordained outcome, allowed me to embark on this Icarus-worthy effort. Boy vs. Wild didn’t turn out so well for me as I fell off the horned beast and bawled my eyes out from the pain, mostly psychological hurt as Thais hopped up on liquor will find absolute humor when peculiar little boys fall of buffalos and will reciprocate with well timed jeers and finger pointing. My parents not wanting to be rude guests, more than happily joined in on this too. Strangely, the participants in this “point and anoint a loser” familial pastime has always been aimed solely at me. I still tear up when I recall that incident if only out of gratitude that I didn’t end up like Christopher Reeves and that I wasn’t a trained matador at the time of the fall.

You mess with the bulls you get the horns, you fall off a buffalo, your parents commemorate the coming of age event with the aid of flash photography. So zip forward nearly two decades later, last Saturday my mother cooked curry for dinner. Like any self-loathing, useless, uber-douche, unemployed, in their mid 20s sons living with their mothers, I never really took notice of the meal that was to come until it was actually time to scoop and chew. Imagine my surprise when I find glorious, well portioned chunks of beef floating languidly in the cumin-rich curry. The flesh itself was tough and I duly found out why, lower grade beef, i.e. non-Carrefour, fresh market ones are usually pick and mix deals; they’re beef and buffalo meat together. I don’t know if there’s a special designation for buffalo meat so I’ll call it Beef 2.0.

Beef 2.0 is much darker and the fat that lines the cutlets are of a slightly yellow hue. When I was having that meal all I could think of was, this is probably the very same buffalo which unceremoniously dumped me on my ass a while ago and that I’ll never be able to maintain a vegetarian lifestyle. In one fell swoop, I’ve shackled the religious jailer for consuming non-kosher meat and I’ve settled an outstanding score. My verdict on Beef 2.0? The city-ruined, vacuum-packed, plastic wrapped, supersized, double savings, slick Rick in me enthuses that it’s deliciously third world.

Sir Loin Letterman's Lament

Perpetually guffawing, silver haired, Lutheran joke-machine David Letterman, in an extraordinary opening monologue, shed a shining light on his work place trysts and that the revelation of having a harem like selection has a nasty habit of coming back in the form of a shakedown attempt to the tune of 2 million dollars. In his statement, Letterman spoke of being afraid when held to the flame as the then unknown perpetrator was making serious and feasible threats to destroy his character by wanting to work the angle into, wait for it, a screenplay and a tell all book. Now hypothetically speaking if the movie and book did come out, people wouldn’t buy the idea of a lascivious Letterman for a second because; movies aren’t real and well if there's already a movie, why the hell bother reading the book, right? certainly everyone knows better than to believe what they view on television, yes?

Firstly, no movie is real. Also, a perfect man who is tall, muscular, well read, well spoken, athletic, rugged yet sensitive, humorous yet extremely attentive is also known as a unicorn. Did the monologue fly as jocular, wit-laden poniards into the hearts of the audience? Yes, at almost every turn, every inflection and every break in his monologue, the audience were laughing. Having watched the video, I actually find it quite amusing, because no one would've second guessed it that the details of what he was revealing was really pervasive. Large sections of the crowd were waiting for the ultimate punch line in what they thought was a complex, multi pronged joke playing on Letterman’s usual self-depreciating style of humor. If I had watched it when it was aired, I'd be inclined to think it was a joke too, it sort of feels like they were laughing not with him but at him. The joke was very much on Letterman as he had to come out on television and admit to multiple counts of being a serial sperm depositor. Talk about being cold-cocked by the raging fire of one’s own loins. What is certain though is that Letterman had a CD full of tunes performed by Late Show band leader Paul Shaffer and the CBS band and he played those tunes whenever he was dealing out dirty deeds as he fed the girl the old one eyed meat popsicle.

Strangely, and again, hearkening back to a highly permissive society, Letterman has been applauded for his frank, modest honesty and courage in admitting to these sordid series of unfortunate mix of “it’s certainly a messy business to be doing pleasure with colleagues”. I cannot let him dip his fingers in the cookie jar too much though because there’s nothing overtly courageous about admitting to an affair, not unless it was already thoroughly green-lit and there was more at stake, such as I don't know it being court-ordered to avoid potentially further character damaging leaks? He's a late night talkshow host, not a patron saint of abstinence. After all, it's just sex right? Wet sloppy noises, a well timed grunt, calling out to Gods, and a cigarette later, it all feels like a car accident. A sensible caveat though, I’m certainly the furthest from qualified to pontificate on this subject matter, which leads us to….

Longing for a Divorce

Last week, a Malaysian judge overruled a woman’s plea to grant her a divorce from her husband of a decade. She said while she was sufficiently happy and well provided for, she had decided that she could no longer feign affection and coexist with him and that their marriage be legally nullified. When further…probed on the merits of why a divorce should be granted the woman emotionally retorted that her husband’s penis was too long and that having sex with him wasn’t unlike opening an umbrella inside her vagina. I can only imagine that after that bald headed, yogurt slinger of an answer was discharged, the courtroom was filled with various high-five slaps, and those present descended into a crescendo of whooping, hollering and enthusiastic hooting.

When asked about this tricky revelation, the man said, well it certainly is a hard one to swallow given that he has always been unaware that he was packing that much heat in the schlong department as he had never been bothered to measure it. In the end, in a fitting slap shot to the woman, the judge threw the husk in the cornholer and ruled that her grounds in seeking a divorce were much too unique and untenable. Probably just to lay the money shot on thick, the man duly swaggered over to her lawyer’s table and announced that one of them is going to get proper fucked tonight, much to the encouragement and approval of the judge. I only wish that I had such a problem. I too have gone to numerous…lengths to counter this size-to-height anomaly which afflicts me. It’s so small that when I was born, the doctors proudly announced that I was a girl. My parents were convinced that I was a girl. When I was in rugby training, the running joke was that I was in the wrong locker room and that I would never drop towel because I was too self conscious to let anyone stare at my vagina.

Then as a final dropkick to the face, I was told that Long Dong Silver is not really that big of a deal. When I asked if “big of a deal” had connotations to theory or subject matter, I was told the latter and that bestowing nicknames like LDS was only to make me feel better. But overall, I’m not too well hung about it for it isn’t a mainstay issue. The least I can draw from all this is that I get very aroused when I’m cross-dressing or when I hear sobbing. Sadly, even then it’s only in transient spurts of half erections. You know what they say about men with big feet though, longer socks. They also said that you can’t churn butter with a toothpick. Whoops.

Gifted with stolen goods.

2009-09-30T03:51:00.004+08:00

So the next time someone you know IM's you on the internet, be it a random ex-classmate from A-levels English Lit class or someone you used to score the dozies from, please be kind and reciprocate their correspondence.

I did and I received Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol e-book for my efforts. This is a double victory for me, I get to read it and for absolutely free as well. Now those of you who know me can scribe lengthy accounts as to what a cheap, tawdry bastard I am.

The only drawback is that I cannot cosy up in bed with Mr Brown. Yes, that's what I like to do when I read books in bed, the morning after, I'll tell my sisters that I spent the night with [insert author's name] However, I really do hate reading ebooks though, blegh.

Speaking of getting in bed, you want to know who kept me up all night?
Bill Clinton. That's right.

Even with an existing heart condition he managed to do it.

Paint

2009-09-29T03:28:00.001+08:00

The ruffian who dances on swords
and steals opals from the sands,
becomes a reluctant contrite mess
when she saunters into the gilded frame,
a flower in full bloom and a jewel in the naked sun,
detached, ravenous yet wanting refuge,
so feast on me in the expensive language of
heretic marble crashing into a hut
the grand fall of a fearful, transient mind,
yet they want to be equal companions of bone,
of flesh and of soul
I closed my eyes for the funeral pyre
For she told me of a rare solace,
I closed my eyes for the mercurial ire
For she guided me to a second name,
I closed my eyes just for a glimpse of you
For she still holds me powerless.

It was going rather well until I realised just how pretentious this all sounded. Some lines are better left ingested in a dormant mind than scribed onto paper.

It finally happened.

2009-09-27T15:46:00.003+08:00

Oh yes you know it did.

I've always had this irrational fear towards it. Last night however, there was no evasive maneuver I could have possibly pulled to find my way out.

I hope it never happens again, not for a while at least.

I'm not given to fits of being an alarmist but try as I did to remain as calm as a coma in the midst of it all, the only thing I could think of was can you spell awkward?

Yes, something of that sort.

It's Blitz, It's Curtains and It's Over

2009-09-26T09:48:00.004+08:00

This morning I was, for lack of a better word, embroiled in a heated discussion with Jools about homosexual rights. I just want to quickly get something off my chest, if it hadn't been Joolsy on the other end the situation would've gotten rather ugly and volatile really quickly. Okay fine, I use a word like embroiled but really it was just normal banter. I like the potential drama-rama cred which the word embroiled entails though it gives my life this much needed sense of excitement.

When I say that the situation threatened to implode into pandemonium, it's not as if fisticuffs would ensue or anything of that sort. It is very telling of how highly attuned my sense of delusion is that I consider the mind-numbingly boring suburbs of Subang Jaya to be "the streets". No, no it isn't at all. All the security guards and the fences? Merely spurious additions to provide this illusion of safety within a nurturing enclave. Pfft. For the record, I would do just about anything to avoid having to actually throw a punch.

Now I fully understand his position on homosexuals, he just does not like them, fair enough. You can sit there and recite the entire GLAAD constitution on ethics of heterosexual-homosexual interaction or fair practices to Jools, cover to cover till hell freezes over, his convictions are still not going to hightail on him and cave in. To do something like that is akin to only trying to pander to anyone else's sense of societal progression or equality. I think it isn't uncalled for to view such an intrusive need to invoke and ruthlessly enforce this monolithic, all encompassing positivity as a bad thing. I'll tell you why I believe this to be a fair assessment; equality is a gilded ideal and well, this being the world we live in, we know that ideals are severely overrated because to take written words as the law is an exercise in delayed self injury.

Jools questioned the prevalence of this apparent siege mentality in their countless awareness campaigns to highlight how far behind they are in the equal rights arena. I said apparent or alleged siege mentality but fuck it, no need to seek refuge behind blatant euphemisms, let's just say it straight; there's a remarkable amount of this siege mentality in ALL of us, not just homosexuals. If homosexuals wanted to demand for equality, I say give it them, serve it up on a platter. They're moaning about unjust treatment? They have the verve to claim that they're being maligned by society from a legal standpoint? Difficulties in establishing co-habitation laws?

Your country turns the other cheek on your freedom of association? Alright, we'll level the playing field for you then, we should direct concerted efforts towards achieving this, you know why? It's highly likely, no wait, it's a preordained certainty that well before the gloss of this newly acquired plaything starts to lack in luster, the homosexuals too will realise that it wasn't much of a raw deal they were handed. I say give them all the rights they want because they deserve to be as miserable as the rest of us, this shambolic, preternaturally inclined to shameless greed coterie of cretins that is known as humanity.

All the same though, it sure as all hell isn't unwarranted for Jools to feel the way he does and the reasoning behind his conclusions and convictions are certainly monumental given the situations he has had to endure, both mentally and physically at the hands of a qualified sociopath. I will never, ever for the life of me be able to find the courage and muster within myself the resolve to move forward, had I been mired in a situation similar to his. To jump the gun and paint him as a snarky, hatred-laden purveyor of homophobia is fundamentally wrong as well. He's not out there encouraging hate crimes like the Westboro Baptist Church, he is simply not in agreement with the choices members of that subculture makes when they embark on this alternative lifestyle. Evidently, as with a lot of informed decisions humans deem themselves fit to make calls on, there are bound to be areas which are grossly overlooked or severely misinterpreted.

I wholeheartedly agree with him that there is no such thing as "a gay gene". I have read countless reports on the topic myself and this gay gene allegedly lies dormant in women and are hereditary by nature, ready to be passed down upon conception of a child in the womb. Bullshit, obesity, asthma, multiple sclerosis are amongst the disease that have a fighting chance to be hereditary. You don't have to on Mendelian levels of intellect to spot the jumbo jet of bullshit in this argument. Yet at the same time, I cannot conciliate with the theory that homosexuality is a purely inducible product of peer pressure and that homosexuals are "gifted".

Granted, there have been instances in the media, strictly in the Thai media (where I'm coming from) which have in the past, openly appraised homosexuals to be special by physical construct. They're allegedly more artistically inclined, they're more refined, and they sport heightened sensory acuteness and a varied assortment of such-like Marvel comics sounding propaganda. The difference is that Marvel comics make it look interesting and inspirational when they imbue fictional characters with those attributes. To attach those qualities to another human being based solely on who they like to fuck is a missile dropkick aimed at common sense.

Think about the type of intellect it must take to come up with such an asinine conclusion; you're putting homosexuals on a pedestal therefore ingraining in them this perfectly understandable human sense of entitlement to demand and attain more equal rights. In the very same breath, you're emboldening fundamentalists like Fred Phelps who deem it fit to consider homosexuals to be a sub-human sort of animal. When one side of the equation engages in this almost para-militaristic approach towards getting it's goals achieved, how do you think the other end of the spectrum is expected to react? With grace, guile and common sense? Absolutely not, we're all prime for two things, virus-like spreading of our populations and the continued over-harvesting of natural resources.

To say that it's cool to preach about and aspire to experience homosexuality is an argument which relies heavily on the prevalence of extrinsic influences. Take Hollywood, it's not exactly the zenith of cultural enlightenment and it ain't exactly home of the moral majority either, those charming fellows. More often than not, there will be a star who lets it slip that he or she has had a homosexual experience. Now should this really be taken to be a foundation on which to build up and argument which posits that such behaviour might be detrimental to younger, more susceptible minds? Highly probable.

However it only works as a suggestive argument, it's not as if the star is telling them to get out there and stuff their team mate's penis into his mouth after football practice when they're changing no, it is merely a confirmation that curiosity is part and parcel of being human. If a person is so firmly rooted in his heterosexuality then really, to hear of a woman fornicating another woman with a strap on shouldn't really come as much of a threat to them should it? Maybe it's not so much the threat of an impending "new world order" as much as the offensive nature of said act. To be fair, it is no one's prerogative to take it upon themselves to make judgment calls on what is right and what should be shunned at all costs, some even bring in the fear of reprisal and absolution from "God's loving grace" in to the equation.

Let me relate to you an incident alright, a friend of mine is friends with a gay man who was sexually assaulted when he was 12 years old at a motivation camp. The kid was asleep one night when one of the counselors entered his room and anally raped him; repeatedly. Now the kid is fucking scarred for life and suffers from episodes of post-traumatic stress. Do you think it's prudent to then tell him that he's a walking abomination? Or would you prefer to play the waiting game, tell him when he's 18, it being the age of majority and all that right? Sure, you can tell him that, but his first sexual awakening, as tragic as it sounds involved being butt plugged by another man, yes it's sick, but given the chance to have grown up the way we did, he probably wouldn't have leaned that way. I say probably again because it is such a gray area, while there is neither a gay gene to spur orientation nor the existence of concrete human influence to fully mold a homosexual, it cannot be discounted that such things can occur that inadvertently changes a person.

Coming back to the theory of being firmly rooted enough in one's own heterosexuality to not be shaken by instances of homosexual encounters, look man I can fucking safely say it with a hell of a lot of conviction that homosexual experiences count for nothing. I think it is highly stigmatized purely out of fear and misunderstanding yet all the same you don't have to understand it, it's not a government monitored examination where death awaits those who fail to pass, it isn't something that once understood, will make you feel enlightened. I don't feel this calling to defend either side because they're both guilty of so much, one side too willing to play the victim (unfortunately having been victims in some circumstances from a societal or religious criteria) and the other more than capable of filling out the shoes of the aggressor. This being the gray area it is, there have been times that I found myself unwittingly put in a spot.

Recently a friend's school mate who was a mutual friend wanted to pursue a lesbian relationship with this woman even though she herself was decidedly heterosexual. She asked me what I thought should be done of it and almost like clockwork, I warned her against it. My rationale for that conclusion is embedded in something that I experienced for myself. When I took French, I went through a few lecturers, two of my favorites being a gay man and the other a lesbian woman, Amelie from Normandy. Now I spent more time in Amelie's classes and since most of the class was made up of 50-something prudes, I really didn't have anyone to really hang out with. Let's face it I do that at home easily son, with my parents so naturally I don't want to have to do it with a group of strangers. So Amelie and I got along famously as she was only in her early 30s. She would tell me all these tales of Normandy and growing up in France, sneaking Gauloises from her uncle's table, when she rolled those insanely smelly French cigarettes, she'd roll me one as well, plus she was really lenient with me when it came to exams and assignments.

Now early on I guessed that Amelie might've been a lesbian but it's not like discovering Kryptonite by accident or anything, like I said its just a lifestyle thing, the rough around the edges way she carries herself. That was validated, ten-fold of course when I caught sight of her partner, a 5 ft 2, buzz cut sporting, combat boots wearing, pocket rocket of man hating agenda. She would glare at me with this insanely misdirected hostility as if I was trying to wing my way in on Amelie or something which is complete bullshit, I never started paying that sort of attention to women until much later. She had really crazy outbursts of jealousy so much so to the point where I wouldn't even want to speak to Amelie (I was 16 then and I get ruffled easily, nothing much has changed).

One Saturday afternoon before class started, Amelie came over to my table at the cafe and we had coffee, smokes and we just shoot the shit and she tells me the reason why her partner's so imbalanced. It wasn't rocket science to begin with but I just needed to hear someone tell it to me that these people tend to be extremely domineering in relationships because for a possible partner to come by, it is such a rarity, don't forget this is Malaysia man, you'd have a better chance at finding a Denny's than coming across a Pride March. I once had dinner at one of the lesbian joints in Bangkok whose owner is my father's friend's daughter, I did not even come across a single feminine looking lesbian, in fact I accidentally addressed some of them as Mister. I don't have to tell you how strange it felt to be only one of the 3 not very welcomed men having dinner in that eatery that night. Three weeks ago I was sitting at a coffee shop outside of Carrefour, there was a table of 8 women right beside mine. 8 heavyweight butch lesbians with hair shorter than mine. Now I'm not a pretty guy by the furthest stretch of the imagination but these women out-masculined me on almost every level. Now, that sits fine by me, I don't see every aspect of life as a competition so, live and let live right? Then something happened which made me feel belittled and humiliated.

The alpha butch of the group initiated a stare down and really all I wanted to do was sit there and enjoy a smoke or two in peace before heading home. She just wouldn't let up and soon enough, all of her friends were sizing me up as well, in their glare all I could read was a collective judgement, condemning my sex, the male side of the equation to nothing more than a soon to be antiquated notion, what with the advent and advancement of IVF. I felt stripped and humbled man as if my manhood was yanked off and tossed into a ravine (it doesn't take much actually since I already have a remarkably small penis anyways, its so small, it might as well be a grape with pubes growing around it). And all this just reinforces the already fledgling notion within me that all lesbians are like this, it's the gospel truth.

As unfair as it sounds, going by Amelie's explanation I told my friend not to pursue her relationship, not even to mention the attraction she felt for the person at all because it was so ingrained in me that all lesbians are man hating, prone to cling and potentially self destructive types with addled by a bad past and a worse reputation. I am not against such relationships and while it's impossible for us to be everyone's keeper, at least I'd like to know that I helped as best as I could. I hate to sound terse but those cutesy girly lesbian types who lounge around all day wearing negligees and wouldn't hesitate to get into a three way dildo fest which you so fervently touch yourself over in the porno movies; those do not exist, not even close and even if they do, I sure as hell have never seen them.

I've seen a fair amount of girl-girl petting and tonguing in front of me but it doesn't make them anymore lesbian because its just alcohol(another reason to go straight edge). When I told my friend that her lesbian crush episode might turn awry she didn't hesitate to call me out over it. I'm not even going to attempt to plead the fifth and shirk accountability here because it was so easy how I fitted into the prejudiced design. The end I wanted to look out for was that my friend went in with a clear conscience towards the matter yet at the same time, I relied on this time-tested, prejudiced, cliche-laden reasoning that its a world of biker lesbians out there. I'm not going to quickly make an about face and apologise for feeling that way because it is much too easy. It's as if you've just let slip a racist slur and you try and shield your guilt and ease your conscience by pointing out how much friends you have who are from whichever race you had just disparaged.

Be that as it may, I think it would do everyone a world of good if we just left one another alone and made like the eager, power hungry, little capitalists fucks who we really are as we pore and peruse that Ikea catalogue with our clouds in the sky, easily satisfied by the gravity pole that regulates our own omnipotent little solar systems. Be wary of anyone who identifies himself as a Liberal, Conservative or Bipartisan. In life, as in a study of semantics, religion, political leanings, there is no person who is entirely liberal and there is no one who is thoroughly conservative. Those who are caught in the middle are there because they find themselves with one hand in the sugar bowl and the other in the cookie jar. Call it a lack of conviction, term it as a seething middle path apathetic approach, it's just plain impossible to find anyone who identifies solely with one side of the field.

But I suppose that, whenever a matter of introspection arises, I try as best as I can to not favor harping on the same subject time and again, especially if it's something that leaves me flushed with this helpless sense of being stuck in a rut. I might constantly whine about it but generally a three strike rule applies and that failing, I really see no point in routing too much of other people's attention towards anything I might find to be negative. If I had nothing novel to espouse anymore then I figure it would make me a good sport to hold my peace for I've already spoken.It's not a question of sowing future cautions or preemptive early diagnosis from the other side, it's a plain and simple case of the dead horse being flogged again and again and again and again and again and again. See? Even you felt minor irritation reading the last portion of the previous sentence. My take on it is that we're too sloppy a species to stick to one side of the field, if we ever did so, we would've never evolved in the first place. There's not even a sliver of a consolation here, just do whatever you want so long as it is acceptable that your need to express your self and your thoughts do not encroach on others. I'm certain that the logic I employed above are chockablock full of holes and far from that elusive plateau of graceful flawlessness.

I'm sure to a lot of people, a homosexual lifestyle is very disgusting and please, express your views all you want. Just make sure the reins are around your wrist so that when you're nearing levels that are obviously below your intellect, you can swiftly pull yourself in. Then again, it is also highly suspicious to continue rehashing on the same issues and points wouldn't you say? Naturally all I can ask is this; who exactly is it here who needs to be convinced? You or me?

I suppose all this would've been much better and respectful said in person but admittedly, we're all such forgetful creatures. Might as well have it officially in black and white.

Espionage

2009-09-25T12:36:00.004+08:00

Why the hell is Google searching for my blog?
Maybe its just some automatic self regulating referral search. Hmm.

Mountain View, California is where the Googleplex is located isn't it?

