Roll Over, Play Dead...

OK folks, I hate to break it to ya like this, but this social experiment is over.

Yeah, this Anti-Blog/Non-Blog thing is getting old pretty fast.

From now on, Suffian Says this blog's going to be a normal blog, warts and all. I'm not saying that I'm going to try to explore the everyday depths of the mundane, or keep on complaining about how I hate it when the newspaper is always soggy in the morning because the dumb motherfucker paperboy always aims for the puddles, but hey, things are taking a turn for the conventional.

Yeah, let's see where this goes.

(When I've finished San Andreas, that is; right now I've just made it to Las Venturas and I'm itching to hit the Strip and gamble away my life savings.)

Fuck you, Big Nose, I don't want to buy insurance.

What's the best way to say "NO", can anyone tell me?

Where have I been?

Asleep, writing advertorials, day-dreaming, Los Santos, joining in the festivities, listening to way too much Klute, chasing skeletons out of my closet, Limewire, lost, hungover, Menace in Motion, grieving, Hospital Records, trying to make the reverb work just right on the Rhodes, tired, happy, happy but tired, Mont Kiara, alone, shopping, thieving, hurting, bleeding, denying accusations with the greatest sang froid, compiling a wishlist, compiling a deathlist, hoping for World Peace, Traffic, television, Playstation2, searching, lost, searching, lost, Exitmusik, driving in the rain, Phantom Planet, writing more advertorials, Damansara, wondering, winning, losing, Bowling for Columbine, fading out, burning in, mixing, waiting, planning, thinking, Stereophonics, editing, worrying, smiling, feeling, Sinusitis, fighting, consoling, playing no part at all, Dsylexia, being elusive, posturing, posing, trying to score four to the floor, Ramallah, comforting strangers, learning that patience is indeed a virtue, Coldplay, being childish, being stupid and now I think you should stop reading this...

A Sign of the Times

If you were a child of the Eighties, then you'll love this:

http://www.keenaschips.co.uk/index.php?page=articles/misc_rainbow

No wonder I'm so fucked up right now.

(And no, Ayu, I haven't finished San Andreas yet)

Meet tha Sims at South Central, yo

THIS BE A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT, yo:

This Blog gonna be off tha hook till 'ah be done pimpin' Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.

'Fo sho.

Later, hommies...

The Best of Both Worlds

Stupidest conversation of the month:

Friend: Hey man, you're mixed, right?

Me: Yeah. Northern Indian and Malay.

Friend: Yeah, thought so. You know what, that means you can be a good lawyer, but a lazy one.

Me: Ha! Thanks, I never thought about that before.

Friend: Anytime.

But who you are isn't about where you came from, it's about where you're going, and how you're going to get there.

Peace, out.

[Unalienable Truth #827]

Ibiza should be pronounced "ee-bee-zah", which sounds sexier, instead of "eye-bee-thhaaa" which sounds like Carl Cox coming down from three pills.

Business as Usual

(Imagine what it would be like if you were to have your blog audited)

KPMG's OPERATIONAL AUDIT OF THE BLOG "KAMOTHERAPY" - 11/04

Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen, and welcome to this morning's briefing.

At the behest of our Client, who wishes to be known only as "Kamo", KPMG conducted a future-oriented, systematic, and independent evaluation of organizational activities during the initial first month period (10/04-11/04) of our Client's Blog, "Kamotherapy", in which we examined significant trends relating to the primary sources of evidence of operational policies and achievements related to organizational objectives.

In the course of our investigation we discovered three interesting trends:

- The word "fuck" was used approxmiately three thousand times in the space of less than 20 blog posts, leading to the conclusion that our Client has a penchant for being vulgar and crass. We project that unless our Client learns to emote in a more eloquent manner, people will begin to think that he has a severely limited vocabulary. However, our Client has assured us that he does not, in any case, give two shits.

- We estimate that our Client's preoccupation with turning this Blog into a Non-Blog, or in other words, a Non-Discernable Blog, will lead many readers to think he is just pissing about on the Internet or merely directing his frustration and/or amusement with life events in a similarly non-productive manner. However, our Client reassures us that that is the whole point of this Blog, as he is neither interested in being conventional nor has the inclination to bore readers about how the cornflakes didn't go "Snap, Crackle and Pop" this morning, or why he hasn't been a good boy lately. In the Client's own words:

"The whole point of this Blog is to channel the most personal and ridiculous ideas, thoughts and feelings that I sometimes have into something tangible and whole, and not to act as some sort of diary of events like most Blogs are. There isn't supposed to be any continuity to this Blog, other than that I write stuff as each day goes on. I don't find it an overbearing necessity to be endearing to readers, or to impress anyone by sounding clever. I just want to see how creatively I can express certain ideas and emotions, in different tones and patterns, using different signs for things that people would not normally contemplate. Yes, I want this Blog to be akin to a poor man's guide to Semiotics, a tribute of sorts to Roland Barthes and a means of channeling ideas that didn't make it to print, for whatever reason, to be here."

- Our Client, at this juncture, would like to make this Blog more "interactive", but is decidedly too ignorant of html to add pictures and would rather suffer the indignation of having a bare Blog than confuse and frustrate himself any further.

Thank you, and Good Day.

[Unalienable Truth #569348]

Five cups of decaffeinated coffee is not the same as one cup of regular coffee.

California Red

Red Wine + Char Kuey Teow + Milo Ice = don't mix very well.

I puked my guts out last night. Hugged the toilet bowl and spewed out my supper. It's funny how the stuff always comes out looking like carrot stew.

Oh, and this hangover is pretty bad, too. But ask me how my weekend was, and I'll tell you I had fun, thank you.

This room is spinning, but I'm fine, thank you.

I'm dehydrated as fuck, but I'll live, thank you.

Nice Ads!

The most curious fad in Singapore, as I noticed when I was there last month, isn't on the streets or in shopping malls; it's on cigarette boxes.

Buy a pack of Marlboros and the first thing you see is a huge picture of a pair of rotten, gore-splattered lungs. Or someone's rancid, mingin' blood-soaked gums. Or a bunch of nameless extremities strung out across a platter like frog's legs .

The worst one is a picture of a premature baby in an incubator. That one gets me every time. It's downright heinous to show people pictures like that. Obscene. Vulgar. Disgusting.

No, that wouldn't be my approach if I was going to convince people to stop smoking. I wouldn't try to scare the crap out of you that way.

I'd just slap a picture of David Hasselhoff on all of the cigarette boxes with the caption:

"WARNING: SMOKING IS GAY"

That should do it. End of problem.

Honk Honk

PRE-COGNITION

Pronunciation: "prE-(")käg-'ni-sh&n

Function: noun

Etymology: Late Latin praecognition-, praecognitio, from Latin praecognoscere to know beforehand, from prae- + cognoscere; to know, clairvoyance relating to an event or state not yet experienced.

In the movie Minority Report, the three pre-cogs are named Arthur, Dashiell, and Agatha. The significance of the names of the pre-cogs is that they are all names of famous detective novelists: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Dashiell Hammett, and Agatha Christie. Bet you didn't know that.

In real life, all Malaysian motorcyclists are pre-cogs. They always know when the traffic lights are about to go from Red to Green, and just before they do, they rev their bullshit little scooters and race off in a huff and a puff. They can also sense when you are about to flip them the One-Finger Salute, and always turn their heads away knowingly.

Such clever fuckers.

However, a lot of them happen to be illiterate and cannot understand or interpret the meaning of road signs like "ONE WAY" or "NO ENTRY" or "NO PARKING."

This usually leads to alot of frustration and cursing on your part, but like most Malaysian drivers, I'm sure you already know this. And like me, you probably wish you kept a Chicago Cubs MLB Limited Edition Team Signature 35" baseball bat in the boot, just in case you ever get the chance to "talk" to one of these assholes.

Just kidding.

I think.

Nice Survey!

This is the Mother of all Surveys, the Survey to end all surveys, to paraphrase a certain ex-dictator. After reading this survey, you will not ever, and when I say ever, I mean like for the rest of your life ever, feel like posting another Goddamned survey on the Friendster Bulletin Board:

1. Why are surveys annoying?
Because they’re annoying, man.

2. But what exactly is it about surveys that you find annoying?
I just think surveys are annoying, that’s all.

3. How come?
Well, for one thing, a lot of surveys ask stupid questions.

4. Have you ever had a crush on a member of the opposite sex?
See! Of course I’ve had crushes on girls before. Approximately three hundred and twenty seven times, if you want some Goddamned numbers! Actually, the last time was a little bit messy, but yeah, I guess it might count. But who really wants to know all this shit? Do you? Do you?

5. OK, so if surveys are full of stupid questions, why do people keep posting them on the Friendster Bulletin Board?
How the hell should I know! People can do what they want! I’m cool with it. No, really, I am. Haha.

6. Would you rather have a hot but skanky girlfriend or an ugly but faithful girlfriend?
Skanky!

7. Are surveys devised by the FBI so that they can accurately profile you just in case you’re ever going to strap a bomb to your ass and run around town screaming “I’ve got a bomb strapped to my ass!”
Maybe. I don’t know. I think the Feds already know about my plot to secretly infiltrate Buckingham Palace and replace all the silverware with fake silverware so that I can sell the real silverware on the black market before they discover the fake silverware and get enough money to like, pimp my ride, yo. Like, ‘fer real, Essei.