I have this deluded fantasy that they're going to send a cheque my way for my excellent daily contributions.

Everyone loves their own brand though, sadly.

Briefs

2009-09-25T06:23:00.011+08:00

In Lake Kenyir, a canoeing enthusiast died today while he was battling the downstream current on the rapids because he had stepped outside the canoe to admire it from a distance. Victor Fong, 26 had always told friends that it would've made a fine Kodak moment.

An officer of the Road and Transport Department has been put on paid leave as he kept informing license applicants that his brother was a traffic police officer and that personal bribes can be forwarded for any prior misdeeds. Following this, supervisor Jaffar Mahmoud stated that its not a procedural mistake, it was merely unsanctioned.

In the wake of soaring unemployment, groups of dissatisfied residents in wealthy suburban areas have now taken to rearing exotic animals in their bid to curb rising burglaries and packs of wild dogs from terrorizing the neighborhood. Among the noble beasts spotted were 2 lions, 6 hyenas, 1 bald eagle, 3 gazelles and 9 alligators. The program is being subsidized by a weekly income from a day time petting zoo.

Area man creates largest bubble bath by unloading a tanker full of Lux soap into his family pool. Terrence Walters, of the Taman Seputeh enclave stated that it was a boyhood dream to be awash in a relaxing, chamomile scented sea of foamy bubbles.

A woman was arrested for defecating on board a northbound KTM train earlier this morning. When apprehended the 37 year old secretary stated that she only did so "to mask the smell of unhygienic commuters".

In technology news, a local councilor was today feted with accolades from his colleagues for successfully setting the municipal council's main clock tower to sync with time in the real world. Observers expect bureaucratic unpunctuality to be curbed by a staggering 43% yet have pushed for longer lunch hours.

A man convicted of a life sentence today was given a stay of execution from the hangman's noose as post-hearing deliberations were taking much too long. Citing a waste of the court's time and resources the judge weighed in on the matter. This resulted in a hung jury.

A local school cafeteria in the Subang Jaya area has come under fire as its daily menu was deemed as providing students with too much vegetables and fruits. B. Nadrarajah who sits on the Obesity Watch Board states that unless eating habits change, his task force will be rendered useless.

A Damansara area bus driver was today given a citation and suspension for commandeering his vehicle without wearing any form of footwear. Operations manager Samuel Tay contends that the authorities have failed to distinguish that footwear only covers either one of his driver's feet and that he was wearing shoes on one foot, although said foot wasn't used to directly commandeer the vehicle.Mr Tay will pursue a civil suit if this allegation is pushed forward. The authorities have assigned the case to be under the supervision of aptly named Vehicular Rights activist Melvin Garage.

A group of anti-foreign policy protesters are being held for having alleged links with last week's somewhat quiet riot. Speaking to reporters, police personnel head Reza Ghazal said, with these crucial arrests, we can now proceed to war in relative peace.

Local tap dancer and bourgeois-fixture Arthur Burrows Von Day-Goulash has pledged to tap his way up the flight of stairs inside the KL Tower for charity. The flamboyant tycoon has pledged to donate the sum of RM1000 per tap.

In entertainment news, after clearing a minor lawsuit of alleged weightist attitude by a size zero production staff member, 15 obesity addled, flamenco loving former school mates have now joined forces with media group Blitz2X07 to begin tapings for a new show called "Dancing with Smart 5th graders who are Fitter than the Average Stars". Auditions begin next week.

On the international arena, Thai prime minister Abhisit Vejjajiva today joked that he would be leaving a token of appreciation for his hosts upon wrapping up his attendance at the annual G20 meeting. Hotel chambermaids have been advised to adopt extreme caution as Thai food is known to ravage the digestive system.

Grounded: Commercial budget airliner FlyAway have filed for an injunction against specific performance as their planes were delivered without any attached wings. A spokesman for the company deftly pointed out that something is fundamentally wrong with this arrangement.

In sports, a local golf championship was today momentarily canceled as visibility deteriorated throughout, organisers to change name of Monsoon Cup tournament in order to woo more sponsors for next year's event. The event continued indoors.

Harry Potter enthusiasts were briefly elated when the Youth Development Ministry decided to endorse quidditch as an official sport at a grade school level. Unfortunately the program was axed over the course of the same meeting as costs of developing rocket powered brooms were considered "exorbitant".

Competitive speed eating champion officially breaks own record, celebrates long awaited victory by treating family and close friends to 7 tier wedding styled meat cake made of a 1000 hotdogs. Vegetarians openly shunned and ridiculed at once in a lifetime Meat Swords gathering yet Shinsuke, the 2009 record holder has steadfastly refused to apologise.

Malaysian government to closely monitor President Obama's healthcare reform plan and appropriate it wholesale and introduce it to it's citizens. The difference in premiums, availability of packages and freedom of choosing coverage for third parties are seen as the only major breakaways. In closing, Prime Minister and flautist Najib Tun Razak created a new terminology in propagating his reforms as The Keynesian-Third Way-Cllintonite-Flux Capacitor-Najibbian Health Reform Bill. Members of both houses of Parliament clapped and cheered loudly as Supreme Leader Najib led the singing of the national anthem via a thundering, yet tender ,soul grazing flute solo.

Footballer breaks leg after freak accident. A striker for local Pahlawan FC club today broke his shin bone in frustration. Syarizal Hamid, 25 had struck the woodwork a record 6 times in a hotly contested derby match and decided to teach the goal post a lesson. Pahlawan FC have decided not to provide medical coverage.

Insane man remanded after slapping child in playground and verbally humiliating a dog at a local town fair. The suspect whose identity is being withheld loudly proclaimed the child to be the devil's spawn and that the dog was berated and subsequently hit because it resembled Falcore from the Neverending Story movies. Furthermore, it looked to be of a winged, evil, devil-like stock.

4 teenagers were remanded under custody yesterday as the Ministry of Culture and Arts steps up on eliminating rising Vampire trends. While aware that this is merely a curious phase on the teenagers' part a spokesman stated "you can never be too sure with these undead types" and advised parents to be vigilant and to stock up on wooden stakes.

In other news, a man was arrested today at the One Utama shopping complex. Eyewitness accounts state that the man had mugged a woman but afterwards seemed unsure or hesitant to leave the area. Investigations conclude that the man intended it as a faux mugging to set the woman up as a damsel in distress, so that his friend, a long time suitor may rescue her.

Author worries that reading is in a state of decline, hacks into national broadcasting power station and reads Dr Seuss Cat in a Hat to an unwitting audience of 2.3 million via Skype. Authorities could file charges of trespass yet would rather investigate further on this suspicious Dr Seuss character.

In a controversial move, Subang Jaya residents representatives have announced plans to annex itself from the greater state of Selangor and rename itself Los Subang Jaya Hills. The young nation's flag will be teal, violet, yellow polka dotted and fuschia criss-cross striped. Residents are encouraged to write in suggestions on what to place on the flag and also, write and produce the national anthem.

Taman Tun area woman alleges purposeful discomfiture caused by St John's medical volunteer who helped her come around from a blackout spell. Kandace Gan stated that when she came about, the volunteer had placed her in a body bag, zipped it up to the neck area and smeared fake blood all over her clothing. When she fitfully resisted he merely told her to blink once for yes and two for no. St Johns have reluctantly suspended the medic yet wish him the very best as he embarks on his cross country one man, medical-themed prop comedy stand up tour.

Septuagenarian receives award of appreciation for providing insight after writing daily letters to the editor of a major English daily for the past 20 years. In accepting the award, M. Golkhar derided the paper as a phony institution because his past letters have merely been novel-length descriptions on the joys of writing his first letter.

A tourist has been arrested and charged with unruly behaviour as she continually berated an AirAsia flight attendant for having mispronounced her surname. The trainee accidentally addressed thrity six year old Deborah Lacroix of Maine as Madam La-Kroyks when handing her the boarding pass.

Insect eradication companies have today announced a joint task force to clear out a dilapidated mansion thought to be housing close to 6 million cockroaches. When asked about the logistics of such an enormous operation, Ad hoc president-elect Chong Lou Bahn elected to coolly respond by playing a sound clip of Al Pacino throatily saying "I bury those cockroaches" from Brian de Palma's 1983 classic Scarface.

And finally, a 7 year old child has begun emancipation proceedings against his parents for emotional distress. The unnamed minor told reporters that he was mislead by his father who had told him it was impossible for him to break his legs from falling off a bicycle. The child felt sufficiently humiliated when this happened. Additionally, his mother is named as a co-defendant for installing the faulty training wheels and lying about Santa Claus and the Easter bunny.

Umbrella Drink Death

2009-09-22T01:23:00.002+08:00

The moonlight reflects on the surface of my pool
Ripples and blooms, the moon disappears from my view
It’s so easy to see, the water mouths my name to coax me in,
The swaying palm trees stand to wish me a safe journey,
Bon voyage.

The shower releases beads of millions on to my back
Icy cold in the middle of the night, what could I expect?
Weary but excited I slither into the pool, in feigned submission
Not to wake others from their slumber,
Lullaby

The water is placatingly warm, how sweet it was
To feel a warmth with a slight chill that the palm trees
Send; like a gracious host, she blows a kiss,
It melted my skin and bones and found a place in my
Heart.

In those moments I was infallible, I was free,
The water turned an aqueous coup and
Drowned me, now I’m no longer there
But it surely was a tender death in my watery grave
That released me.

I miss swimming.
I should have made like a dolphin everyday when I had a pool.
I miss the solitude of the underwater silence. I remember how sometimes I would switch the pool lights off if only to have the near-life experience of plunging into the deep, darkened end and coming out, unscathed. Yet...its just a body of water.

Paperback.

2009-09-21T05:07:00.006+08:00

Dreams are not unlike writing in their basic forms. Both, on equal parts accord to me a sense of being able to have lived twice; in the moment as it unfurls and in the pangs of retrospection. In them, I yearn to reach out toward the straws and the stars of each spectrum if only to catch a mere glimpse of the eternal. I might be wrong in the various stations of life but there is verity in the thought that...recollections are as a concept at least, some meditative form of time travel.

There is no such thing as bad writing. There is no such outburst that qualifies as bad art. Potentially, in the heart of humanity, lies ample room for the misdirected and misapplied dregs of emotions. All this can only be known in solitude, in preparation for the yet to be born feelings. Occasionally, what excites me is the candor that wells deep within each person I've come to know. The potentially powder keg scenario, the transient mix of regret and exaltation. Regret; at the impossibility of rekindling that erstwhile sense of headiness. Yet, in the afterglow of this lies the exaltation of the impending magic. The kind of rarefied moment which draws from within us the necessity to laugh and to cry with our own writings and memories. The fluttering leaves on the side of a yard is painted and scribed afresh when it is redefined only by ourselves and rarely anyone else.

Art is no abnormality, and dreams have no purpose at all if it cannot compel us to for once be ardent in pursuing the impossible. It is a painstaking balance between reining in one's idealism in the company of strangers yet the tiniest wick stays lit and aglow in the familiarity that breeds not contempt but gratitude. There is a furtive question which I find, as every hour tides, this deserving need to be answered. Where is this gratitude directed? To a place, a person such as God or a notion in time? Knowingly, anyone who claims to have the answers to that is also the likeliest to be harboring a deeply lodged desire to control and pontificate. The only explicit detail in a sedated life is the crushing, pensive feeling of being incapable of love.

Love is the precipice, it is the elixir which we all thirst for and the only human quality that is worth feeling. It is defiant as it cannot die even if at times it is rendered transient. It teaches us that wanting to save someone else is itself an insuperable undertaking, don't throw it away by neglecting to love. How wrong it is to expect another to obliterate logic and toil away, oblivious to the state of vulgarity such a want could be.The Beatles were right. Power on the other hand is fitful and inclined to bring out the ugliness in us all. The powerful are rich in their influence just as the wayward artist is wealthy in her contempt for the material. She hastens to drown in the affection for the sensual music of ecstasy.

The unbearable and harsh poniards of life can only cease to cut flesh if we accept them as part of growing old. A man may only be pained by what he sees to be an injustice and soothed by the balm that enraptures him in the truth. It is only strange that more often than we can bear, the former traps us much longer than the latter dares to grow on us wings.

I reject all notions of prepared truths in what my elders have told me. When they ignored the unwritten law that is imagination and in its stead propped up the docile rigidity of ambition, they cease to see what our eyes would not show us. I have come to surrender, that in times of confusion, it is love, and not the foolish belief that agony inflicted scars will retain us from taking the fall. In that, lies and persists the only dreamlike state poetry can provide us with. I only believe in poetry from now on and subsist on the harlot of love who resides within. A lack of her would be the end of me. We must never lose the spark to ignite one another.

I never write into journals anymore, whenever I do so it's only to preserve them as though every waking breath bears a word which I'll kill to inscribe. One part curiosity, two parts audacity and equal parts agony. There can be no words in the absence of thoughts.

Too little sleep and insanity reigns, too much of it equates the same.

Little Kid

2009-09-21T04:01:00.002+08:00

Put me in a pitch black dark room with rats and you'll find that the waterworks come by pretty quick.

I'm a kettle with no spout.

I hate bad dreams.

UnShorts

2009-09-20T02:19:00.014+08:00

Festive Recognition : At the stroke of midnight, Subang Jaya area man Mohd. Eusoff bin Yaakob marked and ushered in Eid Mubarak by revealing his "pride and joy". Awashed in the over-the-top rays of Wembley-rivaling spotlights erected on the grounds of Subang Jaya Municipal Council's multipurpose yet severely underused track and field facilities, a 50 ft meriam buluh (bamboo cannon) nicknamed Gemilang Heboh (Glorious Commotion) was unveiled. For the entire stretch of 3 months, Eusoff, 34, a hawker by profession toiled and directed concerted efforts at constructing the monstrosity. The meriam buluh is a source of much merrymaking as it's decibel shattering output always enhances the euphoria of the annual festive season, especially among the young and restless. When asked if he was trying to make a political statement, Eusoff merely said this; "Now, now, all I have to say is this, every time Gemilang Heboh fires loudly and proudly, all the finger-less children can stand up and be counted". He of course was making a direct reference to the recently-formed and aptly named bipartisan coalition of J.A.R.I. (Just Allow this Righteous Incineration). Jari is the Bahasa Malaysia word for fingers.

Their selfless outreach programmes have garnered much positive feedback. The organization states that they're vehemently trying to educate and rehabilitate youngsters who have had the misfortune of absentmindedly blowing off their stubby little digits, usually in the build up towards Eid Mubarak. The sagely Eusoff offers, "It's all in the mixture of water and calcium carbide, if the children don't know the right amounts, who are we to swing the judgmental pendulum at them and deride the folly of their youth? I don't want to split semantic hairs on this issue but it is painfully clear for everyone to see that this is a most opportune moment to bridge the generational divide." The advocacy group's aim is to help children whose reach and grasp are virtually nonexistent what from having been dealt this cruel explosive hand, or rather exploded hand. Even in their well meaning efforts to aid, controversy was the order of the day as concerned parents focused on J.A.R.I.'s questionable rallying cry of "We finger the young in the right way". Spurred by the ingenuity and determination of Eusoff, the armed forces have pushed for the inclusion of high-grade manufactured Meriam Besi (Iron Cannons) to be included on newly acquired armaments, including the recently arrived submarines. While calls weren't immediately returned, a spokesman of the Ministry of Defense has indeed confirmed these persistent rumours.

Halting the Reconstructing Najib : In the wake of recent tensions caused by a minor two bit group of mindless hardliner zealots protesting the construction of a Hindu temple, the community leaders have made some sluggish and shameful attempts at playing the incident down. They stomped and spat on a cow's head while posing for flash photography within the vicinity of their neighborhood. As the controversy reached it's nadir, beloved cult leader, former gymnastics coach, amateur pyromaniac and current Prime Minister Najib Tun Razak delivered a moving, sweeping speech, urging for opposing factions to tear down the walls of disunity and learn to co-exist. He added that we can only progress as a solidified 1Malaysia if tolerance and respect are upheld. Hours ago in his rather lengthy Eid Mubarak address to the nation, Najib again languidly rolled out such construction-laced bon mots by intimating that we need to mend the bridges if we are to ever again propel ourselves forward to crossing the divide as a progressive nation. At some point during the speech, audience members were enthusiastically, if silently nominating their very own Kanye West in the hopes that an abrupt interruption would force Mr Najib to wrap his speech up. When pursued by the press in the lobby of the parliamentary house on the cow head protest issue, Mr Najib, placed his palm over his heart and in that oratorical voice of his resonantly boomed, "This heinous incident gives me strong cause to reflect upon the sorry state of our nation and also, this utter...or should I say udder madness needs to be remedied." On a more positive note, upon reading the very moving words of Mr Najib, noted WWF grappler and Canadian one man entertainment bonanza Chris Jericho elatedly tweeted "Thanks for the shoutout Mr PM of Micronesia! ". In a follow up however, a deflated Jericho continued with "It's break the walls down, not tear the walls down, sheesh and oh I meant PM of Malaysia, we're even then, srsly". Calls to either men have not bore much fruit but we are positive that the 1Kanye West situation is being looked into with much expediency. Rumors are persistent that the Ministry of Culture and Heritage will send a fact finding delegation to study Kanye West's interruption techniques. Although aware that this is certainly no time to openly court a tempestuous cry baby hip hop star, the Ministry remains adamant that the overcompensating, ad nauseum coverage the issue even received on CNN and twitter was too good to pass up on. Talk is rife that should Kanye agree to head over to our fair shores, he will be allowed to re-record the Malaysia, Truly Asia theme song. On an afterthought Kanye's representatives are learning all the local Malaysian profanities as best they can at press time. In light of Jackassgate, Kanye has made it clear that he will not tolerate vulgarities that are directed towards him, regardless of language and who they're from.

Preventive Wordplay : The on-going accident monitoring initiative has turned up some rather sad and disturbing results even as authorities were buoyed by 090909's star-studded road safety awareness campaign. Mohd Imran Fuad (born Horace Staziak) a Rhodes scholar and co-chair of Brown University's Bahasa Malaysia Fluency Campaign recently told CNN that the Malaysian authorities have done themselves a commendable job in raising awareness among the public during the often hectic rush home to spend the festive season with their loved ones. However he said that more can be done to eradicate this problem, with a specific focus on linguistics. "It's been all over the papers that annually during the festive seasons, a lot of unfortunate and grisly deaths occur on the highways, I think they should endorse a slogan contest to remind the people that they are celebrating Hari Raya and not Hurry Raya." The Lunar New Year team now have roughly 3 and a half months to come up with their own wit-strewn campaign awareness ads.

I wish all Muslims Selamat Hari Raya Eidulfitri and Eid Mubarak. Maaf Zahir & Batin. I hope you cats cherish the moment and have yourselves a meaningful time bonding with your loved ones. in this period of renewal and celebration. Drive safe and eat well. In fact, just eat. Don't drive at all, statistically, eating has caused less deaths than driving. Stick to either one for the sake of your loved ones. Then again...driving and eating at the same time? That's one avenue we all should definitely look in to.

Growing Pains

2009-09-18T05:18:00.009+08:00

I recall a long while ago I had a talk with a friend about what the future would hold for us both. Even back then at the relatively infantile age of sixteen he'd already formed strong opinions about what he wanted his career to entail. This included wanting to get a professional degree which would hopefully be the impetus towards securing a well paying job, being the man of the house and such like positives. I think I've been severely misconstrued with regards to that point. I don't hold seething disdain for people who have ambition. I may not agree with the merits behind said aspirations but all the same, we're only here for a short while so we might as well make the best out of things. Survival of the fittest, feast or be feasted on, Gordon Gekko's "Greed is Good" speech ensues.

I remember just sitting there dragging one Marlboro after another and feeling sufficiently stunned at the velocity and the almost shameless greed and the self-aggrandizing notions that fuel personal ambition. Yet in retrospect, my nascent conclusions were decidedly more juvenile and in this permissive society we live in, or rather the perspective of society which I saw from was very telling of where we have come as a race. Whether it be through fear, or unwilling submission, I just decided right then and there that I'd have no qualms about growing old; it's the growing up which unnerves me and threatens to pull me under into a murky, blanket-like ocean of darkness.

A few months ago, in the infectious spasms of sibling banter, I blurted out to my brother that I'll be so open to the idea of taking my wife's surname and also, that I'm all the better with the notion of being the token stay at home parent. With clockwork precision, the laughter died down and he looked at me, dead serious and said don't be fucking stupid eh, you're supposed to be the man of the house, the head of the family, you're going to wear the pants for the duration of that dynamic so long as the both of you are together. I was caught off guard so I just said well. um, if anything I'd always thought that the both of us would fill up one pant leg each, since we're already using clothing-based anecdotes here, I felt that it'd be succinct to fall back on that argument as well.

My biggest fears always stem from the fact that I don't know quite as much about human nature as I'd like to think. I don't know how to love even if I have spent eons trying to count them in the right ways, I don't know what it's like to propel one's self forward, to be guided by the stars in the cosmos, to be enriched, emboldened and liberated by respect, trust and affection. Sometimes when I don't want to pursue this further, I just take it that, I'm not nearly as driven as the rest of humanity is. I cannot find a sliver of satisfaction in having to be in constant motion towards some plateau that bears the pledge of betterment. I don't have ambition, all I seem to have in abundance are worries and troubles. But, being a creature of circumstance, I don't allow myself to get bogged down by that either.

First impressions never count for much, all it contains are words and garments, which is probably why we'd all be more saliently aware of where it is we actually stand if we're in a constant state of undress. I suppose humanity thrives on that sort of romantic folly that we're all just out here floating in this worldly purgatory waiting to be rescued. I have to say though that the recent spate of "average schlub living off his spouse" dreams I have been having are anything but giving towards closure. That's not to say that I'm against the idea though, I like the role reversal, look there's nothing wrong at all if the woman's more affluent or smarter than I am. Finances are skittish things, and in a public opinion, the skittish will never outweigh love and respect. Wow, even after all I have been through and am still mired in, I'm actually a closet pessimist masquerading as a reluctant optimist. As a closing point to this long winded aside, I really cannot stand people who fake vulnerability. Blegh.

And all I ever wanted to do was emulate James Joyce's The Portrait of The Artist as a Young Man. Failing that, my contingency involves me locking myself in a room with my dogs and writing. When I was 18, sitting on the sidewalk in front of Subway's at HELP, in the midst of my first ever (and hopefully last) teary eyed in-public confession, Kamariah blazed up a Sampoerna clove cigarette and asked me "what" I was. My smart ass reply was that I'm a complicated compilation.