8. Do you have any pets?
I think pets are overrated. Especially all the weird ones like lizards and shit, I think you gotta be a little mental you know to keep that sorta shit in your house, y’know? But I have two cats. Unfortunately, I spayed one of the poor little bastards, so he ain’t never gonna be sowing no Goddamned oats or whatever…Haha.

9. Have you ever had your fortune read?
I know what my future is, I’m here to party.

10. Would you ever fill out another survey after this one?
Hell no. Isn’t this the Mother of all Surveys?

It Ain't Nuthin

Some dayz you tha pigeonz. Some dayz you tha statuez. Word.

Secrets from the Kamasutra

Lesson 1: Never put a condom in your wallet.

Despite how macho it feels.

Especially if it is the only one you have left. And you can't be bothered to go out and get some more, right now.

You see, as I discovered ten minutes ago, your luck will eventually run out.

One day, your condom's packaging will tear and spill all that crazy lubricant shit all over your Maybank ATM card, your driver's license, your Starbucks loyalty card and Mr Tan's 24-hour Plumbing business card.

And it sucks even more if your wallet is made of leather.

Everyday Junglist

Yes, and I'm proud of it, too.

Hey, everyone needs a little music in their lives. I just happen to need it a little more than you do.

I get up in the morning, make myself a strong cup of coffee, have my first cigarette of the day and put on some Technical Itch. And I start dancing as soon as I feel the drop. As soon as I hear the Amens sing.

I'm half-asleep, for fuck's sake and already my feet are stomping, my head's nodding back and forth and everything's OK.

I'm a junkie. I need my Drum n Bass like a pothead needs Rizlas.

I never used to be like this before. Even when I first discovered trance, which I still have a weak spot for. Even when I first discovered rock 'n' roll, yeah, Guns 'n' Roses, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Sonic Youth, The Screaming Trees etc...Even then I still thought of music as something that had it's time and place, something that was purely functional, therapeutic even. Nowadays, I need my Drum n Bass.

Of course, I'm not afraid of getting desensitized or that listening to too much d&b will eventually make me sick of it. No, none of that.

I've been listening to d&b for almost 6 years now. And it still feels like new. Maybe this is where it's at, for now. Maybe it's going to lead to something else. Maybe not. Maybe there's too many fucking maybe's than I should be concerned with.

Whatever it is, I wanna see just how far this rabbit-hole goes, fucking hell yeah Morpheus you fat bald fuck, let's roll, motherfucker!

[Unalienable Truth #1823715]

All college textbook writers have fucking weird names. Look your old Stats textbook. 'That sound normal to you?

Nice Words!

Here's a quote from the Godfather of Semiotics, Roland Barthes, that aptly describes the turmoil that I experienced over a girl a few months ago:

"The amorous subject wonders, not whether he should declare his love to the loved being, but to what degree he should conceal the turbulence of his passion: his desires, his distresses; in short, his excesses.)

...Yet, to hide a passion totally (or even to hide, more simply, its excess) is inconceivable: not because the human subject is too weak, but because passion is in essence made to be seen: the hiding must be seen: I want you to know that I am hiding something from you, that is the active paradox I must resolve: at one and the same time it must be known and not known: I want you to know that I don't want to show my feelings: that is the message I address to the other. I advance pointing to my mask: I set a mask upon my passion, but with a discreet (and wily) finger I designate this mask."

And I don't know why I just posted that, but I just had to, y'know?

The Devil & James Brown

I liked watching James Brown in Tony Scott's Beat the Devil (www.bmwfilms.com). What a smart, smart man.

Today I sold my soul to the Devil for a mere $5000.00 (tax-free, mind you), a 500ml bottle of whisky and other guilt-free pleasures and/or immoral privileges associated with copywriting and/or the advertising trade.

At least they didn't spell my name wrong on the check...

To find out why I am destined for Hell, please refer to next Wednesday's education pull-out in The Star.

I'll probably buy my soul back when I make my first million. Ha ha.

Nice Film!

There I was, stuck in the five o'clock traffic today when my thoughts suddenly pandered to the film Fight Club.

(Yes, Ee Von, this blogging shit is starting to get to me now).

I was thinking about the scene in the basement where Tyler's handing out assignments to all the members, and he's telling everyone to pick a fight with a total stranger and LOSE.

Needless to say, the next part of the film is absolutely fucking hilarious. Everyone just LOSES.

I can't imagine doing something like that. I would never be able to let someone let fly a left hook at me and not cringe or attempt to move out of the way. Not this bonehead, mate.

I've had my fair share of fights and what's curious is that I actually felt a sense of nostalgia about it. The last time I whacked someone propa must have been in high school, where the fights were so violent that they make rugby scrums look like group hugs. There were just absolutely no rules. None at all.