Its nice to know that the seeds of douchebaggery and apparently witty wordplay have had time to lay asunder in my mind ever since I first grew pubes. All this is going towards sowing future wrinkles.

Stop reminiscing.

Fiona Apple
Extraordinary Machine
Extraordinary Machine

I certainly haven't been shopping for any new shoes
And I certainly haven't been spreading myself around
I still only travel by foot and by foot it's a slow climb
But I'm good at being uncomfortable so I can't stop changing all the time

I noticed that my opponent is always on the go
And won't go slow so as not to focus and I notice
He'll hitch a ride with any guide as long as they go fast from whence he came
But he's no good at being uncomfortable so he can't stop staying exactly the same

If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I'll make the most of it I'm an extraordinary machine

I seem to you to seek a new disaster every day
You deem me due to clean my view and be at peace and lay
I mean to prove I mean to move in my own way
And say I've been getting along for long before you came into the play

I am the baby of the family
It happens so everybody cares
And wears the sheeps clothes while they chaperone
Curious you're looking down your nose at me while you appease
Courteous to try and help but let me set your mind at ease

If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I'll make the most of it I'm an extraordinary machine

Do I so worry you
No need to hurry to my side, it's very kind
But it's to no avail
I don't want the pill
I promise you everything will be just fine

If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I'll make the most of it I'm an extraordinary machine

If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I'll make the most of it I'm an extraordinary machine

Walking with a Giant.

2009-09-17T07:36:00.007+08:00

Knowingly, I'll admit to this much. I'm not gifted when it comes to making friends; as it is with most of my inner workings, I run deftly on a spectrum of extremes. I'm either very accommodating to the point where it's quite a turn off or I'll assume biting condescension and make with the riff-raff, if only to ward off a boat load of imbeciles. The only constant that comes with that is that I am quite socially inept. I used to be a bit of a slut for company. Shy of taking a fervent cum blast in the mouth and depending on the situation, I could be your pal for hours.

Back in the day, I used to think that a support system should only be comprised of plurality; in that we all need friends to fall back on, regardless of whether I might be going through positive or negative turmoil in my day to day. I say friends in its plural connotation because I never bought the fanciful notion that there are such things as a "best friend". That's just the democratic slave in me talking. Then something happened as the appeal of a coterie of friends abruptly died to me. Very Orwellian in it's connotation; this sheep like reverence to want and satiate the charted course of any given group. The ease of it's dissipation threw me into a bit of a funk because I felt very crippled; what with having just turned legal and getting out of secondary school (yes, its secondary school alright, not high school, you idiots, try as you might to term it as "high school" you'll never be part of a Gossip Girls-esque triumvirate) and attending college for the first time. While the thought of meeting new and exciting, shiny people must have played quite a bit in my nascent, cynical 18 year old mind, I threw caution in the wind and more than paid it forward with often painful prices. If it should come as any derision to the fact, the least I can get out of it is that I've suffered my share of fools to find a really dear friend.

I wouldn't dare to think of the number of times I've summed up to myself that I cannot be without this man. He's made a firm believer out of me that friendship; for all it's trials and travails is something that is worth every instance. Whether it be when we're both mired in the heady throes of laughter or in the midst of juvenile pranks that affirms our inner children, I have come to believe that for whatever good karmic deeds I might have dished out, Jools is my closest friend, in fact out of the few friends I have, you're probably the best one. I'll never know any other person outside my family who wields this fucking near-preternatural precision in gauging my temperament and emotions. I appreciate it when you know just what to do or say to cheer me up and I'm definitely head over feet for the sudden seismic shifts in our conversations and exchanges. I’ll always be in awe of your snark-laden, well meaning sarcasm, your almost-cultured, elitist yet accessible pragmatic-laden perspective of the world. I hate it when people qualify their statements with meaningless one-upmanship but when you do it, I morph into a willing student even if it is something I know considerably well. I remember when we were 19 and I was so damn dogged in my need to shut the world off and I kept on insisting to you that friendships do not last because we're all slightly askew in the head. I broke out the same song and dance routine again and again and again.

In retrospect I could probably understand it so very well how that might have gotten you strung up to the point where you found it necessary to give me a well deserved dressing down. Throughout all the times when you have had your feet at the embers and the flames were threatening to engulf you, I have yet to know anyone who faces his tribulations with such grace although I have to say that you lack the finesse but fuck it, we're not Elizabethan and yet whaddya know, we're good peoples. Truthfully it couldn't have been easy for you to have gone through that sort of betrayal and hurt which led to a period when your confidence in people was stricken in a deep-seated mistrust. I never tire in the hopes that you would rise above your mental addiction which as sure as we are born, became your private hell. It was easier for me to push you into a better state of mind because I considerably knew it that you wanted to find within yourself this fleeting betterment. To be in a ditch and clawing at the sides, getting soil under your fingers whilst trying to keep your head above it all was and still very much the reason why I could never dare to feign admiration for your tenacity and character.

I draw from your sturdy resolution to find in me this errant, flicker of a hopeful spark that hopefully ignites the keg and amidst the ensuing explosion, that even for a cynical douchebag like myself, there's always hope for a tomorrow. I bleed to recall when it was exactly that we met and I still carry the burden of guilt when I laughed at the 18 year old you for sporting a snowcap in a country addled by year round summer. The moments that told me why you were a lifer was during an alcohol saturated collegiate function, I was scarily drunk and slurring my words, letting my penis lead me into conversations and later, ill-communication with other people. You stood by me hand and fucking foot all night long, nursing my inner diva with the patience and constancy of saint, St. Shithead in your case.

Here’s the kicker; when I said you were handsome (Yes, I remember it), it wasn’t a fledging Brokeback engorged sperm filled penis sort of admiration for your physicality but what I had wanted to say was that I really appreciate the beautiful gutter spirit which was inside of you.

What is important in relationships is what the eyes cannot see and what words cannot compensate for. The other moment was sadly, also another alcohol fueled moment of insanity and my tendency to be on all fours moaning that “the alcohol’s coming back up Jools!” while you stood by not 3 feet away saying ”Don’t go to sleep, you’ll wake up feeling like there’s a grenade in your skull”. I remembered that later on that early am in the park, the effects had worn off and you sportingly used a playground swing structure as a prop for your first ever (and hopefully last) stripper performance. Alright, just so there aren’t any nomenclature confusions, it wasn’t stripping it the strict sense of the word as no garments were shed (thankfully). I was sitting on the ground laughing my head off and thinking holy shit, this kid is fucking amazing, he’s not even drunk at all yet he’s already willing to go to these lengths to get a rise out of himself and us all so that we can laugh with you, as opposed to at you. Then there was a matter of you always being there for me, whether I needed to, in the words of Bob Dylan, “scrounging change for the next meal” or when it came to crisis control when my mother was hospitalized. You came with nothing but the arresting sincerity, concern and a barrel full of killer jokes, if only to get my mind off things.

Remember that time during the after party for the staging of Faustus and we went out and got crazy hammered. I was standing nursing a pounding head and also trying not to drop my vodka, you came over, drunk as a skunk (read: skank) and body checked me with a mid level, sternum crushing bear hug. The memory of that hug has gotten me out of more bolts of blues than you could ever imagine. I also remembered my pre-university A-levels days because I had failed to make the grade and was retained an extra year for being an academic moron, I would skip classes at the drop of a hat and saunter over to your block to hang out with you because I felt so unabashedly cool to be hanging out with a First Year law student.

During your second year exams about 20 minutes before your first paper, I was giving you a “pep” talk (sorry for sounding partially magnanimous, as if some silly, stuttering kid could ever deliver a pep talk) right at the stairwell murdering Dunhills with Deepa. As you were about to go in, I said hey man…give me a hug alright, I remembered the look on Dee’s face. It wasn’t incredulous; she barely had traces of negativity when she was looking. I remembered the countless hours and the moments when I would do something so characteristically me if only to reach that nadir of laughter for the both of us, knowing that you would definitely be frowning with disapproval or fidgeting with societal embarrassment yet even when you would heartedly ask “What the hell is wrong with you Tupps!?”, I always knew that you were meant to be that older by 2 months twin brother I never grew up having.

At a very basic level we’re opposites, you’re articulate, courteous and always strongly opinionated. I’m known for my tardiness, my derisory critiques and my inability to not hold laughter in. That old “she's fat to the point that she has to have a boomerang attached to the end of her belt gargantuan sized lady tumbling down the staircase” incident, recall that? You ran faster than Usain Bolt to help her on her feet while I stood at the top of the stairs laughing. Sure she could've been hurt and yes people fall needlessly down flights of stairs almost everyday, I'm just there to make with the laughter, that's my little responsibility in the whole fiasco. Oftentimes when I think of blazing up with the ganja police or taking medication for fun, the clarity of four simple words which you uttered make that much more sense to me. I might have strayed off the straight edge bus every now and then. I like to keep a clean uncluttered upper playground because you believed that I was better than to need to resort to that.

I always think I set hearts aflutter with my little boy lost/ poet wannabe, “nice” guy shtick and thankfully I always fail. However, you’ve weathered the storms and come out manifesting fortitude in approaching these matters head on. With this really confounding ability to be both understated and intense, you've probably been persecuted more wrongfully for ever professing affection to the various meandering, non-entity whatevers who have undeservedly captured your sincerity. They’ll never see the strength I see in you, they’ll never know the full-blown shades of humanity and humility I’ve come to enjoy in your presence. When I said that we’re never meant to know and judge people from afar I probably go back to that day where I laughed at you for sporting a snowcap and it fills me with this good-natured culpability and guilt (oops…had to bring it up yet again).

I remember when you told me that your grandfather had passed away and the unavoidable ugliness that ensued at his wake, I watched you drive away that night and I cried in admiration at your vigor and steadfast rock like resolution in letting things be what they are and moving on, even though it was probably the last thing you should’ve been thinking of doing right then at that particular moment. It wouldn’t be the first time I have shed tears for you and fucking heck if I’m all the better for it in the afterglow of a sob session then I hope it isn’t the last time as well.

I love you with all my heart Julian but thankfully, and for your sake, with none of my dick.

I hope that even if I have ever given you cause to feel distress and pain, that for what it was, it was merely erstwhile. I'm thinking that you’re most likely going to probably squirm when you read this and conclude that I must be going through one of my "weirdo Tupps notions".

I wouldn’t have it any other way kid, I know you love me. Just know that in my heart of hearts, I always love you more.

I know its a couple of days early man but
From one hater of birthdays to another,
Happy Twenty Fourth Birthday Jools.

Thank you for kickin' it with this slightly manic and perpetually snot-faced manchild for almost 7 years now. Thank you for showing me the importance of sticking with our convictions, thank you for showing me that it isn’t an alien concept to want to reach out and know a person, I'm not really down with this god fellow but hypothetically, agnostic-ally speaking, if there is a god out there somewhere, and big motherfucking “If” at that, I can at least hightail home and know in my heart that aside from my family, you’re one of life’s enigmatic mysteries and most welcomed blessings.

“I left in love, in laughter, and in truth, and wherever truth, love and laughter abide, I am there in spirit.” - Bill Hicks

Again, it's funny what a 15 hour train ride makes one think of.

Midweek Tunage

2009-09-16T20:33:00.002+08:00

The Rolling Stones
She Smiled Sweetly
Between The Buttons

Why do my thoughts loom so large on me?
They seem to stay, for day after day
And won't disappear, I've tried every way

But she smiled sweetly
She smiled sweetly
She smiled sweetly
And says don't worry
Oh, no no no

Where does she hide it inside of her?
That keeps her peace most every day
And won't disappear, my hair's turning grey

But she smiled sweetly
She smiled sweetly
She smiled sweetly
And says don't worry
Oh, no no no

Theres nothing in why or when
Theres no use trying, you're here
Begging again, and over again

That's what she said so softly
I understood for once in my life
And feeling good most all of the time

But she smiled sweetly
She smiled sweetly
She smiled sweetly
And said don't worry
Oh, no no no
Oh, no no no
Oh, no no no

Crisis of Identity

2009-09-12T21:04:00.004+08:00

So I'm back in the motherland, or at least what my mother would have me believe is the motherland. Don't get it twisted honey, the cradle of civilisation is Africa. Going by that rationale...maybe it wasn't that outlandish after all of Jamie Oliver to proclaim that he's 6th generation Sudanese. I won't feign affection for a place which is painfully unfamiliar to me and being foursquare appreciative of the gospel truth, I have to say that I am increasingly harboring bitter hatred for Thai people, contemporary, Korea/Japanese worshipping Thai people that is

I'm saliently aware that in a few posts before this, I mentioned that I don't understand the merits of national pride and rightfully, as much as I have tried with staying the course on the matter I still couldn't come close to indentifying why national pride is such a fixture.

Until now.

All the gaudy people on television have this sort of predeliction towards all things Japanese, getting all Pokemon up in my face, I believe the term for it is "kawaii". They gush with an enthused invocation of this extensive need for cuteness. its almost Elizabethan in its context. Now I'm not positing that its a nationwide dilemma, its more a demographic-centric matter because it seems to afflict the younger generation. Impressionable. Natch.

Supposing I tune into a Thai tv show (something very uncharacteristic of me, I prefer to read in my down time) there will be this effortless segueing of the Thai into the Japanese/Korean. They'll start with a traditional Wai (its a prayer-like gesture of reverence; palms pressed against one another at the chest level and the head is lowered towards the fingers). While doing so you either say Sawasdee Krub (male) or Sawasdee Kah (female).

Sorry I couldn't find any pictures of actual Thai people performing the Wai, and in lieu of taking a picture of my unsavoury mug in mid-pose, here's beloved mascot of Mickey D's Ronald McDonald busting out a pitch perfect Wai. Thank you American fast food company, here's one more served. Now, once that is out of the way though, it's an avalanche of cultural irrelevance. You don't expect to tune into American shows and a watch them get all Asian do you? I guess not, sadly that is exactly what happens here. Everyone's sporting massive JPop hairstyles, getting all Harajuku like its the season and another thing, in that assails my tender sensibilities to no end is the fact that EVERYONE is so obsessed with having fair skin. I know this sounds like its Old News Day but I've never latched on to this until now.

I was watching a facial wash commercial, and there are two men, one guy's using brand x and the other one has been lathering his face with Nivea since he was a fetus. A girl comes in to choose either men for a date and quelle grande surprise, she goes for the fairer-skinned, semi-caucasian looking guy. As the commercial wraps up, said darker, more, asian looking man wises up to the fact that Nivea facewash would probably send his prospects skyrocketing. Exponentially. What a lesson to teach to young impressionable minds.

I say that kawaii afflicts because Hiroto Murasawa, professor of beauty and culture at Osaka Shoin Women’s University asserts that cuteness is "a mentality that breeds non-assertion ... Individuals who choose to stand out get beaten down." Sociologise Sharon Kinsella posits the term kawaii as a derivation of a term whose principle meaning was shy or embarrassed and secondary meanings were pathetic, vulnerable, darling, loveable and small. In fact the modern sense of the word kawaii still has some nuances of pitiful whilst the term kawaisô derived directly from kawaii means pathetic, poor, and pitiable in a generally negative if not pleasing sense." Ouch.

This is all winding down, I'm running out of the proverbial steam to manage invectives at the topic but...you know where I stand. National identity, as a latent concept is pointless, but when the institution of it is threatened, I'm all for finding more meaningful ways at countering this problem, Before, Korea or Japan makes with the unimaginable and tries to annex parts of Thailand as their latest state through "cultural reclaimation". Damn.

On to another topic that ravishes and ravages my mind, I'm emboldened by your relevance, the heady invocation that makes me want to dance in the rain, awash with undeserved affection. Of that; to be mired in the insuperable mix of what was the past and what might have been, I don't want to relive that yet I am not ready to let this one go. I don't give in to delusions in the hopes of chasing a temporary high or an elusive whatever. There is nothing more I can say to embellish this matter, no more high-brow euphemisms to seek refuge behind, this is no longer a cognitive state of desire and should the very opposite of reciprocation rear its head then I can only hope that I am all the better for it. Had the shoe been on the other foot all this while, I would be unnerved.

Like you said, we're all just trying to live our lives.

Wings

2009-09-08T19:08:00.002+08:00

Alright, so I had this dream last night where I'm sprawled out on the couch and I'm speaking on the phone. I don't know who it was on the other side but two things were stated; I was getting married; the best man is going to be Jools. Congratulations man, not only will you be Godfather to my kids, you'll also be walking me through the custodial life sentence.

I arise from my beauty sleep and over the course of sitting on the throne this here's a little line exchange which I MUST have with the wife when she's gone all Juno and preggers. Honey, do I have that glow which expectant mothers have? Well...you have the shape of a light bulb, if that helps. Yeah, I'm down for that sort of honesty.

I was at the sundry shop just now to pick up some bread, milk usual suburban party of five, seventh heaven shit. I'm scanning the list and at the bottom it says sanitary pads. I peeped around the store for about 5 minutes and I thought to myself I should just ask the guy who runs the place.

Excuse me, do you have any sanitary pads?
What?
(Seeing that some people term serviettes as Kleenex I thought it'd be wise to follow suit)
Kotex? Do you have any Kotex?
Ohhh...you mean pampers for the females? Yes, I have.
Great, where are they?
Come, I will show you, the one with wings yes? Personally I don't like with wings but I show you.

Personally? You're a guy, why would you have a vested interest in the ergonomics of sanitary pads? However I killed the curiosity to ask right then and there, I figured that there are just some things which I am still too young to know about.

I saw two little kids, a boy and a girl sitting around in the park...playing with their cellphones.
That depresses the daylights out of me. Damn sheltered kids don't know the practical uses of having a playground right in front of their houses.

Not belated.

2009-09-07T22:58:00.002+08:00

On December 12th 2003 it was opening night for the HELP A-levels Literature Department's student production of Kit Marlowe's Dr. Faustus. I remembered being nervous as fuck all, not wanting to fumble my lines seeing as I might be nursing an extreme case of stage fright. It doesn't help either that I stutter like a 16 year old being forced to read a passage whilst getting a blowjob at the same time.

It was a full house. The kids who coasted on the matinee show earlier back in the day returned for seconds so that was somewhat encouraging. I remembered us all getting into this massive pre-show group hug about 20 before the curtain, I remember that Jon, Yoong, Jools and I looked like we were fixing to outsweat one another because we're obviously nervous as all hell that night. Then Cristabel showed the other kids back to the area where we kicked it between our scenes and I was left backstage alone as I'm the chosen one who gets the festivities rolling. Sensing my near-debilitating fear, Kamariah made with the most soothing, sexiest hug/shh combo ever. I wasn't so nervous afterwards, probably from having blown a load in my pants as a result of said hug.

I get up on stage and it was pitch dark; the house lights having been dimmed before and I just belted out my soliloquy as best as I could. Stutter-free no less, motherfucker. Actually mid-soliloquy I looked around and scanned the crowd (something I wasn't supposed to do) Lucifer doesn't just set up shop and look around at people mind you, he picks a blank spot in the auditorium and pimps it till high hell freezes over. At that very instant I caught my old man smack in the middle of the fourth row and he was beaming at me. What a fucking morale boost that was.

Post show we all gathered on stage for the curtain call and the house lights are back on and I can easily spot my old man in his garish red batik print shirt (I still think it's a horrible ugly piece of clothing) and he was clapping, making with the standing ovation and all that. Outside the auditorium we all had our little post play snacks and drinks (pampered little fucks we were for that period of 3 months) with the attendees of the evening. I remember grabbing my old man, taking him to a corner and saying, hey dad, thanks for making it tonight man, it really helped me out. I kissed him on the cheek after having said that and we hugged.

That was to me definitely one of the clearest, most balls-to-the-walls best father/son moment I could've ever asked for. Fast forward a little over four years later, I see him pack his suitcase for a business meeting in Bangkok. I loaded his luggage in to the car and my brother drives us to the airport. I don't know about you but I'm unabashedly affectionate around my parents, so I keep thinking that I'll miss him but then you know being in my 20s and all that I figure what the heck, I'll meet him before long.

As I load all manner of luggage and sundry on to his cart, I give him a long hug and I kissed him saying, I'll see you when you get back old man. Call me when you've arrived, dig? It was the last time that I would see my old man in about a year and a half. No return calls, not a single word from him. The bank account's been wiped cleaner than a sorority member's cunt after a little girl-girl hose down session and we're all left bleeding in the middle of it, wondering what had just hit us.

I met Dad again this year, in January when my mother went up to meet him to begin divorce proceedings. Now I'm not hurt by any of this at all, my parents love one another deeply, that much I can see but the thing about love is that the more you're in love with someone, the more willing you might be to allow the volatility of things to get in the way. They've both toyed with the idea of playing the divorce card even when I was a kid, so I suppose I should be thankful that they've at least had the grace to wait until we've all grown up, well my mom at least. I don't want to get into the long and short of the tale but on the last day, I gave my old man a hug and I told him to take care of himself, to eat well, take his meds, standard fare concerned son bullshit and such like directives. He looked at me and there were tears welling up in his eyes. I was itching to tell him not to cry because firstly, I never shed a single tear for him and no one did anything to him to push him out of the family. If anyone should be hurting its us because he left us in one hell of a quagmire, to begin with. Also, nothing hurts quite as much as when you do it to yourself. But I resist the temptation, I don't want to ruin the moment by wanting to rub it in his face and quite frankly, I don't really want to.

Well, in short, its been more than 3 months since our last phone conversation , during which I couldn't even get a word in edgewise. I've coasted in and out of consciousness of wanting to admit to myself if I have ever had a father but I don't want to put a kibosh on it yet. I don't get hurt easily, well at least that's what I'd like to think but in truth, I'm pretty certain now that no one will ever be capable of hurting me the way you did. No one, safe for my own kid busting into my room with a claw hammer in the middle of the night though. I shudder to think of that scenario.

Happy 60th Birthday dad, I hope you find what it is which you've been looking for.
I wish you all the best and that we can have some closure. I can only dig my heels and hope that I'm not as wayward as you are when I'm your age, recklessly leaving behind the only good in you've ever had in your life for your current situation.

We're fighting tooth and nail to stay afloat eh, for the next meal to come and all that. I don't make a mention of these things with much frequency simply because I'm a very private person. I find no comfort in these sort of outlandish "Behind the Music" type of lid-lifting because the world's a chockful of problems, what use is there for me to chime in with my little woes anyways? It's overkill and its 6 degrees of imposing rudeness if you ask me. Lastly I don't give in to the urge because I have never ever liked being in the unfortunate position of having someone sell his woes to me day and night, over and over whilst said "issues" have already gone stale in a deflated udder.

P.S. Jools, now you know why I dig Jersey Girl in such a big bad way, when Affleck shows up to his kid's Thanksgiving gig, I always feel like its my dad. So in a way, Ben Affleck is my dad. Hahah. But seriously now.