Anything that wasn't nailed to the wall or bolted to a surface could be used as a weapon.

Once you're down, you either get up, or lie still and wait for a hand to appear. If you were lucky, the hand would not go for your nuts and squeeze them like a bag of M&Ms. If you weren't, then you're probably going to have trouble explaining why you can't knock up your missus.

Girls were collateral damage; if there was a chick standing in the path of a projectile, well, too bad. If she was a smart lass, she'd duck. Otherwise we'd just shrug our shoulders and continue pelting each other with dusters, brooms and chairs.

It didn't matter if there was a teacher in front or in the back, if you had to have it on with someone, you would go ahead and clout the fucker for all you were worth. Amazing.

Then there were the "birthday rumbles".

Now, there's one reason why you should never feel the need to share such intimate details like your date of birth with any of the other nutters - we'd mark everyone's birthday on the class calender and you'd hope to God that you'd get sick or your Daddy would come to pick you up before recess.

It was all well sorted; there'd be two guys sitting next to you during the period before recess to make sure you didn't try to leg it somehow. Then we'd wait for the teacher to leave (birthday rumbles are a little bit more sophisticated than regular scuffles, so we would ceremoniously wait for the teacher to leave before the pandemonium broke out).

After that, we'd carefully re-arrange all the furniture so that there was a huge empty space in the middle of the class, and that was where you'd stand. I remember there was at least one smart-ass who would walk around with a blue or red chalk and menacingly scrawl a great big "X" to mark the spot.

There you'd stand and we'd sing happy birthday, or join our hands together as if in a solemn prayer or chant your nickname obscenely loud so that people from the canteen would hear and come and join in.

Then, without further ado, we'd all rush in and we'd whack you. In the ensuing chaos, of course, we'd take the liberty to mark other people we'd been wanting to clobber for ages, and sneak in a flying kick or three. It would go on for as long as there were people left standing, and then everyone would bugger off as soon as a prefect came along, although we did have a few prefects who not only joined in but made sure some people stayed back to clean up the mess.

You'd then either go see the nurse, or spend the rest of the day in hiding just in case you accidentally pissed off the wrong person.

Those were the days. Such glorious, testosterone-fuelled knobheads we were.

Nice Cartoon!

"Ba Weep Gra Na Weep Ni Ni Bonn"

Shit, I feel so old now.

Nice Music!

Oh and while I'm at it, I would like to recommend you listen to Dom & Roland's Can't Punish Me and Makoto & MC Conrad's Golden Girl, available on 12" vinyl and mp3-streams on the Net.

Wicked.

Oh, and big up the Winston Brothers for inventing the Amen.

Nice Intro!

OK, so here's the deal:

Writers aren't supposed to have blogs.

Why? Because it's an oxymoron. A redundancy. A no-brainer.

Because it's our job to write. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. We are expressive by nature, outspoken by character and completely fucking annoying whenever we want to be.

So, why expand time and effort writing stuff when you don't need to, when no one's going to pay you for it and when instead you should be writing stuff that's due tomorrow morning and you shouldn't be pissing about on the Internet about how bad your day was, or how cute that girl looked in the mini-skirt at the checkout counter at BSC and how you're never gonna ever get that kind of pussy because you don't believe in love at first sight anymore...

Puh-leeze!

So, why am I doing this???

FOR FUCKS.

Yes, ladies and gents, there are times when one does feel the need to abandon reason.

So, there is no point to this blog. No hidden agenda. No underlying compulsion to be poetic or endearing or witty or strong yet sentimental or hopelessly romantic or whatever. No intrinsic need to impress, inform or intimidate anyone. Honest.

This blog is just going to be a constant rant about anything that I feel is worth ranting about (given my, er, busy schedule) and it's not going to be anything more than that.

Why?

Because I can express my creativity through my work. Because I can bullshit all I want whenever I want and still get published somehow. Because it's more exciting doing that when you end up getting paid for it.

Because I don't need to prove anything, like, my English is better than yours.

(I'm sure it's not, but this is my blog, so I win).

Yeah, that's basically it. If you think I'm being cocky, well, maybe I am. But at least I'm being honest, yeah?

Sticks and Stones, Motherfucker...

I thought I'd call this blog "Sex with Strangers", because it sounds like a fictional 80s-revival electro band from New York.

Cool, eh?

However, there already exists a blog with that name, which is REALLY about sex with strangers, so I decided not to cramp that person's style and so changed my blog's name to "kamotherapy".

Which not only sounds cooler but is also very much an original idea.

Nice Blog!

This is not a blog. This is not an intro. This is not here.

So, why are you here?

When I finally get enough inspiration to start posting, I will let you know. Until then, use your imagination. There are a million other places worth visiting. Shoo!

Go get 'em, Tiger!