It's insane being sane.

2009-09-07T06:04:00.005+08:00

It's four minutes past six in the morning.

I cannot sleep. Maybe I should put the book down.

I want to converse with someone, talk their ears off with my incessant rambling. I have a few stanzas in my head right now. I should write them down before sleep takes me. Then again, I hate jumping the gun.

Photo stalked people on Facebook just now, I don't do it enough, quite frankly who gets off on things like that anyways? I concede that the thrill of it eventually dies out pretty fast

If a photograph says a thousand words then a thousand photographs in one single profile says one word; overkill. Tsk tsk, not quite the giving Libertarian are you, Tupps? Spent Sunday pottering around in the garden and reading. The best things in life are the things which you enjoy doing most, natch. Nothing free about those things though, sadly.

Don't you see, don't you see?
You're just the torch to put the flame to all our guilt and shame
And I'll rise like an ember in your name.

Weekend Tunage

2009-09-06T02:47:00.001+08:00

Stars
Elevator Love Letter
Heart

I'm so hard for a rich girl
My heels are high, my eyes cast low
And I don't know how to love
I get so tired after midday, lately
I take it out on my good friends
But the worst stays in, or where would I begin?

My office glows all night long
Its a nuclear show, and the stars are gone
Elevator, Elevator, take me home

I'm so hot for the rich girl
Her heels so high, and my hopes so low
'Cause I don't know how to love
I'll take her home after midnight
And if she likes, I'll tell her lies
How we'll be in love by the morning
I don't think she knows
That I'm saying good bye

My office glows all night long
Its a nuclear show, and the stars are gone
Elevator, Elevator, take me home

My office glows all night long
Its a nuclear show, and the stars are gone
Elevator, Elevator, take me home

Don't go, say you'll stay
Spend a lazy Sunday
In my arms, I won't take
Anything away

Don't go, say you'll stay
Spend a lazy Sunday
In my arms, don't take
Anything away

Michael Jackson Dies Again.

2009-09-06T02:35:00.013+08:00

Subang Jaya - Hundreds of fans turned up today at the USJ 10 police station to air their grievances over the treatment of Michael Jackson. While media outlets the world over have reported that the pop legend has in fact, died, Saturday's afternoon event spoke volumes of the famous media slips the elusive King of Pop was known for. A month ago, Jackson was given a star-studded memorial service at the expense of a deficit-hit Los Angeles and a burial at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale. Yet just a little over 12 hours later, Jackson and his crew of 6 dancers showed up at the PappaRich Café for an impromptu press conference under the banner of "This is Unity".

The soft-spoken, mousy voiced Jackson had this to say, “The recent actions of the police have forced me to retreat out from the solitude of Neverland and embrace social justice. The arbitrary actions carried out are disgusting and uncalled for, I believe in my community and I believe in equality the world over, from Madagascar to Malaysia, from Switzerland to Swaziland. Just as every citizen is entitled to his day in court, I too am entitled to take you all to walk on the wild side, HEE HEE Chamon! whilst grabbing his crotch with undiminished enthusiasm.

At high noon, in front of the USJ 10 police station, Jackson and his entourage started performing a medley of his most well known hits including Billie Jean although as he came offstage to be closer to the crowd, the rough tarmac surface effectively curtailed Jackson from busting out his signature move, the moonwalk. By now, scores of curious bystanders and fans alike had turned up, including office workers. One of them, Lim Koy Cheng, a lawyer had this to say “It was simply magical, when Mr Jackson last came to this country in 1995, I had just started law school and was too broke to attend his concert, the day of my marriage used to be my best memory but this easily trumps it” he beamed while fluently busting out Jackson’s famous heel spin.

The show rolled on without a hitch as Jackson showed no signs of being ill-prepared or fatigued. He belted out his and the Jackson 5’s most noted numbers, including Rock With You, Remember The Time, The Way You Make Me Feel, Black or White and Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough, Can You Feel It, Blame It on the Boogie and I’ll be there. Things started to heat up as police personnel surrounded Jackson and his dancers during the performance of Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’. They repeatedly told Jackson and his dancers “Encik Jackson, tolong bawa bertenang dan bersurai dari sini atau kita akan dipaksa menjalankan pertahanan. (Mr. Jackson, please calm down and disperse or we will forced to issue arrests) prompting lewd and invective-laden jeers from the 400-strong crowd of ardent fans.

The police showed rare restraint whilst the living legend belted out his provocative numbers Scream and Bad much to the delight of the crowd and even some police personnel. However almost simultaneously some officers were also heard taunting Jackson, “You ingat you ni bad? Jahat ke? Samseng?|, bagi sepak kat kepala otak satu kali baru tahu” (You think you’re bad, you’re bad? You’re a hoodlum; a swift boot to the head ought to show you what’s what.) Following this, Jackson was escorted offstage prompting the gathered fans to rain the policemen with derision and more invectives.

Yet as abruptly as he had left, Jackson returned to the stage and began performing Thriller, from his seminal 1984, record-making 8 Grammy awards winning album of the same title. At the break of the second chorus, about 200 of the gathered fans joined Jackson for a spontaneous dance off, yet just as things seemed like they were about to boil over, several police personnel too flouted directives and joined in. An elated ASP Noordin Yusoff shares with us, his views, “For as long as I could recall, I have always been a Michael Jackson fan, I loved his moves, his charisma and his showmanship. When I was younger my aim was to become Malaysia’s premier MJ impersonator but as fate would have it, my father enrolled me in the police academy. I fell in love with the police force yet this day has just been a culmination of my two most zealous passions. Dancing alongside the King of Pop in my police uniform was definitely a win-win situation, like flavor and delicious!

By now the state of affairs were erupting and several personnel members began shoving the spectators prompting Jackson to seamlessly break out into Beat It. At the climax of this tune, the unexpected happened; MJ stood right in between the opposing factions and led all members of the public and police personnel into a mass dance off. Traffic came to a standstill as people alighted from their cars and hugged one another, clearly rejoicing in the extravaganza of movement and music which only the King of Pop could bring.

He closed the unscheduled performance with Heal the World much to the adoration of the crowd and he had this to say “Today we have shown them that we are vindicated, that we can live as one and that I can still stick and move like the slick mother I’ve come to be known as, Terima Kasih Malaysia, I love you, OW!” yet as Michael was about to again exit the stage, a rogue cadet rushed onto the stage and clubbed Jackson on the head with his station-issued baton. The singer was quickly rushed to a nearby medical facility where he was quickly announced to be in a comatose state.

The head of police affairs had this to say, “Clearly from the video footage our source provided us with, we can infer and conclude that the trainee had slipped and while trying to regain his composure and balance, had fatally struck the victim on the head.” Controversy quickly embroiled as it was reported the cadet will not be officially charged with any crime but will be reassigned to a different state.

Further investigations revealed that “Michael Jackson” was in fact, 23 year old Avepates Tatamjar, a Thai college drop out who had one single obsession in his life: emulating the now confirmed late Michael Jackson. Police investigation at his place of residence revealed a highly meticulous fan, who wrote notes and essays on the performance and significance of Jackson’s music, dance moves and ideology. Police found several audio tapes of the deceased practicing and altering his speech to resemble Jackson’s. Along with this they found, cardboard cutouts of a chimpanzee resembling Bubbles and a wardrobe full of custom made outfits similar to the ones worn by Jackson in his music videos. 4 of his backup dancers were revealed to be immediate family members. Authorities have stated that they are issuing warrants for their arrests as they are to be treated as accomplices in causing nuisance and disturbing the peace.

His mother, who requested anonymity, had this to say, “I always wondered what it was he spent all his time doing, I used to think he would actively touch himself and pass out, taking appropriate breaks for meal times. Until now I had it pegged that he was just a highly shy and awkward person, little did I know that my own child would be the idol impersonation industry’s latest casualty, I vow to carry on his work by impersonating Diana Ross.” Our sleuth , one Wilbur J. Emmerson concludes that going by the circumstances, her name too would be Mrs. Tatamjar.

Investigations continue as this story develops.

Straight from the horses mouth...or was it the cow's head?

2009-09-03T21:04:00.006+08:00

I went out today to go into Kuala Lumpur to go meet a friend of mine.
Normally when I have to venture that deep into the city, I use public transportation. It goes without saying that the public transportation in Malaysia, as a whole is, a few screws shy of being anywhere near competent and reliable. They (the service providers and Works Ministry) love dishing out pleas and grouses that the public at large doesn't use their services as frequently as neighboring countries such as Singapore and Thailand.

If they cannot overhaul their administration and their logistics to render services which are so reliable to the point where I can plan my entire travelling schedule based on the timetable, then there really is no need to hurl grievances and accusations that the Malaysian public is ignoring the country's efforts at making their transportation system better. That is akin to me being an absotively terrible lover in bed and wondering why my woman's always using the old it’s that time of the month excuse.

At the train station in my neighborhood, there's this old Indian uncle who has a little stall where he sells newspapers, soft drinks and all that jive. A little establishment for a man who gets by on very little. He's been there long before I've started using the train to get to college and all that, and even now after I've done away with college he's still there. He's not unlike a local fixture, what with the latest scoop, just generally a nice old man with really bad legs; he told me that he's diabetic.

Around 6 months ago, KTMB started construction of 5 trading spaces within the vicinity of their Subang Jaya train station. Granted I didn't know about this because I don't really get out all that often. I went there today and the old Indian uncle's shop is behind those shoplots. Whatever his shop was is now a little plastic table with a box of mineral water bottles, newspapers and loose cigarettes. I was wondering to myself that his business must've taken a really bad hit due to the competition. So I decided to ask him what's going on.

Me: Hey uncle, why didn't you set up shop in one of those spaces?

Uncle: I submitted my tender but I couldn't get it?

Me: Oh why man? You didn't bungle up the paperwork did you? Did you submit it past the due date?

Uncle: Hehe...no son, its just because (points towards his arm and pats his skin)

Me: Ohh...that?

Uncle: Yeah, exactly, that.

I remember a couple of posts ago, I was all bright-eyed and annoyingly naive espousing that Malaysia is actually not a bad place to have been raised in and all that. It seems to me that any and every time I concede within myself that this country is actually deserving of more than its due credit, I come to find that there's always an inevitable rude awakening to be experienced. The concept of 1Malaysia, to me is a unicorn, it's been taken to such levels that it might as well be a mythical creature in its own right. Rather it has always been one, it's only now that we have come to see it for the farce that it truly is.

I still have some hope though, and even if that's a fool's hope, it's enough for me to get by on, for now.

Peace be with y'alls.

Midweek Tunage

2009-09-02T02:17:00.004+08:00

I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star
To pray on, or wish on, or something like that
I was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy
Whose reality I knew, was a hopeless to be had
But then the dove of hope began its downward slope
And I believed for a moment that my chances
Were approaching to be grabbed
But as it came down near, so did a weary tear
I thought it was a bird, but it was just a paper bag

Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love

And I went crazy again today, looking for a strand to climb
Looking for a little hope
Baby said he couldn't stay, wouldn't put his lips to mine,
And a fail to kiss is a fail to cope
I said, 'Honey, I don't feel so good, don't feel justified
Come on put a little love here in my void,' he said
'It's all in your head,' and I said, 'So's everything'
But he didn't get it I thought he was a man
But he was just a little boy

Flare, Ampang overload, Nick and Norah

2009-09-01T22:32:00.008+08:00

I went to the Thai embassy today in KL to handle some errands and it wasn't exactly smooth sailing.

A near 6 hour wait for a single A4 sized document to be translated from Thai to English and certified as a true copy? Check.

Rude, incompetent cretins dishing out overpriced but ultimately shoddy, half-assed work, including spelling errors et al? Check.

Not to sound halfway around presumptious or anything but I am fairly certain that any of you who has been mired in administrative related bollocks before would definitely develop some smarts and some tolerance towards such things. After all, no visit to a government-related department is complete without the inevitable fuck-ups, right?

But far from it, what happened today makes printing errors seem extremely juvenile by contrast. I returned to the embassy after their majesties have partaken in their midday meals. The consular office was completely empty, safe for the dickhead who curtly told me off that he didn't have a pen. As my brother approached the counter he drew the blinds near-shut and motioned with his hands for my brother to return to his seat. I'm not one of those idiots who assumes that EVERYONE in the Thai embassy is supposed to converse in Thai, and neither am I for it. It's just plain silly, sure an attack on an embassy is akin to an attack on its country of origin but...having to impose this Thai only rule? Pointless. But idiots do think about restrictions like that.

Not that it mattered but I think the staff or rather this particular member of the staff was really going out of his way to be rude because I was conversing to my brother in English. I made enquiries to him in English, I get my responses in Bahasa, I make with the 20 questions in Thai, I get my responses in Bahasa. Throw in the fact that he's fasting as well for Ramadhan and you pretty much get a definitive picture of what I'm trying to convey.

So fine, my brother returns to his seat and waits. Not 2 minutes later, a white man strolls in and judging by his accent he's decidedly Irish. Fine by me. Take a number and get in line son. Except that he doesn't, he just saunters towards the counter and lo and fuckin' behold, the dickhead behind the counter opens the blinds and attends to him as if he were a visiting dignitary or James Joyce himself. Take a number? Absofuckinglutely not.

I wasn't dressed to the nines but I maintain that I appeared decent enough. All that was evidently futile as I couldn't even hold a candle to a backpacker in a tshirt, cargo shorts and flip flops. I'm going to save my judgements against the white guy though, he doesn't know any better, I mean if the shoe was on the other foot, I wouldn't make much of it either. Heck I'd even do what he did which was to commend them on their excellent service.

I hate this white worship mindset which plagues certain people. I see it in Thailand, very rampantly and I see it here in Malaysia as well. Still you wonder why certain caucasians who come here walk around with this scumbag air of entitlement? It's because some people bend over in a heartbeat and are more than willing to take it up the tailpipe. I'll whine and I'll bitch about all this yet I cannot escape the fact that I'm quarter english by way of my maternal grandfather. To me that's just bollocks details, the end result of two people fucking. I don't fucking feel the need to tell the world about it because it's not going to do jackshit for me now is it? I'm absolutely tiffed when people imply things by giving out their genetic make, I hate it when I see asians giving way to whites at the train station, Carrefour, etc.

Two back to back days of having to go in to Kuala Lumpur is honestly much too taxing for a simple minded cunt who prefers the anonymity of the Subang 'burbs. I usually like going to Ampang, it always brings back some really good memories but I was really out of it today.

I ain't the pope of mope though because it wasn't all that bad. Finally watched Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist (Thanks for having me over at your place, Jools). I wasn't really sold at first, because of the...seemingly escalating quirky/indie quotient, I suppose? You know what I'm speaking about, those sort of indie instances when it just feels too self aware and contrived. Hamburger phone, sippin' on Sunny D, sitting on an armchair outside on someone's lawn, smoking a pipe, ringing any bells yet? Yeah. I've probably watched Juno close to about 112464759562 times yet I still can't shake the enforced quirkiness and certain aspects of the dialogue. I'm only mentioning Juno because Michael Cera was in it and he plays the titular Nick in NANIP.

Thankfully he has cut back loads on the sputtering, awkward, orange tic-tac consuming, man-child schtick. Good supporting cast, actually I think the best scenes in the movie don't really involve Nick and Norah at all. Very good soundtrack as well, even though I've not heard it in full, I really dig that tune which is playing when they drive to Brooklyn. At times though the movie does feel as if it's just plodding along but Michael Cera and Kat Dennings indecisive mode of flirting and talking around one another serves as entertaining fodder whilst the next plot point is rearing its head. Two things that surprise me, firstly, they always seem to find parking space. The other is the fact that Norah's friend is walking around inebriated but nothing criminally bad happens to her, blonde teenager, drunk as a skunk, walking around after midnight in New York. The font used in the opening credits looks like the one used in Juno, the movie itself was probably marketed as Juno 2 or something. I'm uncertain if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Oh what the heck, It's a rather....should I say, Fluffy movie? (hehe, inside jokes) Well, it doesn't take itself too seriously and it is what it is. I feared that it would be one of those overwrought sappy rom-com uber indie types but praise be to moderation, it wasn't. I still maintain though, personally, the best romantic movie is Frankie and Johnny. Only because it feels authentic.

Bean Counter & Quotable

2009-08-31T06:01:00.005+08:00

22 posts in the month of August alone.

Someone has been a mouthy, wordy and opinionated little cunt-rag twat hasn't he?

Yes he has.

"Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it."
-Mark Twain.

I've come to realise that a large amount of the quotes that I love and find good humor in the most come from either, comedians or writers. I'd like to believe that somewhere in there is Noam Chomsky.

Hari Merdeka

2009-08-31T04:59:00.005+08:00

Today the people of Malaysia celebrate their nation's 52nd Independence day. Now, how exactly does a country commemorate their collective achievements thus far? After all, it is the very day when they assumed independent statehood, right? They have become sovereign in their own right, unfettered and unencumbered.

What usually goes down is that families will gather at venues of prominence, listen to speeches, wave flags and watch the parade go by, if you're lucky, there might even be fireworks. Now that of course is perfectly fine, it is a day of celebration. Who is going to want to get into an intellectual debate about how far the nation has grown in terms of progressive performance whether in a social economic context, or political growth and expansion, human rights and all such like heavy issues?

While very few would actually answer that in the affirmative, I have to say that it's quite reckless to whimsically assume that any Independence day celebration can be concluded and comprehended by the simple act of waving flags and shouting evocations of affection towards one's own flag and country.

People, being the flawed creatures that we are, tend to forget rather easily. If there's any inherent danger at all in forgetting something, then a surefire trap definitely lies in waiting when we forget our own history. The struggles of our forefathers in imbuing our landscape with virtues, righteous integrity and merit-laden character that is worthy of being called exemplary is bound to be overshadowed by the noise and the confetti. I'm not saying don't have your fun, go ahead, watch all the 15Malaysia movies if you want to, make it through the entire day by conversing in Bahasa if you deem it a proper tribute.

Never forget though that independence is something to be cherished, that the freedoms you enjoy aren't to be taken for granted as there are countless others who face stark and harsh conditions every single day of their lives. There is no need to over idealize it, simply remember it as a day where hanging on to old ideals will only make progress untenable. In its stead, you should think of Merdeka simply as a day of renewed vigor and goodness, where the once-improbable can become possible, I know it sounds overwrought and painfully naive, but that is what Malaysia should be about.

It transcends political party lines, partisan ideologies, race, religion, and orientation, what have you. Don't squander it.

To any of you who seem to have an affinity towards pouring sardonic scorn over the meaning of Merdeka, if your conviction rightly matches the temerity of your words then, quite simply, just get the hell out, no one's forcing you to stay. Go back to anywhere it was that you felt most comfortable. Just don't use it as a day to politicize your agendas. Any nation without its own strife and problems is better off being a wasteland for soul-dead people..

I'm not Malaysian myself, not officially by way of documentation and all that yet this is the only home I have ever known.

P.S. On the 31st of August 1957 while ushering in the birth of a nation, Tunku Abdul Rahman shouted Merdeka 7 times yeah, not 3 as it is widely believed through inaccurate depictions on television. Also, the prime minister and his wife aren't the "first" couple of Malaysia, hierarchical respect and accordance should never be made to give way to lame attempts by the central media at glamorizing anyone.

The "first couple" denomination is reserved for The Yang di-Pertuan Agong and his spouse. Lastly, don't get it twisted; Merdeka is Independence Day, not National Day. The latter is for patriotic celebrations that aren't linked with any actual gaining of independence.

With that, Selamat Menyambut Hari Merdeka to all Malaysians.

Minor Kierkegaardianism.

2009-08-30T02:53:00.000+08:00

I was out just now with my sisters; we were speaking in Thai and this little exchange ensues as a lady walks up to me:

Lady : Are you the Thailand?
Me: I beg your pardon?
L: You are the Thailand, yes?
M: Ohh…no, I’m not Thailand but I am Thai.
L: Ahh…like that? So very special and…nice. [walks away]

Now at times I can become extremely self conscious. I know that I don’t pack much heat to begin with and that I am large, ungainly and quite probably, highly un-Herculean. But is there really a need then to compare me to a goddamn country? "Oh you’re not large, but you do remind me of a country", that comes within the territory of saying "Don't fret honey, you look great…besides its getting dark anyways."

I dread to imagine what it would do for the confidence of Thailand's mental state were I to be the very embodiment of it's demographic. Imagine that, a country composed of neurotic, unemployable 23 year old virgins who have an innate fear of driving and growing up. Nothing advertises progress like a nation that's three bricks shy of a full load. Maybe I’m just picking at the nitty-gritty of bad language. However, you wouldn’t go around calling Scottish people Scotch now, would you?

Comparisons by default are methods to strip a person of their accrued identity. You have to admit to that much, who you are isn’t based on one little acid test, you look around and pick up on what your curiosities lead you towards; its like being at the tailor's, a little change here at the cuffs, some slight alterations there in the hem and the lapel, all in the name of getting that outer suit to fit as best it can. That's probably why our honesties come up in flushes and troves when we are completely in the nude. Safe for a well placed pillow, a huge plush toy or a belt with a very large buckle, you'd have nothing else to hide behind.

Fledging insanities, Faustian theories, this is neither hell nor am I out of it.

A man is all the better for life with a hand up, not a hand out as there is no lesson in choosing undeserved charity over earnest hard work. Label me and you shall negate me.

Sadly, I don't bounce back as well as I used to.

Not on Uppers.

2009-08-29T07:09:00.007+08:00

I've not slept in a while and generally the consumption of food is just something I involuntarily indulge in at the behest of my overly-worried-I'm-convinced-that-she’s-half-Jewish mother.

Only 5 more hours to that interview. Apparently you're not supposed to walk in to a battle without first convincing yourself that you can't win it. So would you please tell me, what the fuck kind of take no prisoners Rahm Emmanuel bullshit is that? I am disgusted by this incessant human drive for competition, to steal, to bicker and to puncture holes deep within our own souls. The spirit of competition itself is a distant ghost. All it's goodwill was interred with its bones.

Maybe I'm just upset at having been given a talk down. As a disclaimer of sorts, I'll admit to this much; I hate rules and I abhor regulations. Once you lay out rules for me, its almost like clockwork that I should go out of my way to shatter the supposed veil of security which rules apparently provide. To be handed a sort of script that implies a certain notion of me having been mentally predisposed to join in on your little good luck, happy-happy joy joy academy is worth about as much as a vomit finger painting done by a drunkard with bad spatial perception.

Or it could be that I was forced to shave off a mustache that has recently found some recognition. But no. I don't indulge in the petty, pretty, emotional thievery.

Noel Gallagher's quit Oasis. I've always liked Liam better as a personality because I always root for the dickhead, being a highly accomplished one myself. But let's face facts, Noel's the John Lennon of the band. Liam's just a whimsical, egotist with a powerful pair of lungs who’s given to frequent foursquare outbursts of petulant tantrums.

I read Jerry Seinfeld's Seinlanguage last night, funny book, sharp insights and observations in to the little things you and I are obviously not free enough to sit around and think about.

I began reading Clinton's My Life again, so good thus far although Slick Rick does have this inability to stick to a certain topic at any given length.

I need new books. I need to be saved. I need someone to absorb my manic instabilities.

As an aside, if any of you are out today championing on the positives of kitten adoption, then more power to you, eventhough you don't really like them kitty kats.

No holds barred.

2009-08-28T00:05:00.002+08:00

They say it's unnatural for a person to forget someone.

I'm not invoking any caveat here.

Go ahead. Try me.

Pleased to Meet You

2009-08-27T23:35:00.003+08:00

I want to strip myself of everyone
To be amazed at the nothingness
It might force me to cower like a puppy,
Yet what does it matter to you?

In the face of emptiness,
I want to look at something that can't be seen,
A mutual grace, a simple, affirming hug
Yet all I'm good at is dishing out confusion

Maybe it will be better the next time
So hedge your bets because people wheel in and out
Everyday, I bleed to build up on my refrain
Yet you wouldn't know victory if you've never lost,

Time and again I am charmed by the child of memories,
To be caught in a coma, a crushing plight, to rake
At the minute hand within a clock
Yet isn't it easy to be hungry when you have nothing to lose?

So wash my hands and seal my fate,
Don't leave me puzzled and wanting of god's watchful eye,
For all I wanted was to never treat misery as company,
Yet why don't you point to the nature of my game?

More Tunage

2009-08-27T19:23:00.002+08:00

Jeff Buckley
Grace

there's the moon asking to stay
long enough for the clouds to fly me away
well it's my time coming,
i'm not afraid to die

my fading voice sings of love,
but she cries to the clicking of time oh, time
wait in the fire...

and she weeps on my arm
walking to the bright lights in sorrow
oh drink a bit of wine
we both might go tomorrow
oh my love

and the rain is falling and
i believe my time has come
it reminds me of the pain
i might leave leave behind
wait in the fire...

and i feel them drown my name
so easy to know and forget with this kiss
i'm not afraid to go but it goes so slow

Tunage

2009-08-24T13:34:00.001+08:00

Tears For Fears
Head Over Heels
Songs From the Big Chair

I wanted to be with you alone
And talk about the weather
But traditions I can trace against the child in your face
Won't escape my attention
You keep your distance with a system of touch
And gentle persuasion
I'm lost in admiration could I need you this much?

Oh, you're wasting my time
You're just wasting time
Something happens and I'm head over heels
I never find out till I'm head over heels
Something happens and I'm head over heels
Ah don't take my heart
Don't break my heart
Don't throw it away

I made a fire and watching burn
Thought of your future
With one foot in the past now just how long will it last?
No no no have you no ambition
My mother and my brothers used to breathe in clean in air
And dreaming I'm a doctor
It's hard to be a man when there's a gun in your hand
Oh I feel so...

Something happens and I'm head over heels
And this my four leaf clover
I'm on the line, one open mind
This is my four leaf clover

In my mind's eye
One little boy, one little man
Funny how...

Time flies

Optimist

2009-08-19T02:09:00.007+08:00

Everyone's dressed differently nowadays but the die-cast mold still holds up.

As long as my core never changes then I see no need for alterations.

I won't feign munificence though.

Everything about growing up scares me.

Marquee Canvas Playground

2009-08-18T07:58:00.004+08:00

I can’t put my harms around a memory
So if I ever get out of here,
Maybe I’ll do it on feet, one in front of the other,
Like we’re paying due respect to
Ticket takers at the movies as they tear our stubs;

Stop, and chance upon primal achievers,
Of sand-like, freshly shaved chins and dubious ill-believers
Filled with non-daily dreamers from the popcorn stand,
So if I ever get out from here
To There; fate’s but what isn’t of your own making,

Hauling regrets across step ruined cobblestones,
I’m thinking about the stellar in what you need
And what I knew was filling you like gap toothed
Little hunters, strapped with arms to revolt at
Our locked door, our demised, domed domain,

Foraging for heady mixes of the cheery and the sedated,
We are lemmings with no cliffs to jump off
Yet they will kindly take away and scurry
Downwards along the phosphorescent lit, rail-ready staircases,
So if you ever want to get out of here,

Tell the taxman and the government son; fill my stained, empty
Cup with a raging potable, my portable rage, cupped for soiled
Tendencies as I stand for the vexed, the cradled and the
Virtually un-available as your one true sun-tzu will speak of
Laments, haikus and ways to get out of losing a battle,

Prattle on as nothing stays the same, for better or worse,
We’re just terse, saliently ruthless and ferocious gnomes
Swaying in the breeze of the bay and the clandestine
Come-whatever-may, considerably my heart’s just a bloody pump,
Pomp, steady blackened tar-smeared romps on your end street,

At the front of my ribbon, I’m about to get my stub torn,
So if I ever get out of here, put your fingers around mine,
Confetti flingers and old-time stage sinners, cigarette burns pockmark
A steadily changing scene and I’ve come to find beauty for
I can’t put my harms around a memory.

Tunage

2009-08-17T05:32:00.003+08:00

Buddy.

2009-08-16T00:12:00.014+08:00

The previous post was a quote from Seinfeld about relationships.

I picked it from Reader's Digest.

Then I come to find out about the intricacies of this situation which we're mired in and I'm definitely in awe that the coincidence was as unfettered as it was surprising. What was divulged to me was purely for my own edification, if at all.

Curiously, we're both massive Seinfeld fans.

Teaching me the secret nigga props handshake which I really miss doing.

You took me on my first "no-parents" road trip across state lines 4 times in total.

Leaving rude messages written on bits of paper on the floor in HELP Uni library for curious idiots to pick up.

Giving me the name Avepates Tatamjar and providing a backstory that I was Zanzibarian.

That time when we sat on the curb in front of Starbucks and I listened to you open up to me, possibly for the first and only time.

You allowed me to nest at your place when I was all-out skint and even in your home in Malacca.

Your family were the nicest, most humble people I've ever had the chance to have met and I even jokingly changed my surname everytime I was fortunate enough to follow you home.

You were the only friend whom I've ever known who had bought me a birthday cake, even if you knew that I wasn't particularly fond of such trivial things.

The sessions at McDonalds where we came up with the theory that Ron McD was actually a black man what with his afro and his sizable feet and that he was only in a clown outfit to boost sales and marketability.

Seinfeld binges. Seinfeld quotes. Me trying to recite from The Switch episode, verbatim.

You relating to me how you loved to rile your uncle up with your quips and verbal wit.

Me playing air guitar on your Les Paul singing along to British bands.

That night when we went to that dodgy club which was a hangout for seedy chinese gents.

Bequathing upon your old proton saga names like shitbox and old faithful.

You psyching me up for my first ever futsal match and teaching me how to curl my kicks.

Me playing hooky and sitting in your statistics class hoping to avoid that mountain of a lecturer.

Smoking in the stairwells and me trying my best to channel Freddie Mercury.

Climbing the fence of the tennis court in the pitch black of the night after dinner at your grandparent's home.

Cycling and causing hell in the sports section at the Carrefour outlet in Mid Valley.

That time you told me that horror story about a girl getting her head ripped off while playing Space shots in Genting...whilst we were already strapped to the machine.

You telling me to treat your brother's friend Lenny with a lot more respect.

Sitting in a park drinking with your backpacking friends after we tore up the town.

Walking around in Pudu bus station aimlessly while trying to help you find that particular bus.

Getting my ass kicked in pool, chess, and football.

Taking a footy kick to the groin at 2 am at that park in Klebang.

Starting blurtsomething with Jerms and his "black slave girl".

I always incline towards distancing people but even if after all that I can still have this much memories to cherish then I suppose that I would just have to make peace and move on.

Strangely, the first time I opened up to you, I said that you shouldn't expect us to become fast friends. Kismet.

You stuck around a good damn long time so thank you for changing my perception even for this short while. Nothing above should exonerate me from any guilt. There's a disappointment which I might've stirred up in you because of my flippant nature, I'll admit to it. I will no longer hold anything against you, not that it was really a matter to me.

At best I know that we've had the greatest memories two uneasy perpetual slackers could ever have had together.

At worst, I at least know that I don't have to embellish on certain details to paint myself in a better light to cover up my own fears and insecurities.

Laters, man.

Quotable.

2009-08-15T20:19:00.004+08:00

There's no easy way to break off any relationship. It's like the mozzarella cheese on a good slice of pizza. No matter how far you pull the slice away from your mouth it just gets thinner and longer but it never snaps.

- Jerry Seinfeld

Sleepless

2009-08-15T16:13:00.004+08:00

I’m covered from every angle
The quiet of my room affirms my serenity
Like an escaped brush
She paints with an array of colours
That excite me,
Nightly, she’d casually turn up
Well dressed and ready to sow future dalliances,
But as I was about to start,
There was I, powerless and unable to see that
My world would fall silent,
For her I’d take that fall,
For her I’ll reveal my heresies,
Just to come around and awake to
A world that could use a little less of me,
I’m sunken in a false cure,
For her, I’d rather not be,

Presently, I’ve been fucked
Of my delicacy, leave me to ponder,
Leave me behind,
For her, its all or nothing
And it’s up to me to show,
That I'm deserving of redemption,
Guilty till proven otherwise,
The rank unappreciated smell of cloves
Drug me and sends me to my sleep,
For her, I’ll make this end
To say my goodbyes
Without her, for here
The sandman enters
Drug me, asphyxiate me dearest,
Lay me to sleep here
Smothered.

Written in 2005, some parts have been reworked since, either to give in to the conventional flow of poetry...or, well I never could see any poem or lines as officially "complete", there's always enough space for betterment or for the worst.

Naive.

2009-08-14T23:13:00.003+08:00

I've been told by my closest friends that I am extremely naive when it comes to women and matters of the heart. They say that women are not unlike men, especially in this day and age. We are all supposedly "free" to pursue meaningless relationships of convenience, carnal, cheap temporal emotions, no commitments. I have to say that sadly...my due repartee is one without much spine.

I always see the best in whoever it is which I decide to want to share my heart with.
They say I am an idealistic child. They conclude that I will most likely marry the first woman who gives me that much.

What's so wrong with that?

I don't want to go down the road any of you traversed.
I don't want cheap emotions, I don't want it easy.
Most of all, I do not want to become the man who forced me to grow old before my time.

Dorothy

2009-08-11T20:39:00.003+08:00

To slip into our familiar shoes is
Not unlike breathing in serenity
Yet I'll take to the deep
To get away from it all

I'll take to the deep
Because it's not me you want
Escaped of spit, words and tears,
I know you don't want this.

Invitation

2009-08-10T12:08:00.007+08:00

I was sitting in the courtyard of a temple in Thailand yesterday. My periphery shrouded by a pair of shades which were perched on the bridge of my nose. A can of Coke in hand, a lit Dunhill in the other. Every puff I take singes my lips and fills my nostrils with a heady mix of wanting to escape it all and the nascent, unoppressive evening heat lingering on the Thai skyline.

I hear the monks offering their evening gibberish with fervour and devotion. I don't know about any of you but to me prayer is nothing more than an archaic ritual towards a singular end; to placate an errant mind. To think that your prayer could change the hand which the fates dealth you with is completely fucking delusional. As grating and as alien an auditory expulsion any prayer could ever be, I resisted the urge to move away from where I was sitting. It's a temple so religious exultations are always in earshot. Besides, I might be in need of some grace. Why should I shy away, lest a truant wick in me is sparked aflame by the overwhelming desire for inclusion.

Having just stubbed my cigarette out, a gray cat jumps on the table, stares at me with it's luster-filled champagne colored cocentric eyes. I feign a hiss yet it doesn't budge. I'm four square for cats standing their own ground and quite rightly, this is it's ground. I reach my palm outwards and it nudges my fingers with its nose whilst purring it's satisfaction. Tufts of saturated fur on her belly, nipples; swollen and pink from having just been suckled on by her brood. It's not unassuming to suppose that we might share the same weights and tribulations on our minds. Although for the sake of clarity, no, no one's come-a-suckin' at me. Random dirty mindfart aside, Whatever it is that I am, whoever it was that I might've been, I only know of two things, I'm tired and I'm not yours.

My midday reverie was shattered by the throaty invite of a lady in her mid-60s, she was wearing shades which were much too large for her face, a nice modest looking silk dress that only further dignified her already graceful presence. Pockmarked with irregular dabs of cheap perfume and talcum powder, she beckoned me with her wrinkly, deeply veined hand as she said, "Aren't you coming in to the shrine to pray, child?". It wasn't so much a smile as an upper lip sneer which I offered and quite so enthused her with a reply "No aunty, I'm waiting for my mother, she's praying".
She offers a meek smile to disguise a disappointment that has erupted all over the creases of her brow and duly excuses herself, saying that she'll be inside then if I was coming in. One more bitter Dunhill and my mother is out, and I think to myself that I should try and cut down on it, if only for her sake, as I had just invited in to the inner cloister by a complete stranger to come bare, stripped, contrite and wanting of mercy, I too doled out an invitation to my mother.

"Old women delight at seeing young men at temples, it's not everyday one of you would willingly enter a temple, it gives them hope" - I may have been within his house, but the respect which I have for his work is at the door, in the spittle which left my lips.

Meander-thal

2009-08-06T01:18:00.003+08:00

I beamed when you replied.

I don't know why.

We don't have much time so if I can't fight,
if I can't flee,
then goddamnit just
let me flow alright?

My biggest fear would be the rescue of me.
Strange, how it turns out that way.

Question

2009-08-05T20:55:00.004+08:00

These doors are fast closing
In,
Like my past it lingers upon
Me,
I don't know where my heart
Is,
But that was never a concern for
You
I don't want to think of things I couldn't
Do,
The hurt is so imagined that I'm afraid of
We,
Surely all I wanted was someone I couldn't
Have,
Hazy days pound thoughts that you were my special
One,
Yet for all we know, we just don't know
Another.

2007, written in Mushfyq's Riana Green apartment on scrap paper at his dinner table. His green Brasil bag was on the table, nonchalant. Feza was on her way over.

Telepathy

2009-08-03T00:55:00.003+08:00

whatever you do
don't crumble in saline
what is one little grain of sand?
when you've cupped a handful for an eternity?
a sliver of hope
a barb that pierces solace
the promise of redemption
if i shall fall
you wouldn't even care to know
for all that you were
has come to mean nothing to me.

Easy Morning Rebel

2009-08-02T06:56:00.004+08:00

It's early Sunday morning, 2 minutes to 7 a.m. Two hours prior, I was on the MSN chatting with Jools when my sister comes to my room and says that my mother's asking for me. I go downstairs to see her and she says that she wants to see a doctor.

When we arrived at the clinic not 15 minutes later, I went in and filled out the necessary paperwork for my mother, partly because we've never seen this doctor before and also because the surly nurse behind the counter had loudly proclaimed for me to step forward. Yes it's an emergency and all but I was in a particularly jaunty mood so I asked her

Me: Yes ma'am, good morning. should I fill out the paperwork?
Nurse: No, no, no filling out anything, write particulars.
Me: Oh...anyone's particulars you had in mind?
Nurse: Write down the patient's particulars.
Me: (looking over to the waiting bench) Which patient, the young sweaty guy or the crying kid?
Nurse: (Grits her teeth) Please write down the particulars of the woman you came with.
Me: Alright, I knew that.
Nurse: If you know then why ask so much?
Me: You said "patients" ma'am, my mother isn't a patient yet, is she?
Nurse: Go sit, doctor will be with you shortly.

So in we went to see the most apathetic doctor whom I have ever come across. He was hippy-dippy, like he had just raided his own stock for downers to make it through the night. He began by asking questions about how my mom felt so I just divulged all the necessary information, like she's on the verge of menopause and all that.

The doctor eyed my mother then he asked some more questions which I duly answered. After all that was done and dusted he let out a long sigh, as if he's had to cut short a vacation at the Playboy mansion just to come in and treat my mother.

Doc: You know a lot huh, boy? What are you, medical student is it?
Me: Oh no sir, I uh...I'm a mechanic.
Doc: Not bad at all your spoken English.
Me: Most car maintenance manuals are written in English.
Doc: Sighs

We then left his office and went to the dispensary to collect the medication and pay for everything. I checked my wallet and realised I was skint for the money and would have to get to a nearby ATM. I told the nurse behind the counter that I'll return and as I left the clinic, my mother came along but she sat at a bench in front of the clinic because it's really warm inside.

When I arrived at the bank, I found out that I'd brought the wrong card out with me so I had to make a phone call to my brother and tell him to bring out the correct ATM card.
As I was walking back to the clinic, three security guards were standing around my mom. When I neared the clinic she got up and went to the registry counter and I can hear my mother complaining to the nurse about someone being rude. I asked my mother what happened and she said that the guards had accosted her. I turned and looked at the 3 security men and asked

Me: What's going on man?
G1: Oh nothing just asking why aunty was sitting outside not safe nowadays.
Me: Alright, and then?
G2: Then she went to the nurse and say we making trouble and everything.
Now my mother comes back and tells me in Thai that one of them had asked her why she was sitting outside and she replied that she was waiting for me, to which the guard said, Surely this one doesn't have money to pay for the bills. I was fucking taken aback so I asked them guards
Me: Which one of you said that? That my mother's sitting outside because she can't pay?
G1: Ahh sir, no we just joking but we more concerned for aunty safeness.
Me: No, I didn't ask you about that, I want to know who said it to my mother.
(They asked the 3rd guard to come forward and this mothercunt's a huge guy, chest all puffed up glaring down at me)
G3: Hey! No, don't make fuss here okay, my friend just concern for aunty that's all.
Me: Yeah man, I've heard that line 3 times, it's all the same to me, which one of you said that my mother couldn't pay for her bills?
(They point to the skinny guard in the middle and he was standing there with one hand already on his baton.)
Me: You said that to my mom? Who are you, our accountant? You're security guards, nothing more, your uniform doesn't give you the fucking privilege to come saying shit like this, you understand? Your job's to make sure that we all feel safe coming out here at any time of the day, not to come and regulate us and certainly not to pass judgment like that. It's damn rude of you, what's your company number?
G2: Why you want number?
Me: Because I want to make a fucking complaint, that's what I want!
G3: Okay, no problem at all sir, we going away ok?
Me: Yeah, after you give me your company number and your names then you can fuck off.
G3: No, no we leave now sorry to disturb, sorry aunty okay?

I took my mother back into the clinic and I went out for a cigarette. The 3 guards were huddled in a corner, looking at me and talking among themselves then they alighted onto their bikes and left.

This is what is wrong with motherfuckers in this country and possibly the world over. Slap a uniform on their backs, issue them batons and some minor rank and all of a sudden they think that they're Clint Eastwood. Yesterday 15,000 demonstrators swamped the capital to protest the use of the Internal Security Act, not unlike Singapore's Official Secret's Act and certainly not unlike America's Patriot Act or Thailand's Emergency Ordinance. You wanted to know why there were choppers flying over your houses late at night?
It's not a drill, the chopping sounds which the blades produce mimic the sound of a march towards a police state, this is the reality of this country. You want equality? You want a fighting chance for survival? It's not going to happen. So, you tell me, how we're to get along if the leaders themselves cannot overlook partisan heckling?

Bottled

2009-08-01T22:24:00.000+08:00

Two mouths gracefully crashing into one another, seeking out each others spit. There is no room, no necessity for tender missives when such deliberate happenstance occurs. Is this emotional avarice and temptation? Anything else but the saline of your tears.

And then it ended.

It’s not a stretch when I say that the above vignette could very well be the shortest dream I have ever had. Sure it’s a tad outlandish; that much I’ll concede but the muffled unspoken words are silenced and unending. It is as if, almost by design the kiss itself was an evocative act of rejection under the guise of a mutual devotion.

I’m certain that we are all subjected to a degree of causality from the cushioned blows to the nth degree bare-it-alls. What we have done or acted upon yesterday will affect us tomorrow, our ruthlessness, and our impassioned seeking of solace is ingrained. You can hedge your bets; you can pay credence to it but to over think is to allow logic to seep in. Logic as flawed and as rigidly beautiful a notion it is, is only meant to kill.

There is a lot of “I” within the lines, what we are meant to say or do to each other might become the impetus for something else to happen, no matter how trivial or insignificant it may be. The only clarity all this affords to me lies within the regressive notion that…if you’re uncommitted, if you are scarce of companionship, then you’ve become an anomaly that is better off if avoided.

Paul Farley
As the Crow Flies
Tramp in Flames

Became an idea: a pure abstraction,
all black vector: a distance in air miles,
Walting Street on a wing, a one tracked mind
hell bent against a white, wintering sky.

Fledging Insanities.

2009-07-28T04:17:00.002+08:00

P.U.N.C.H. (Process of Underage Naughty Children Hangover) : You watch high school movies right and chances are there’d be at least one party scene/montage. The inevitable always happens as some pimply faced jock with a hard-on is at the end of a funneled tube; getting filled up like a Boeing on beer and other alcoholic potables. Recently my youngest brother attended a party and he came home as red as a baboon’s ass. His usually brusque replies were further heightened and he barely got a word or two out before collapsing into hazy malt and hops induced slumber. Here’s the kicker in this barely legal communal puke-fest, it was a school function. Surely there would’ve been minders and the like around wouldn’t it? An auditorium full of drunken Twilight and Harry Potter nutjobs doesn’t sound unlike after hours at a local comic convention. Drinking frays the mind and it makes you believe in silly things, I believe I’ll have another drink. Just as an aside, a baboon’s ass sticks out not because it’s loose or suffers from prolapse, it is merely callosity. If you went pantless your whole life your ass would look that sore too.

Celebrity Authors : This isn’t in exclusive regards to memoirs or biographies but for the sake of an argument, let’s lump them all in. I’ve not read a great deal of celebrity penned books but my initial clinical response would be to avoid such books. I am fairly deluded as to my own extents and it’s not something that’s a screaming hoot. To be fair, would you pen your memoirs? What sort of interesting life have you had to warrant such a self stroking collective? Even if it was of the fictional variety, would your surname and detailed scribing in anyway ensure that you’re exonerated from potent derision? Make no mistake of it, any one person can only be graced with so much talent and the same applies for celebrities. Unless you’re an autodidact or from a practical based background such as, pottery or music theory then there really isn’t any pressing need to push the printing press. Then again if sneakers with blinking LEDs can sell then its clever proof that people, will in fact, buy anything with a name on it. Throw in a celebrity’s name and you’re bound to exit the détente unscathed and sneer condescendingly all the way to the bank. Some authors start off decently well but are overwhelmed by publishers to continuously pinch out dumb reads. If you come across Monty Python alumni Eric Idle’s Road To Mars, open it and hawk up a snot gumbo between the pages. That’s all the recognition it deserves.

Twisted Thunder under the covers : Here’s a few things I would certainly not rule out from the bludgeoning arsenal of perversion;
- Being dry humped by a pom-pom wielding fitness enthusiast in a pair of Wellington boots while listening to Glenn Miller.

-Initiating a conversation in the midst of receiving fellatio and immediately reprimanding said blower for speaking with a full mouth.

-Providing running commentary while watching my partner changing her week old tampon.

-Pin the tail on the donkey in pitch black darkness, relying only on my sense of smell.

-Making her wear Mr. Boss Novelty Glasses and moaning her father’s name when we’re over the hill.

Phallic National Television : Nearly everyone I know has had cable television installed and they’re less than likely to watch free public channels provided for by our august broadcast stations. If I was a nationalist zealot I might dole out a stern rebuke to them for having chosen international entertainment over them homegrown goods. Yet at almost a week in, I’m bleeding with comprehension overkill as to why people either wean off television completely or get cable. National television is for the better part, plain terrible. At almost every advertisement interval there is bound to be a commercial pertaining to male enhancements for longevity and virility. These products are bequeathed with less than subtle names like Longjack or Kopi Kencang! (Swift Coffee!). Images of jackhammer drills and mating chases are indiscriminately included. If only they had the decency to run these commercials after hours then there might be praises to be sung for a fair compromise. Timing is a tricky thing though yet consumers are best caught unawares at late hours. If only infomercials hawked such penis-centric goods. Curiously, JK Rowling’s singleton status is very visible in the Harry Potter series; waving a wand around is akin to using one’s penis to solve problems.

Pet Idol : Last week one of my kittens was unceremoniously held against his will in a cage and released at a market place to fend for himself. He happened to be my favorite even though he’s comparatively speaking, the least attractive looking among the three kittens. I was sleeping more soundly than a prostitute who has been given a warm meal and a shower for the first time in 6 months, being too doped up on anti allergy meds to be able to do anything about it. The next day I ventured to the crime scene and Horatio Cained it for 2 hours looking for my filial feline son but to no avail. His transgression was for depositing some doo-doo on the couch. Seeing as elimination-type shows have been the rage on television for a good damn time, next week is officially Pet Idol week. The objective here isn’t to be the last remaining household pet but to get eliminated in record time. Once all the pets have been eliminated, their times will be compared against one another and an overall winner will be chosen. Sadly, a twisted ambivalence awaits the winner as he too will end up a loser for the grand prize is unfortunately; abandonment.

The zephyr in a blizzard.

2009-07-26T01:55:00.006+08:00

The things that I do not understand about this electric and eclectic concept called life is surely as large as the monuments which men erect in their own names, to fulfill a conceit, to have their stories whispered for the centuries to come. That is the vanity that fills our cups and quenches our thirst.

Yet today I feel slightly more disconcerted than usual. Life is in a sense, a sentence; literally and as an abstract concept to be marveled at. There is absolutely not an inkling of gain to be had if I were to pretend to understand everything about it.

It is no different than swimming during midnight, the water could either be lukewarm or it could be the type of chill that implodes your chest. You can either poke your toes at the water or you cannonball towards the deep end without a care. The important thing is to never try and gauge it.

I will never understand love simply because I am a temporal coward at its very mention. To give in to an invented diction, an idea, well that just scares me. I would like to share my dread with another yet I'd rather not. Escalation is a prevalent and artistic motif in our lives. Doesn't matter if you're a plumber and it certainly has no qualms of claiming you in its coil even if you're the state's prosecutor.

A mutual frenzy, a wick lit and sparked in an emotional unison, set aflame by our directed and tender missives of amusement to our muses, this is the language, the diction, the construct of love and on a larger scale; life itself.

Sometimes we fall ill and it takes two to apply that medicine. It strikes me with pain to not be there yet I am ensconced within a profound happiness. Ambivalence is essential to our existence. Yet for all that I can say, I only wish you, as far as it is humanly possible, the very best for anything less isn't worthy of a mention.. I will ravage whatever hurts you, I will stand by your side even if I hadn't the legs to do so. Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.

"I am" is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language. Could it be that "I do" is the longest sentence? - George Carlin.

I love you, now and forever.
Affectionately yours,

Pet.

Play The Game

2009-07-18T14:32:00.005+08:00

Homo sapiens; wise man, knowing man.

Bipedal creatures, capable of direct and abstract reasoning and projecting of emotions and thoughts, feeling, caring, loving, sharing, hatred, denial, persecution, petulance, violence, avarice, lechery.

Enlightened man; again, of the homo sapiens mould, highly versed towards problem solving, introspection, the accorded peacemaker in times of conflict. He went as far as to attempt and comprehend the universe in it's entirety. This universe isn't by any shadow of a doubt a substantially sized one, his knowledge and his technology has barely grazed the outer limits of this vast temporal third rock from the sun known as Earth.

His pride leads him toward seeking the affirmation of his fellow beings. In his conceit, in his disgusting solipsistic mind, they should only acknowledge him. He is after all, enlightened. Shouldn't an enlightened being be accorded an audience? Like his home planet; merely temporal. His aura of superiority too is merely a facade, before long, they are on to him, his status is threatened, they know now that he never conquered the universe.

His knowledge is merely limited to his immediate surroundings, his cunning and parlor tricks lie in his ability to manipulate. Even as fear and failure assail him, leaving him knowing not what to do, he feigns compliance, he looks skywards and schemes.

This universe strikes him with paralyzing fear, it belittles him, ostracizes him and his kind, it must be stopped or at least, conquered. He demarcates the universe, like carvings in to stone; he uses his thumbs to forge the tools to invent the concept of religion.

Through his tinkering of this new plaything called religion he will keep the universe at bay. Divide and rule. Another temporal and vain attempt at holding all the reins of this carriage. He is ahead by a step. His fellow men take to his philosophy for they too are filled with strains of the egotist. They rationalize that for them to be the first among equals; they must see to it that no one else is allowed secular thought. He claims revelations in the name of his own homemade god. He spills blood in his god’s name. That is how he measures the prevalence of religion in his life.

Versatility will be the death of them all even as they have seen a dearth of far reaching differences in their own little bedrock.

Men can measure the highest of mountains, even the depths of the ocean hasn't stopped him yet. What fails him is his inability to measure what is in his own heart and the hearts of others. Some men are outwardly incapable of this; others steadfastly refuse to even consider it a possibility.

He is ignorant, sloth-like in his measuring of others. To be incremental is akin to being stricken with a debilitating malaise. Kill or be killed. This is the abstract theft of the mind, a certified study into mental piracy.
Impulses within his synapse dictate that he must act, he must self motivate and he must do so based on emotions. This is for survival. This is for longevity, this for him to be painted on the Grecian Urn. He is an animal yet he postulates himself to be superior to what he calls beasts, he is clothed and he posits that anyone unlike him is a savage. This happens on the little third rock from the sun called Earth.

It however isn't a one-sided disease. You cannot inhale smoke unless a fire is already going. To sum it up as such would be grossly unfair. Suppression too cannot be claimed to have rightfully begun on a global stage, it has to be exponential, it has to accrue. Its origins have continued to be nurtured by man and his devilish ways. Only men know what gods are because men invented them, only men know the counter point to greed and hatred.

Knowing and knowledge, in and of itself is a noble effort and concept yet it is never enough. It makes about as much sense as seeing a house set on fire but knowing that eventually someone else will make the effort to save the inhabitants of that house.

This isn't an exhaustive account of man and his ways. There are various illustrations that point to us that man isn't an intelligent creature. Maybe one day might this fleeting child continue his observations of man; men, in all his ironies and his acerbic yet dangerously razor like logic and wit. Might this child be able to dry his tears, dust off his scraped knee and play the game?

It's funny what a 15 hour train ride makes one think of.

Let's look through the bullshit.

2009-07-09T16:36:00.012+08:00

Couple of things here I need to get off my chest; I'll try and adhere to brevity and be curt.

As you may well know, the Ministry of Education has yet again reversed it's stance on the teaching of Science and Mathematics by reverting back to teaching both subjects in Bahasa Malaysia instead of English. To curb the lopside however, they're proposing to put in motion an extra 90 minutes of English classes per week in public schools. Here's where the bullshit train threatens to derail and run headlong in a wall. Why the hell is there another sudden reversal in the decision on which language to use as a medium of teaching? First, they said that the students cannot cope, especially those from the rural areas. I can of course agree with that.

By and large, English isn't their first language so if they're experiencing difficulty in coping with the classes then it seems to be a fair and educated move to incorporate a system whereby they can choose to learn the subjects in either English or Bahasa Malaysia. While this will surely put the grasp and fluency of either one language in jeopardy, it will at least allow them to make an informed decision whether they want to learn it in English or Bahasa Malaysia.

They propose and implement changes at the drop of a dime and suddenly when it doesn't work, immediately they whip out an exit plan which sadly, isn't any more tenable than the previous one. Trying to offset the situation by extending teaching hours isn't the answer here. It's not about the extension of time, it's about an expansion of what is being taught in the syllabus.

I remember when I was in school, the focus was always more on comprehension and composition albeit grammar being was taught as well. I can only recall 2 or 3 teachers who had a real understanding of how to teach grammar. Don't burden the kids by being regressive, going back and forth like this , get the facts right, sort out the syllabus and straighten out the idiots who are going to be assigned teaching positions. I am sick of these fucking knee-jerk headcase quick fix solutions. It's saddening to think that as always, the people in charge are grossly inept. All of this is bad enough but the thing I'm afraid of is that they will lower the passing grade and alter the curve. I mean, it's bound to happen soon enough since they've proposed to make English another subject marked for compulsory passing. Just you wait man, it's near inevitable.

I watched the Michael Jackson memorial, did you? What did you think of it? I thought it was quite a service they gave him albeit it getting particularly vulgar at times. I only say that because I'm still trying to reconcile my thoughts around the fact why most of the invited speakers didn't exactly have much to contribute to the proceedings, it seems like they were just standing up there pandering for the cameras, stroking their own dicks by digging out little mental mementos from the past.

I'm sure mentioning that MJ ate KFC is a real revelation of a nugget to share with the world at large. Also, it was just much too long, CNN devoted 4 hours of coverage in total to the event in lieu of actual news. But I can understand that his life and his music was our escapism so it seems fitting that his sending off should too be a media frenzy, all the media outlets, just ready and willing to cannonize Saint Michael our king of music.

Here's how the intinerary of the events should've gone. Speeches by Al Sharpton and The Jacksons..maybe even Brooke Shields, if only for that reference to Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince. Performances by Stevie Wonder, Jermaine Jackson and that whole We Are the World "everyone get on stage and try and look like a team" thing, all this should be done by 1 hour tops. Letting his daughter speak at the end though? That's just too much man, really, talk about milking a guy's name even when he's already dead, and using his shaken 11 year old kid at that. I understand he copped a lot of bullshit in his life and that now would be a good time to humanize him, if his mistakes and his wrong choices have not already validated that he's human.

At the very least, she and her siblings brought with them a genuine sincerity which most of the entire two hours seemed to shamefully lack. You cannot script her breaking down the way she did and that is probably why she was shoved towards the microphone in the first place. So there you have it, a little girl experiencing probably for the first time in her life such profound emotional pain and yet she has to find the courage to address an entire arena of fans and celebrifucks. It's overwhelming and whether or not spontaneity had anything to do with it. it's still harmful for them to have coaxed her into doing it regardless of whether they were all her family. The only thing I sincerely hope for is that they won't end up being exploited. Say what you want and cheapen what you may like. It's all bullshit and we just have to look through it and go past it.

The back up singer who lead Heal the World, she was really, really amazing, what a voice.

I guess I really don't know how to be curt.

Newsworthy Ire

2009-07-06T19:38:00.011+08:00

I have an inclination towards being a fairly meticulous, almost pain-in-the-ass sort of a person. One of the things I've been doing with increased frequency is to read the newspaper twice. That's just dandy especially when you have nothing to do. Here's a few noteworthy news items for your consideration.

Underage Toyboy : A 15 year old Singaporean student who has been returning home from school late has been caught spending his afternoons with a 30 year old domestic helper. He used to clock in at 3 pm daily but since February, he's been 5 hours past the usual hour. His parents, fine, upstanding, privacy-respecting citizens that they are, read the inappropriate messages in his cellphone and duly hired a private investigator to follow their son around. The unnnamed teen would meet the domestic helper at a fast food outlet and presumably go back to the empty apartment where she works and knock boots. Upon uncovering this heinous incident, the boy's parents have employed a bodyguard for the boy's protection and are planning to send him overseas. I don't want to be insensitive to anyone or the parties involved but what is the crime here? To me it sounds like a passably lurid, if not a straight to the point case of teenage love with some sideway sofa shuffling thrown in. People tend not to realise that 15 and it's neighboring vicinities are the age of inquisitiveness. They will ponder, question, make ample suggestions and changes towards their day to day mentality. It's the versatility of adolescence. What kind of soul dead 15 year old would be hindered by a bodyguard from getting some while the getting's still good? This is a prime, saddenning example of how lazy and uninventive people have become in their approaches towards communicating. The little prick is your son folks, do talk to him every now and then, maybe even slip in a hug or two. Sure you can't stop him and why should you? He's already embarked on the study of these things so let him continue on this lesson. One day when he eventually tires of cornholing 30 year old domestic helpers he might just thank you for having taken the initiative to reach out in the first place.

Kindergarten Entrance Exams : I was walking on the way to buy cigarettes and as is the route I always have to walk by the local kindergarten near my place and I overheard a few of the young mothers speaking about how lucky it is that their children were enrolled without having to sit for an entrance exam. It took every ounce of willpower in me to not saunter over and probe them further on this because when you think about it, all of this need for and emphasis on scholastic achievement has really, really gone overboard. If you're trying to get into John Hopkin's or Berklee then yes, I can agree with the necessity of an entrance exam but kindergarten? Whatever happened to just learning the alphabets, playing with watercolor and such like kiddy time fillers? Give them a spade, tell them to go dig a hole and collect the earth worms. I would say that children these days are fucked from the get-go but I think that little savvy interjection might have come a tad too late. School in the morning, jam packed and fully booked with extra-curricular activities all week round, spilling into their weekends no less. I suppose we're just starting them younger and younger, tearing away and disintegrating at whatever child-like spirit that might be nestled somewhere deep inside of them. Rabindranath Tagore said that children affirmed to him that god hasn't given up on mankind yet, what a quaint, cute thought. Obviously he didn't leave enough room to consider that god might not be real and that man rightfully belongs at the lowest rung in the food chain. It has become fairly common to read about entrance exam related suicides in the papers and my guess is the average age of such suicide volunteers can only get younger. Let's not emptily harp on some political correctness trumpet here, people who commit/attempt suicide aren't victims in it's core definition.

Pride : When you're in a discussion about your mutual and/or respective cultures, do you ever just stop and listen? Do that, and you're bound to come across such winners as "I'm so proud to be Thai/Malaysian/Martian" or "I'm proud of Asian culture". I can understand pride, it's a feeling of accomplishment at having done something or having derived utmost joy from contemplating on something and, used en masse, it's a supposed conduit towards togetherness, in mind and in spirit and all that jolly Dr Feelgood shit. Yet in it's simplest definition doesn't pride fall into the former category, namely what one achieved on one's own initiative? Surely we're all a tad frayed around the edges and in a constant and deep search for the common thread, for all that is supposedly more verdant BUT isn't it quite magnanimous to emptily subscribe to some empty slogan of pride? Should you be proud to be Thai? Its not an achievement, it's the end result of fucking. Hey, if you climbed Mount Kilmanjaro while you were stoned then sure, take all the credit you want, just don't try to justify and confuse a simple matter of genetics as to being pride-worthy. Another thing that confounds me is when people view the achievements of another person, usually a compatriot and they immediately give out propers to their country of origin. Listen folks, hitching a ride up into space is an achievement in and of itself, but to parlay it into a publicity making machine and to consider yourself an astronaut is just plain fucking delusional. Not to mention that it's also very telling of the mentality of the public at large when they quickly profess a certain feeling of pride, knowing full well that what they thought happened never happened. The same goes out for singers, designers and performers based in other countries or regions of the world. If the same performer had stuck to the same old local bar gig routine, would there be a collective, hearty invocation of Malaysia Boleh? Fuck no. I can guarantee you that. It's all a mutual, unprogressive let's stroke one another fest and damn it, it does nothing but cheapen the ideal behind the erstwhile pride.

Foot to the ball$ : Before the major footballing clubs gather their newly assembled squads and offer heartfelt libations to the footballing gods, I have one question. Is anyone in agreement that the inflation of transfer prices, bonuses, endorsements and salaries accorded to football's capricious stars have gone meteorically out of hand? Ronaldo's move; 80 million pound sterling, coupled with 195,000 pounds in salary per week, tax-free. What about a 100 million for Ibrahimovich? No wait, that's quite outrageous enough, right, 300,000 pounds in weekly wages for John Terry. Do these people have any idea what the going rate is every place else? I enjoy big arena sports as much as to next cretin but really this has gotten out of hand. This is more than a hole in the pocket already, this is having your pants and your legs ripped right out from under you. Everytime I read or hear of these absurd money-laden deals you know who I think of? Not the kids in Africa, no, although sometimes when I watch CNN, it invariably props up, I think of the time when I was 17 and I was in Bangkok, under the pouring rain and I see a scrawny, shivering teenage girl; couldn't have been older than I was, rushing over to open my car door, and having done so she looks at me in a mix of complete submission and utter disdain, hoping against hope that somehow I'd reach into my pocket and produce a 100 baht for her. For the record, I did not give her anything, not even the slightest indication of a thank you. I have since those formative teenage years, carved out a niche as an asshole and a douchebag, and so far, I'm all the better for it, thank you very much.

Garbage collectors/Sanitary Engineers : What is the deal with this crack squad of semi-professionals? My days begin fairly early, morning jerk off, throne sessions, walking the dogs, watering the plants; your basic retiree schtick. One of the things I observe on an almost daily frequency is the garbage men doing their rounds. The aim of all this is to of course, provide sanitation to the surroundings of our neat little suburban dwellings but do they really have to do so wearing rags for uniforms? I'm all for substance over form on any given day but when you want to show the public at large that cleanliness is your priority do take in to account the aesthetic value of actually looking the part. Let's try and appear united here, be part of a team; don't further undermine our own limited authority by not just working as men's garbage but being garbage's men. Then again I am barking up the wrong tree since these appointed engineers are about as motivated as a group of involuntary suicide bombers anyways. While I do appreciate the convenience of having someone around who is willing to pick up after me I have to ask, how mind numbingly difficult can it be to pick up a garbage bag and place it in the back of a truck? Slipshod work, garbage strewn left and right, putrid smelling waste water trailing from the back of the truck as it drives along your street. Just perfect. Pristine views and offending smells, always a winning combo. that. Makes you want to down a couple of beers and go after them swinging a sackful of pool balls and aiming for early morning blood.

Limitations, Complaints, Dissections

2009-07-04T19:57:00.009+08:00

I knew it.

This had to come out for it has hitherto been nascent, an unlit path, if you may forgive a metaphor or two. It has been cocooned and it longs to be unfurled. Or so I assume. Before any of you (you know who you are) ball your fists up and scream bloody tranny murder, no, don't get all of this twisted, I am not coming out of the closet.

If I was, I wouldn't do it like this via a blog post. This would be insulting, not to mention it'd be the antithesis and a thinly-veiled slight to all coming out celebrations the world over. If, and a big superlative-laden IF at that, If I was to come out, I'd have an Elizabethan masque-themed pixie shower damn it; leopard print fairy wings, pink sequins and glitter. Music by Madonna and the Scissor Sisters.

But...enough planning, I apologise for having included you in the lurid minutiae of my personal life...Such fangled nonsense can and will just have to wait. I'm about to address something more serious today.

You ever noticed how there is a severe lack of meat-flavored drinks out in the market? Why is it so? I'm not speaking of Brands Chicken Essence by the way, that is just plain disgusting. What would a meat-flavored drink be called and how many type of meat-related beverages should there be? If it's chicken, will it include every part of the chicken? Grilled flavor? Fried? Honey Roasted? If it's a beef drink then where would that leave cow's milk? Fish in a can? How about that? What about spam, surely some of us love the idea of kicking back sipping on warm gooey liquid spam, I just do not understand our diminished penchant towards sodden meat. Wouldn't you like a Willy Wonka inspired all in one drink? I know I would so don't be completely insensitive to my feelings.

However, pardon the meatwater assault, it wasn't really my focal point of discussion/dissection today. I am decidedly wordy, that much I would accord to myself. Yet, I don't speak much in person, that's a given and really, honestly, who has all the time to just sit there and move their gap up and down, to clinically vocalise and enunciate empty words and phrases? Most of the time its useless clap trap anyways and half the people who are recycling opinions and words aren't even worth humoring because you can't understand a fucking thing they're saying, whatnot for them being imbeciles and such. I do not believe that silence is golden but the least it gives to us is a momentary rest from the auditory harm, "I did this last night, so and so, I fucked that girl who I met in the restaurant, the one who is really attractive if you don't pay attention to her bulging goiter?".

So in place of the endless neanderthal blabbering that lumbers on and on to the point where it's all so cheapened and fucked up, what, and hypothetically speaking, what we all need to do is to observe and read. Not textually reading like a robot, cover to cover but reading characters, little inflections, sleight of hands...if you can read something or someone like that, I don't know, maybe just maybe when we all get together to save one another by acceptance, by decreeing that yes, everyone fits in like a jigsaw, we'd have a lot more interesting things to speak about.

Our limitations are very much like the places we come from, more often that not, for an immeasurably long time, I personally felt a very human want to be elsewhere, to do something else, to be in rarified circles, shed my skin and start anew, to be reborn and you know what? It's perfectly normal, so long as it is in phases. The places we come from aren't the ones we're conditioned for, that is why we constantly seek out "greener" pastures, so that we may drop the baggage that we've been lugging along with us and appropriate new ones; at your evening classes, at work, walking in the park...it's all cyclic and it will never end...but that doesn't mean it cannot be diminished.

There are dangers though in being so...detached from linguistics; to be festooned with the weighty boas of silence. Again I'm being relatively coy here as to how true all this is. I can only write from a personal angle. When I do speak with anyone, or when I write an email. or a comment, I like for it to be near-perfect; at least from a grammatical standpoint, the diction, the ebb of intonations and by the standards of our quick-fix-everything-will-be-alright world, that's a fucking medical condition. This is really worrying and ludicrous. Obsessive compulsive personality disorder is the term it has been attached with. When did it become a malaise to aspire for rigidity? If anything, it should be commended. What with language being mutiliated and destroyed. I'm not just speaking of the English Language either. Its a blanket decree son, any language anyone uses on a day to day basis to articulate thoughts, evoke reactions and form emotions should be treated with respect, well what not fucking enlightening isn't it?

And another mystery to me is this, when did it become criminal for a man to just compliment a woman on her looks? What is the underlying crime here? I'm sure you can relate to this. While we're on the subject of the male/female attraction-sexual dynamic, who exactly is a wingman? I watch television from time to time and I come across all these dating shows where they set up a person with who must presumably be another person and not the Shub-Niggurath. Usually the wingman is there to help this hapless. dateless son of a bitch to as they say on television "seal the deal." If I can't get a date with a nine, folks it hurts me to say this but I'd rather settle for a 2 or a 3 so long as I don't need the help of a snivelling douchebag-looking wingman. The bottomline is this, if you look like Cary Grant, you can say the dirtiest, most godawful corniest lines to a woman and she'd be as moist as a 15 year old at a Jonas brothers concert, if however you look like the guy who works in a lunch line at an orphanage, then you have about as good a shot as Michael Jackson suddenly coming back to life.

I read the papers a few days ago and what tentatively started out as a feeling of vindication quickly turned into pure shame and anger. Let me recap. Bernard Madoff was sentenced to a 150 year prison sentence for defrauding investors and perpetrating a large scale Ponzi scheme that amounted to 50 billion dollars. Here's a 71 year old guy who thought he was Teflon Bill incarnate, as a result of his crimes, entire communities lost their life's savings to him, that means homes on mortgages will be seized by the banks, that's the possibility of being shelterless, of children not having a providence fund for their education, so on, so forth. When you weigh it like that, it sure paints Bernie in a highly unflattering light. Everyone is condemning this greedy unscrupulous man and rightly so BUT should all our ire be directed towards one man? I mean really is it fair? Talk about throwing someone into the lion's den and encouraging the lion to rip his entrails out through his anus.

Yes, he betrayed the basic professional trust and went against all written ethics when he carried out his schemes. Trust is an abstract notion and it is a very difficult one to earn. I can understand why anyone would be up in arms when the breach happened yet isn't it pretty fucking obvious here that in this particular circumstance, it seems that human trust isn't above being attached with a price tag as well? Secondly that the "ethics rulebook" was probably written by the biggest hypocritical crooks around? Sometimes I feel that people would've been quicker and more willing to forgive him had he been caught in some sexual tryst with a cocaine addled hooker or had he murdered someone. All this collective declaration of hatred, it is the only erstwhile allegory that is left in our morally barren lansdcape.

Here's a phrase I was thinking about which sounds really ridiculous. You know when you watch a documentary about the supernatural, what's the one thing every damn narrator seems to say? "They Walk Amongst Us". Well Mr Paranormal, do tell me in your professional opinion if you have ever seen a ghost just walk around? Shoulders all loose and relaxed like he just achieved the month's scare quota or something. If they do then I am not impressed. I had always figured the ghosts I want to see/be haunted by should hang out in the closet or, morph face first out of the flooring, crawl on the walls of my room or maybe hover around my shoulders as I spend sweaty nights watching porn. Something out of the ordinary. Not just plain old walking amongst us, that's just lazy of them and presumptious of us to conclude so.

Damn you blogger and your capricious text differential

Poof

2009-07-01T12:14:00.008+08:00

And there goes a post which I spent a day and a half typing.

I'm considering moving all of this to wordpress or blogdrive, by my count this is the third time it's happened and it is always the best posts that never get published.

Best by my shady, munificient estimation anyways.

Fuck you blogspot, you really are the Fredo Corleone of blogs.

Minor Grievances

2009-06-27T19:26:00.005+08:00

Comedy of celebrity death : It has long been established that an inverse symbiotic relationship stands in between celebrities and the paparazzi. Neither can be said to be inculpable of having made a mess of the things and circumstances they find themselves in. That's all well and true but what ground is there for the relationship to progress on to when one dies (usually the celebrity). Either one of two things inevitably happen; they either get their rods sucked so hard by the mass media for being mavens and iconoclastic figures or they're run into the ground, ravaged and left as a supplementary footnote in the pantheons of our modern, decadent pop culture. Are there surefire ways of ensuring that your demise endures and ensures that you remain rightly in the former category of pop martyrdom? Sure, (I)Contract a debilitating, life-threatening disease which eventually kills you all the while having the guile to televise your daily struggle with it, (II) Die in a vehicular mishap (III) Commit suicide. It helps as well to have had some brushes with "approved controversy" for them to remember you in death for having had been as resolute as a rock, and bravely wandering like an ocean without waves.

CNN : There are probably tens and hundreds of reasons as to why they remain the most relevant source of the world's news and one of them has to be their adherent reverence for simple utter sensationalism. CNN isn't all that different from hucksters like Bernie Madoff, all you have to do is intimate to the people that what you do on a day-to-day is monumentally progressive. First we had Obama giving bug lovers the world over a common martyr, then we had Incubus front man Brandon Boyd on CNN discussing his art. The channel was practically paralysed with day-round coverage of Michael Jackson's demise. I understand that he's the Elvis/Sinatra of our generation. I also understand that American culture is willingly lapped up here because it's exciting as it's equally depraved so please don't foist all this down our gullets, Its like having an answering machine message that announces that you're away from the phone. IT's pointless.Putting news first, well first that is, after TMZ. I don't visit TMZ but I know it exists, blame Entourage. If you didn't know that then you might as be oblivious to the fact that Jon and Kate aren't actual humans but lab rats in some modern day, controlled, free-roaming sandbox environment experiment. They need to have a sit down and come to some sort of compromise as to what is really news-worthy and what's minor trash reserved for TMZ or E! Channel.

Phrenology/The Racially Aligned Cultural Enslavement (R.A.C.E.) Initiative : So...do all white people look alike? I don't know I'm just a cyclic joke dispenser and perpetuator of racial stereotypes. Or am I? Recently I watched an advertisement on Astro promoting a carnival of football and music called Sokker Safari, in conjunction with the on-going Confederations Cup in South Africa. What caught my attention and eventual ire is the portrayal of two bushmen hopping, jumping-jackin' and gesticulating wildly whilst speaking what must be their native tongue; evidenced by the inclusion of subtitles. Only upon a second viewing did I decipher that they were actually speaking English or some mangled version of it. Fine they weren't saying something along the lines of "Howdy do suh Mister Police-man suh this cotton bale shure is mighty heavy"...but still is there really a necessity to go that far just to portray that they're African? It could be the latent racist in me talking though, just like how Axl Rose never fails to remind us all how much he loves rap and hip-hop music, that is after "One in a Million" was released.

Miley Cyrus/John Cena : One wrestles men on TV and the other's TV appearances make men wrestle with their inner guilt. So what is it that they have in common? For one, they're evidently sick of peddling their respective alter egoes. The former a perpetual underdog, good ol' homeboy street hustler who sticks to a brutal ethic of loyalty and respect. Thug culture is something we can really root for...if it's perpetuated by a clean cut, steroided piece of cornbread. The other's a percocious mouthy teenager who lives with an obvious retard and a man with a criminal record. Another similarity they have is in their performances. When it's over you just offer a silent prayer for they've both finally been given the chance to rest.

Suburban Death Race : I don't know what the situation is in other suburban areas but where I'm from these cretins have taken a certain joy in speeding through housing lanes.In my brief stead here in this new neighborhood, I've seen 3 accidents and usually both parties are to blame. Where do these people need to rush off to? Is there some timed vortex tunnel to Vegas which they have to hasten towards? Are their cars set to a timer? So to compound all this accelerator-happy menace I believe I have a highly feasible solution. Suburban roads should have in place a sort of Tamiya model car railing to regulate speed. Just to ensure this works, the width of the railing should be 1/10ths of a size more narrow in case anyone decides to try and challenge the prevalence of rail regulated driving and channel their inner Mifune Go.

Poem, ramblings, vagaries and the criminality of thoughts and words...

2009-06-20T13:03:00.006+08:00

Untitled

When I was the morning
I had difficulty with the word
Conclusion

Three slivers of syllables telling of unpronounced
intrigues
For endings never truly spell a finish,

Constant paradoxes that hold vacant nuances
rustled by the pretend wings of

Shuffling of hands on sides at the con in place
for steely blunt objects
To carve the clue, of bridges and stains
of a preferred privilege

When our saints know themselves by name,
The acts of accomplished sinners under their own
reflections,

Disgruntled inflections,
What a sight of the gleaming
midday minarets and the harvests of a hazard

I will never return here for good measure
of your culpable potency and palpable credos
That your whispering unleashed into the mind of a boy
composed of an errant pomp and skewed hearing,

Feeling shortchanged for the spit
Of a visionary cheapened by his inner
fledging would-be poet with clenched iron fists

Seeking us purged, half-blinded ones by goodwill
and sedated euphoria,
We're on the banks and we are unfettered
lacking of cloth, vulnerable and trusting it all to

Three slivers of syllables telling of unburdened
travail
For endings never truly spell a finish

When I am the evening
the pedantry of my budding revenge falters
Because I am sober and unreasonable
and it concludes.

Simple Suggestions

2009-06-18T15:58:00.007+08:00

Swatting flies on TV: The American media was in thrall of Obama's felinity and rock-like resolution when it involves fly swatting. Now possibly that fly is symbolic of the world's economic state and just before it died it mumbled the invocation that i) the economy never heals and ii) may Mr Obama's hands swell to sizes much too large for him to be able to crotch scratch anymore. On the other hand though, he might've just sparked off the next national craze, it sure would be more worthwhile to watch A-listers get slap happy on the red carpet as opposed to junior highschool politicking on Darfur/Tibet whichever nation is "safe" enough to get behind. Wouldn't want to alienate the Tinseltown glitterati by voicing support for "extreme elements".

Global mediation: North Korea threatens to fornicate the world's nations with their vast array of Jong's Dongs? What we need in place are mediatory and reconciliatory mechanisms...a global phenomenon and no, the answer isn't a worldwide ice hockey tournament. We need to go the Wembley route and have world leaders in a soccer match. Given that the average age should be around above 45 for each team, we'll have 16 a side with 7 second stringers. Throw in entrance theme songs, some good ol' pre-match microphone grabbing trash talk and pyrotechnics that sync with everytime a foul is committed or when a goal is scored, you're bound to have a ratings juggernaut. Oh and a karate robot referee...with breasts. To up the stakes, the losing team can still salvage their pride in a competitive eating/musical chairs hybrid. Maybe then CNN will have actual news worthy updates. The Sunday Morning Soccer Summit Bonanza Jamboree Extraordinaire Breakfast Show.

Ich bin dove of peace: Sacha Baron Cohen (known aliases Ali G, Borat Segyedev, Jean Girard and Bruno) can thrust his name in to the pantheons of great PR coups if he includes in his wardrobe a Superhero ensemble. Joel Schumacher should have loads of time and expertise on his hands since designing those loud rubber nipple latex outfits from Batman & Robin. A sort of Ironman meets Psylocke ensemble, with fawn gloves and fuschia-colored acrylic nail extensions a la Wolverine. Oh and to top it all off, he lowers himself from the rafters, shoving his exposed scrotum into Bono's mouth. For there really isn't such a thing as bad publicity.

Thailand's panda misnomer: For the past week or so, the Thai media has gone absolutely retard strong over the birth of a panda cub in Chiang Mai's zoo. Granted its not something to sneeze at but...you can almost see this one happenning. A name-the-cub contest. This from a nation that 5 years ago decided to convey their collective longing for peace by dropping origami peace bombs in the form of paper birds. To solve this conundrum and cut out the 300,00 or so would-be entries for the name the cub contest, observe what the mother panda eats, take the first two letters of said snack foods and come up with a passably legible name that would make sense in both Thai and English. She's confined in a zoo anyways, no point getting in to the semantics of the old Nature vs. Nurture argument.

Morning walks: During morning walks, if smoking does for you what oxygen fails to do, please be mindful and be discreet with your cigarette when walking past joggers. Instead what one should do is to chew 2 pieces of bubble yum the night before whilst smoking 5 cigarettes right in a row. By the time you're done the gum would already hold the nicotine equivalent of 6 cigarettes, what with the extra nicotine content coming from your own saliva residue. Should you find bubble yum hard to come by, then do smoke away but do not exhale right in to the joggers face. To them the complex inner workings of left foot, right foot is an insurmountable deal and thus, visibility and appendage coordination is tantamount to clever navigation. Exhale 2 feet before approaching jogger, that way his visibility wouldn't be diminished and he still receives a drag of chemical packed pick me ups in the early AM.

Oh Mahmoud, jizz in my pants...

2009-06-16T07:27:00.004+08:00

So here's the drill, President Ahmadinejad allegedly rigged the votes and he's set for a second term as Iran's President. Boo Hoo right? Get over it, these sort of things happen all the time, I don't need to flog the dead horse on that anymore. It can be not anything but dirty politics coupled with unfair practices, vote-buying, numerous conspiracy theories and what have you. You've read the news and watched the videos by now. I'm certain that Iran isn't nearly as despot a regime as they're painted out to be. However, it is always better to be cautious when lying beside a lion.

If there's one thing citizens in almost every country of the world inevitably know how to do and do well, it is to riot, loot and not give a hoot. What irks me more than anything is that while people the whole world around can show President Obama love, how come they can't afford the same to Kim Jong Il or Mahmoud Ahmadinejad...

SNL Digital Shorts
Iran So Far

They say true love comes only once in a lifetime
and even though we’re from opposite ends of the earth,
my heart tells me you’re the one for me.
Mahmoud

I remember when it started, saw you on the news
you were hating gays, I was eating food
but I was feeling you, and even though I disagreed with almost everything you said
you aint wrong to me, so strong to me, you belong to me
Like a very hairy Jake Gyllenhaal to me
Mahmoud make my heart beat right out of my chest
my mind says no but my body says yes
Nuclear threat, the only threat I see
is the threat of you not coming home with me.
Our love for each other’s like when atoms collide
Can’t express how I feel
Ay yo Adam let’s ride

And Iran, Iran so far away
is your home, but in my heart you’ll stay

He ran, for the president of Iran
we ran together to a tropical island
my man, Mahmoud is known for rilin’
smiling, if he can still do it then I can
they call you weasel, they say your methods are medieval
you can play the Jews I can be your Jim Caviezel
S&M, nestlin’ when we’re wrestlin’
You can be the port that I park my vessel in
So I try to mute the tv but you can still see me
with your sleepy brown eyes, butter pecan thighs
And your hairy butt…
Yeah.

And Iran, Iran so far away
come home, and in my arms you’ll stay

Used to look at the stars and dream
round the world same stars were seen
And a twinkle in your eyes Mahmoud.
Talk smooth to me, without a tie
your pants high waisted, damn so fly.
We can take a trip to the animal zoo
and laugh at all the funny things that animals do
Like Eugene (Levy) you got me straight trippin’ boo
hope you look in my eyes and say I’m trippin’ too
you say Iran don’t have the bomb but they already do
you should know by now, it’s you.

And Iran, Iran so far away
is your home, but in my heart you’ll stay

You crazy for this one Mahmoud
you can deny the holocaust all you want
but you can’t deny that there’s something between us
I know you say there’s no gays in Iran
but you’re in New York now baby
it’s time to stop hiding,
and start living

PS. Two things which I saw on my brief trip up to the motherland which made me smile; a rack full of Zee's albums in a department store and secondly, Out magazine. I'm very appreciative of how tolerant Thai society is. I don't have the facts but I'm betting 10 to 0 that you cannot find a copy of Out magazine at a newstand in KL. But as always, I could be way off the mark here folks. Oh yeah, read Blag by Tony Saint and Vita by Melania Mazzucco because if you don't then David Carradine will appear in your closet...which to this here grasshopper, it's just an open invitation to treat.

Buffer

2009-05-31T06:16:00.005+08:00

I've just woken up not 15 minutes ago, after a visit to the loo and a well-earned cigarette I am subdued and possibly enthralled by the revelatory nature of two recurring themes.

Firstly, in the subconscious tedium of sleep that is overbearing, I'm consistently pursued by otherworldly images of God, of his machinations, his doctrines and the agenda of his agents. I'm not an atheist, I just choose not to actively seek out divinity because of my non-commitment personality. While I drew some notion of sedated rejoice from his presence in my dreams, upon awakening I'm as surly and petulant as a child whose diary has been secretly read by his parents.

Secondly, please do not invite me to birthday parties, or whatever hastily forged celebration that pertains to the day of your birth. I'm not the most adherent person with regards to this. Surely I've gotten by with scattergun cameos and sincere wishes to others on their "special" day. Yet, for 2 years running now, I'm also guilty of using birthdays as a sending off of sorts. I was there, I attended, I made with the pats on the back and the forehead kisses. I cringed and curled my toes within my shoes as you thanked my making it. Now, I am safe in here, hiding behind the monument that I can use a lot lesser of you.

Dawn has always been the most sobering of hours to be awake. Almost as tear-inducing and sobering as seeing week-old kittens lay facing one another, their worm filled bellies aching at the seams, their soft undeveloped skulls irreversibly flattened by the errant wheel of an automobile.

Today is World No Tobacco Day. It also happens to be my annual 3 and a half packs a day.

That reminds me, if you wear socks and sandals, if you have an inability towards not using portmanteaus like guesstimate or probablistically, if you favour wearing vests in non-formal surroundings then you should probably stay far away from me. I'm not composed of some misplaced hatred though, I'm just perennially cautious.

Don't exceed the prescription.

2009-05-25T02:24:00.005+08:00

I read Ginsburg's Howl four months ago. If you've not read it...don't read it just yet. I think poems like that eventually find you.
I've also read Charles Bukowski, W.H. Auden and Ian Polley.

Call this a cop-out, call me lazy but I'm feeling that this is exactly why I'm finding it so hard to actually write anything of my own.

Either that or the trivialities of living in the real world has made me, no wait, turned me into a creative cul-de-sac, except that this one doesn't have an exit. It's just a massive dugout in the road, straight down to purgatory.

With AC/DC playing in the background. Not that song either.
The other ones.

Or was it the Ramones.

P.S. Why did I have a dream about you shivering? Yes, you were shivering and all of a sudden you intimated for me to come to Melbourne.

P.P.S. I think it's just the laziness.

Democracy in China? No way man, not as a fact.

2009-05-19T00:26:00.007+08:00

It has been a good long while since I've busted one of these out. To be fair and also to proffer a passably valid reasoning behind the absence, it’s nothing monumental. I've just not been seeking that much new music. Also, for the longest time I couldn't tap the gland that turns me into an erstwhile critic who is given to continued usage of pompous comparisons and my supposed knowledge of production values.

Asshat or otherwise, better late than fucking never, sincerely, here's the review.

Guns N' Roses
Chinese Democracy (2008)

When it was announced that Guns’ N’ Roses’ perpetually awaited sixth studio album would finally see the end of the tunnel in November 2008, a cavalcade of not necessarily the most relevant questions dropped on me like manure on Biff and his goonies in Back To the Future. The questions of course only came after a prolonged period of imaginary pointing, jeering scoffing and imparting one sided put downs directed towards Axl Rose. One sided put downs that never reached him.

I watched End of Days in 1999 because it was one of a slew of Armageddon/ the anti-Christ is coming movies. The only thing that was more gratifying than seeing Arnold die for the second time on screen was listening to the song played over the credits, GNR’s industrial dipped monster of a track “Oh My God”. I’ve heard rough cuts, leaks and live versions of Chinese Democracy fairly often, the earliest being in 2001 with Madagascar. Was I in for a surprise, would that be the quintessential shades of a triumphant comeback in the years to come? As the cliché goes only time could tell and went it did. In 2002 I watched the MTV awards because it was cool and also for wanting to catch the new but not necessarily improved Guns N’ Roses close the show. My first complaint wasn’t GNR themselves but Jimmy Fallon who was host and who also introduced the band. Yeah, that's right I've generally disliked Jimmy Fallon for a long time now. Then as if a literal enactment of how the mighty falls, Axl Rose and his cover band butchered their way through a painfully less than satisfying return to the limelight. They played like a jam band, everyone was off the cue and Rose huffed, puffed and slurred his way into infamy, as far as comebacks are concerned.

Was I put off though? Did I run into my room and stomp my GNR cassettes to bits a la Rose in the Patience video? I wanted to but no, I wasn’t really that put off. For a man who lives in partial comfort amongst the poverty stricken becomes a king and for that 12 minute set, I felt like nothing if not a king. So after 11 years of imbibing the original GNR, I found myself perched on the spinode of something remarkably amazing on Myspace a little past midnight. How do you reassess and even attempt to write a review for a band that is so monstrously capable, so deftly amazing and I’m not even being impartial here; just about the coolest, balls to the wall collective of musicians ever assembled? Could you write a testimonial of your parents? What if you were abducted and thrown in to a lake just to be rescued and nursed back to warrior-level health by the Loch Ness creature? Do you think mere words could do that justice? What about the first time you knocked boots? See? You can’t, well at least I know I can’t.

But for the sake of clarity and also because I’ve wanted to do this for a while now, I shall scribe out a track by track account of Chi Dem (Yeah..Chi Dem, that’s what we in the know call it, isn’t that just the boss of cool?)

===================================================================

Chinese Democracy (4:43)

It begins with whispers in what I can only concede is how Americans audibly make Mandarin out to sound like and guitar overlays that build on to at least a minute and a half before that trademark primal banshee wail of Axl Rose sucker punches you in the stomach, throat and temple. The song kicks like a government mule as it literally explodes with Rose complaining about visionaries and Chinese stew. The thing about having a song without a chorus to play around with is that it needs a divertive guitar hook and a much layered one at that because at its apex, there were at least 4 guitars being shredded. Lyrically I don’t know what is actually being said but to paraphrase I think it’s just an introduction from Rose saying that the current incarnation of GNR is run like the title says. Democracy of a few and that few; actually the one on the throne is Axl Rose.

Shackler’s Revenge (3:37)

This track follows in the bestial tradition of Oh My God in that it’s a heavy industrial one not just musically but vocally as well. Two vocal tracks have been laid out one in the extreme bassy end and the other the opposite. What is refreshing is that it doesn’t at all sound like the GNR of yore, if this had been an instrumental song, dollars to donuts, it would’ve been tagged as a Ministry track. This song is a terrifying concrete fist that thunders down with an absolutely insane guitar solo, so much so that I’ve barely held on with every listen. The only drawback is how muted the drums sound, they don’t sound hollow but that’s not to state that it sounds punchy either.

Better (5:02)

The second single off the album after the title track plays out over a very polished sounding hip-hop like drum loop and this is where the album clocks in for its first criticism. I don’t mind the hip hop beats at all but they sound too clean and actually it’s damn muted compared to the drums of the Appetite/Illusion era. While Steven Adler will always be GNR’s best drummer in my books, I find myself pining and settling for lesser like Matt Sorum. Better is quite easily one of the most accessible and easily listenable tracks on this album, Axl Rose’s mousy upper register that he uses in the beginning of the song is thankfully ravaged into a throaty invocation by the time the furious face melter of a guitar solo comes about. Lyrically though the song reads like he had actually stumbled into the ladies room and he was caught unawares by the screams. But that’s my take on it. I’m sure he means it in a more profound, I’ve been hurt and had sort of way.

Street of Dreams (The Blues) (4:46)

Three sonic assaults later, its time for a multitude of lush, semi-slower numbers. I refrain from using the word ballad simply because I hate ballads, no wait, I love ballads. But ballads should not be sung by bands of the hard rock persuasion. If there’s one thing which I’ve hitherto felt was a pompous inflation of the GNR personnel was the addition of Dizzy Reed, the piano/keyboards/synth player. The thing being that Rose himself is fucking skilled on the ebonies and ivories. Why take this guy in the first place? He’s no Jordan Rudess to begin with. Maybe in the old Guns, Reed did come off as a vanity addition but on this album though he shines with the orchestral direction, the strings and piano keys which upon listening feels like it is a continuation of the same which was used in the beginning of Breakdown from Illusions 2. This track again is about as layered as a Kevlar vest and to his discredit Rose’s seemingly helpless inclusion of every single detail he picks up at times feels a tad too much. However this song soars even though it does feel cluttered. The best part about it is that the guitar solo sounds a hell of a lot like what former axe man Slash would play…except its handled more deftly. The lyrics read of sincere warmth and well, this is the same guy who penned Sweet Child O’ Mine. At times his voice does break and/or get in the way of the instrumentation of the song. But it’s a firm favorite.

If The World (4:54)

I know that James Bond theme songs are commissioned during filming and it lyrically has to have something to do with the plot of the movie or the title at least. If the producers want a rock theme song though, then this is it. The title itself sounds like a Bond movie. Again there’s a velvety hip-hop beat that introduces the song along side a Spanish guitar opening and there’s a consistent groove beat that registers as the vocals are laid out in the higher scale. This all works fine until the first chorus where everything being played is played on full and Axl is trying to find a way not to be underwhelmed by the noise. It cuts of with a la..la-la-la with the phasing effect that cuts left to right with the Spanish guitar and in an instant everything is thrown at our direction yet again. It’s messy, it’s bombastic and it’s definitely not something I would expect of the older GNR. I guess the problem of the song is not with its content but more towards where to channel the content, it’s audacious to play a looping drum track, a Spanish guitar and dropped distortion all at the same time. Not quite the perfectionist Rose has been reputed to be.

There Was a Time (6:41)

In an interview with Rolling Stone, Rose had stated that Chi Dem would have varied influences and sounds ranging from the industrial undertones of Nine Inch Nails to the over the top nuances of a Queen vocal arrangement. While the latter remains somewhat subdued on this album it does show up now and then as in the opening sequence of this song which is a keyboard/vocal mix in the upper register set against a clanky, heavy piano monotone. It gradually builds up with Axl sounding most similar to the Illusions era and right around the 2:30 mark it breaks into a string-laden jam session featuring four guitarists layered onto one another with a choir harmonizing the chorus along. This leads onto one of the most self indulgent but actually listenable near 2 minute guitar solo. One jarring point to note is that Axl’s vocals sound just about near blown out by the end of the song but to his credit and to the credit of Geffen’s 13 million dollars it’s all gone heavily into hiring audio engineers to polish what might’ve been quite a painful auditory experience. By the time song nears its end its just Axl, a guitar solo, a burgeoning piano send off, a choir line and sadly again with the fucking muted drums. I think most of the drum lines were written on a drum machine and the players were told to emulate them OR there’s just too much auditory Photoshop being employed.

The lyrics of this song are…not even in a nascent state of contrition as it just continues to be righteously bitter with the antagonist being painted as someone partially unworthy of being saved yet is still very much in the mind of the singer. Not unlike a lover who’s finding it hard to let go, or just about anyone who’s ever felt betrayal. Lyrically though this song and most of the album reads like a release of a lifetime’s worth of confusion and trauma albeit there being both positive and negative traumas. While it threatens to overcook, gradually tones itself down, there's a disciplined restraint that's rather hard to pick out from the entire album. That's not to say that it's non-existent though.

Catcher in The Rye (5:52)

So how do you turn a book into a song? Well for starters you would have better luck trying to snare a unicorn in a bear trap. Which is actually bollocks since unicorns don’t exist. I don’t know what it is but numerous musicians have always tried to capture either musically or lyrically certain books that they might’ve been inspired by and to varying degrees the results usually are. Catcher in the Rye is one of those books that everyone seems to be so enthused about so much so to the point that I don’t want to read it for fear of a mediocre reprisal. What kind of irks me is how similar in build this song and TWAT sound, it’s almost the same song but actually I’m bullshitting. They’re not, I just wanted to join in the throngs of naysayers who have actively been lambasting this album. This song sounds verdant as it has a very lifting orchestral driven instrumental refrain in the middle but afterwards though it kind of feels stale. Like a meandering jam session. At least though this one has decent sounding drums and while I appreciate the upper vocal register along the whole track, it’s a terrible oversight that it gets so overly glossed over as the song closes.

Scraped (3:30)

Remember how in Bohemian Rhapsody they featured a operatic section where the 4 band members recorded and re-recorded their vocals to emulate a choir? Scraped starts out like that with the exception of Rose being off the marker as the vocal conductor but all references to Queen end there as the song quickly blows up in to a vehicle for Axl to play up his metal misgivings. I say misgivings because it’s more Korn than Judas Priest, sadly. I mean Korn is an alright band its just that they’ve never had to me, that much artistic credibility, like Sex Pistols against The Ramones. Yet, it’s a rabid three minute song that paints of a gunmetal grey shoved down your throat. Heavy would be an understatement, then again for all that it aspires to be this song sadly sounds like a filler, given the time this album has taken to be released.

Riad N’ the Bedouins (4:10)

Berserker. Ravenous. This is what I would describe the sound of Riad to be and I especially love the opening. Electronica overdubs over a spacey growing sound that holds on just about as long as it should until the distortions force their way onto the track and everything goes nuclear. Again there’s definitely a risk of sounds inflated what with all the instruments going off at once and this time its not just the guitars and the “drums” but there’s also a hell of a lot of phasing and effects strewn over the track. Actually the guitars take a backseat as most of the song is vocally led by Axl Rose’s screams about what his frustrations and sweet salvations are. The climax of the song is a battle between the vocals as he squeals and peals his way leading in to a decently written drum breakdown. Then the monstrosity of effects laden guitars hit back home and high notes go for the production values of this song because nothing is overlooked. While it might be a goulash of festering noises, everything is highly distinguishable.

Sorry (6:14)

This could very well have been penned during the Illusions era because it sounds traditionally GNR. But that’s where the comparisons should end because if Slash was guilty of anything, it was that he found it somewhat difficult to rein himself in from slobbering all over the track. The song builds up over a slow metal grind which is sung to great effect by Axl. Up to the point of the third line where Axl deviates from the feel to suddenly drop the lyric “I don’t want to do it” in a near-Toots Hubbard manner. The chorus sounds monumental as it only should over the seemingly impending build up. It also sounds full and I generally get the feel that this is actually one of the songs which were recorded earlier because Axl Rose still had that gravelly echo to his voice. It’s not a bane either that Sebastian Bach sings back up vocals as he’s always had an impressive vocal range.

Again the guitars here wouldn’t surprise anyone if it was written by Slash as it has a blues twang to it especially in the breakdown against Axl’s whistling of the melody as was performed in Civil War. Overall it’s a very satisfying song as a nod to the old GNR sound. Very thinly veiled lyrics as well aimed at well, you be the judge of that.

I.R.S. (4:28)

This song is actually hard for me to define. It’s a straight rock number, it’s energetic enough with a bridge that’s reminiscent of You Could Be Mine but what throws me off is how forced Axl’s vocals sound. It’s almost as if the wrong lyrics and approach were tagged on to this song. The guitars are messy, the drums are barely there at the right intervals and it’s just an explosive sonic mess that somehow made it on to the CD. But I have a love-hate relationship with this song though, on the odd day I actually love it to bits.

Madagascar (5:37)

Nearing the winter of the album you can almost feel that there is a slight throwback to the old GNR sound and generally to the traditionally structured albums where the most worthwhile songs tend to be stocked in the tail end. Madagascar is a rousing made for the stadium anthem-like song which begins with a rather religious sounding organ keys. It sounds nothing like Civil War but the one similarity would be the inclusion of the audio snippet from Cool Hand Luke in the bridge of the song. It is partially a mid tempo rock song that eventually turns into a exhibition in prolonged blues guitar playing. Indulgent it is but as a whole it works with the song, along with samples of Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech. The drawback of this song is that at certain minimal points it sounds watered down, turgid, somewhat lacking of any actual inspiration. Or it could be that the vocals on this song are rather below par to the rest of the album. It risks sounding overwrought but this one song alone is better than at least 80% of the rubbish that's receiving airplay.

This I Love (5:34)

Upon listening to this song the first time I felt that it was a lemon of a filler because it felt out of place in this album. This one actually qualifies as ballad. I said it. His vocals are at their strongest when he paces himself and not to try and outdo the instrumental sections. In the span of 3 minutes Axl himself is the focus of the song as it is mostly a vocal and piano track. The guitar part does come in very strongly but it's non-intrusive playing. It's just a straight up love song man, but mostly for us love is something most introspective when it has already been lost. That's exactly what makes this song one of the gems in this album. Also whichever song I profess to hate, I'll eventually end up liking anyways.

Prostitute (6:15)

The closing song on this album is to me the most scornful and bitter one yet, try topping this lyric, Ask yourself what I would do to prostitute myself? To live with fortune and shame. Introspective? Far from it but I'm not him so I wouldn't know. Directed at Slash? Step on a crack, break your mother's back, so yeah probably. I have at this juncture lost count of the amount of times the drums on this album are due for nuke-level criticism and this track isn't exonerated either. It builds up on a rather nippy hip-hop drum beat and it escalates with all corners lit, the two guitar solos could've sounded stronger had there been some decent drums to counter it. The highlight of this track isn't the song itself but the instrumental one and a half minute closing portion of the song. It sounds promising as a film score or as an overture/preview of the next collection of songs.

========================================================

Chinese Democracy might be a double album or it might be 4 albums depending on what you read and believe. It would be asinine to have used this long to write 14 songs out of which 6 are ridiculously amazing, 4 are good and the rest are almost fillers. Lyrically I would say that where growth was obvious, it has grown but the sub-par comes along in that its either too complexed in pentameter to be turned into a song. Generally that or most of the lyrics just sound too dramatic and bitter. This album has more than a few flashes of sheer genius as it has with stark displays of overwrought idiocracy. The number one criticism would be that Axl decided to give his drum machines precedence over actual drummers. Either that or he's crazy enough in his Axl Rose world to give his drum machines human names. No album is perfect enough to please every demographic even within a band's fanbase.

With that said, it would be nothing short of a fucking cop-out to lambast this album purely because Slash isn't on it. I'll give it up for Slash, every I'm playing air guitar he's the first person I want to be. Duff is one of my favorite bassists but let's face it, this album wouldn't have worked at all had they still remained in the band. Chinese Democracy might not work in China and yeah be it as it may the brainchild of one W. Axl Rose, just flush out the egos, forget Slash, Duff and Matt, forget the history, Axl & Co. just want to rock hard. It's hardly the lemon of the year.

Ahhrrnold...Annie...not the review

2009-05-17T05:04:00.006+08:00

I went to the gas station today in the hopes of wasting 9 sultans to exacerbate my impending delve into respiratory complications and while there I came across this.

Now I don't know what particular synapse/gland it is that works to kick a bucketful of acidic syphilis carrying sand into a person's eyes and makes him fall for Arnold Schwarzenegger's sister. I don't ever want to know. Coming back though yes I saw a woman who looks like the one in the picture above only that she's not in a...beast-kini (thankfully) She had short manly hair, a tight tank top, three quarter pants and boots. Oh also a cache of guns for fucking arms. In fact her arms were so toned and defined that the only part of my body that looks that ripped is only something I can try hard to imagine I have.

Oh did I mention she came across strongly as one of those man-hating,I-have-an-agenda-for-a-world-led-by-a-post-op-Bruce Jenner?
Yes. I'm not given to cheap and haughty judgments but she gave me a look that shriveled my primordial soup makers. Her eyes said, look at you...standing there with your balls, planning out your little balls-involved schemes...basically she scared the shit out of me. I would of course blast off a caveat here stating that oohh I'm politically correct, I have nothing against lesbians or otherwise. But I'll let you come to your own informed decisions.

It could be a political agenda fueled by sheer dislike of men or it could just be that she had a bad day lifting weights or punching people's lights out. Whatever. Again I don't know what distorted world I live in but I don't think I'm the only one who fantasizes that the only clothing option for women of the world is tiny spandex shorts. (The out of shape ones get a special pass allowing them to redeem a government sponsored full bodied poncho, unfortunately its made of spandex as well). It comes down to this, the next time I see an athletic woman I can only hope that she looks like this. I'm threatened by the thought of a woman who can knuckle sandwich me nine days to Sunday even though that thought leaves my boy bits stricken with rigor mortis.

Woweewoweee....Oh she must have a torso and arms and legs and a face too of course. It would be inexplicably macabre to go out on a date with someone's derriere exclusively, unless said tuckus belongs to Kim Kardashian.

A world ruled by women wouldn't be a bad thing. Think about it.

Sobering...it's blasé to blaze, negative 420, really?

2009-05-16T02:02:00.005+08:00

Plunging headlong into the abyss; nearly exasperated, an untapped potential is not unlike a kite without the comforting safety of a string. My aspirations are almost sullied and befouled by the sheer emptiness of everything and particularly everyone, well almost everyone. There's a pyramid of naked bodies and gathered around it are the fledging ascenders ready and willing to pay the toll and take their places upon the rung of another's flesh.

This repetitive action is akin to seeing a coterie of crabs in a basket, as one nears the summit, the others will clamor and pull him down in a fit of teary-eyed jealousy and human selfishness. The damning need to have on their person something representing a substantial notion of achievement. A degree on a wall, a cereal spoon with the word "Spoon" spelled out on the handle, a home in the nicer part of town, ruby slippers for use in the bathroom and other such novelties.

Lauding causes and "injustices" highlighted in the decidedly biased and imprisoned media by active participation, never once entertaining the what ought to be as opposed to the what is. Reluctant participation against fleeting, errant emancipation will be the great divide that scores personal and political brownie points as it leaves us dwelling on the thought that you know what, maybe there is to some varying matter of degree, a sort of fine exultation to be had in that hallowed, continued pursuit of the great expectation.

Don't claim to be the top billing and don't allow such disillusions to become the impetus for whatever progress there is to be undertook. Be that as it may, whether or not I am aided by a wayward strain of guidance, I've come to find a certain religiosity in not allowing something as flimsy as faith to be the beacon. Yet, don't let that stop you from reading religious books though, those are always fun dumb reads. Like a Dan Brown novel. Go ahead, sit in your cold laboratory of an office where you are the experiment subject, go right along and wear your corporate noose every morning, work your way upwards even with the tacit knowledge that the more you have the less your will matters. The only credit which you're due for is the fact that you're at least driven towards doing something.

Then again, it's difficult not to have something to do when practically everyone has a personal fucking agenda. Worldly pleasures, illegal medical suppositories, nostril fairy powder, our disgusting drug seeking behavior that only quells with erstwhile tempering. Such is life. Nothing is a revelation anymore. With that, I apologise for the arbitrary displays of brutal run-on sentences.

Charles Bukowski
As The Poems Go

As the poems go into the thousands
you realize that you've created
very little.

P.S. Up next, reviews.

Soft Hand Combat

2009-05-05T08:47:00.005+08:00

heavy drags and heady drugs
have your fun before it has you
and in time, it's better than a chase,
we're pounding drums and i'm the unsalted brine,

holding on to the pale heart on your sleeve
you won't apologise
but i forgive you.

Hey, I'm thinking of getting a notebook. I can no longer store lines and stanzas in my head. They always come at the most inappropriate times. I want exuberance, I want happenstance. I won't leave it on a train. I want to finish this.

I want to jazz dance under the rain.
I want to watch the stars.
I want to live in a Ramones song.

PJ Harvey
Black Hearted Love

Misty Canyon

2009-05-02T15:54:00.002+08:00

Zee Avi
Bitter Heart

Misty Canyon is a Sven Libaek song by the way.

Ballerina, You must've seen her, dancing in the sand...

2009-04-25T20:58:00.002+08:00

Elton John
Mad Hatters & Mona Lisas
Honky Chateau

And now I know
Spanish Harlem are not just pretty words to say
I thought I knew
But now I know that rose trees never grow in New York City

Until you've seen this trash can dream come true
You stand at the edge while people run you through
And I thank the Lord there's people out there like you
I thank the Lord there's people out there like you

While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say good morning to the night
For unless they see the sky
But they can't and that is why
They know not if it's dark outside or light

This Broadway's got
It's got a lot of songs to sing
If I knew the tunes I might join in
I'll go my way alone
Grow my own, my own seeds shall be sown in New York City

Subway's no way for a good man to go down
Rich man can ride and the hobo he can drown
And I thank the Lord for the people I have found
I thank the Lord for the people I have found

Tweetapalooza and other things.

2009-04-16T01:20:00.009+08:00

Firstly, this is the last post whereby penises and vaginies will be liberally and fondly spoken of. After this post, they're akin to the Untouchable caste in Indian society. "God" has sent me a sign...or a warning. Plus it's damn juvenile as well, first in grade school you don't want to think of it because of the coodies (eewww), then later in highschool it's all you can seem to ever think about.

I want to quickly get something off my chest. I'd appreciate some comments ehh. I don't think it hearkens towards some vacuous, personal need for approval or anything detrimental like that. It certainly isn't a case of oh my mummy didn't give me enough hugs growing up and my dad used to beat me with a broom! Everytime I get a comment, I squeal and swoon in delight...unless it's goddamn penis enlargement spam...whatchoo know about me wanting to enlarge my penis and all? Good comment, bad comment, pile them on, at least it livens things up. But I don't want to channel Kim Jong-Il though, comment if you want...just know that I lean towards getting actual comments. Mmmmwah!

I know that I've mercilessly disparaged Twitter on previous occasions...oh fuck it, you already know this was SO inevitable. You disapprove of gays, you get a gay son. Just like that. 'Tis be the holy trivium ladies an' gents! Blog? Check. Facebook? Check. Twitter? Triple Check! Sex Tape? Oh wait I said trivium...no need for a fourth item there, ignore that I even mentioned that. Now, a crafty swine of a person such as myself always has a defense at hand and yes, it's so cliched, I was talked into it. Zee came on MSN and asked me if I "Tweeted". I though it was the newest teenage drug craze or something then I remembere ah yes, Twitter, an erstwhile fodder for constant badmouthing.

I'll openly admit, I don't get to speak to Zee as often as I would love to because of the Los Angeles-Kuala Lumpur time difference so whenever I get a chance to, I'm as attentive as Sarah Palin is when she spots a miserable looking moose. Plus she's always busy and all that showbiz extravaganza. So I'm solely placing the blame on you Zee. You twittered my virginal twat. Yet we get to stay in touch. I've been "Tweeting" for a couple of days now and it just sure is swell gee golly gosh!

I noticed that there's an option whereby I can add a Twitter widget to my blog and I only have one question. A microblog...within a blog? Ah well I can whine and complain all I want...I'm still going to add the widget anyways! Why not? It's almost like an action figure that comes with a plethora of accessories.

I've not been carpentering for a fair bit and I think I'm losing the touch for it. Ultimately all I want is to be able to make a rocking chair, so that I can sit on the porch, sip tea, listen to...The Carpenters and look at our vegetable garden. But Wood Isn't the Future....Haha, does that not sound like a Viagra Ad? Haha! Anywho, I watched this on Discovery Channel and it's really amazing. The designers draw out the design and the rough sketch itself is molded into the end product.

Motion Capture is a technique that translates motions into 3D-files. Motion capture is mostly used for animations in movies and computer games. Front have used the technique to simply record the tip of a pen when they draw pieces of furniture in the air.

Rapid Prototyping is a technique that materialises 3D-files. A laser beam builds the 3D-file layer by layer within a liquid plastic material. Every 0.1mm the liquid harden by a laser beam. After a few hours, the 3D-files come out as materialised pieces.

Of course, all the descriptive words in the world just comes off as theoretical pedantries, watch the magic here, it's really amazing man.

I remember sometime around in early 2004, Zee and I were in A-Levels Law class but we were preoccupied in drawing up the dream Lollapalooza line up and there was The Mars Volta, Incubus, amongst others. I don't remember where that poster is anymore but that's not the point! On the 28th-30th of August, Zee will be one of the supporting acts for San Francisco's Outside Lands Music Festival 2009. Ohh man...The Mars Volta, Dave Matthews Band, Pearl Jam, Beasties, M.I.A, Mastodon, Incubus! I saw the announcement and I was pretty misty around the eyes man but it's all good love ehh. I tend to get very emotional under circumstances like that, when a friend finds their niche or they get to do something they're so passionate about. Plus, I'm pretty fucking jealous too man...a line up like that...it's almost a ten-fold wet dream involving Brangelina.

Communitychannel
We Just Touched Awkwardly

You can try to pretend
you disguise
you can try to ignore
but your hand just touched mine

yeah we just touched awkwardly
was that strange for you like it was strange for me?
we just touched awkwardly
no, i'm not going to let this go

It was like that one time
when i reached over you
and you tried to ignore
when i grazed your left boob

but we just touched awkwardly
was that strange for you like it was strange for me?
yeah we just touched awkwardly
no i'm not going to let this go!

First the Katy Perry spoof, now this...Natalie makes me smyle.