Monday, December 26, 2005
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Twins
Hey, am I the only person who thinks that Eva Longoria looks like a spunkier version of Joan Collins?
Should I be thinking about things like this?
I think work is getting to me.
Should I be thinking about things like this?
I think work is getting to me.
Friday, December 09, 2005
The Importance of Making Yourself Clear
When you say something like, "I want to fuck Jessica Alba in a silver lamé jumpsuit!" do you mean to say that:
a) You want to fuck Jessica Alba whilst wearing a silver lamé jumpsuit (now that's is kinda gay, frankly)
b) You want to undress Jessica Alba after seeing her in a silver lamé jumpsuit, and then fuck her
c) You want to fuck Jessica Alba while she's wearing a silver lamé jumpsuit (not impossible, but a bit tricky, I'd imagine)
It's all about grammatical precision. That's what separates the articulate from the eloquent.
In any event, 'remember Scarlett Johansson in that white tracksuit in The Island?
Way hotter.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Closing Time
We just closed December.
It was hell. In a way, I've just closed December, too. And two thousand five.
It's done.
It's over.
What a fucking crazy year.
What an endless parade.
What a ride.
I'm done. I've had enough. I want to start the New Year tomorrow.
It's mad.
I've been blogging for a year.
I've been living, seeing, hearing, feeling, thinking, breathing it all in.
I've gone from college senior to junior writer.
I've gone from lost to found.
It's been wonderful. It's gone from bad to worse to up and down, and fucking sideways.
Cheers, everyone.
Keep it massive.
It was hell. In a way, I've just closed December, too. And two thousand five.
It's done.
It's over.
What a fucking crazy year.
What an endless parade.
What a ride.
I'm done. I've had enough. I want to start the New Year tomorrow.
It's mad.
I've been blogging for a year.
I've been living, seeing, hearing, feeling, thinking, breathing it all in.
I've gone from college senior to junior writer.
I've gone from lost to found.
It's been wonderful. It's gone from bad to worse to up and down, and fucking sideways.
Cheers, everyone.
Keep it massive.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Future Perfect
If I had studied a little harder before my O Levels, I could've aced a few more subjects.
If that had happened, I might've realized my then aspirations of attending the London School of Economics, and might've even graduated with a degree in Political Science, or perhaps even, International Relations.
And if that might have happened, I might've graduated much earlier, and would've started my first job when I was twenty-three (or twenty-four, give or take some sex, drugs and rock 'n'roll).
If so, I would be living a different life, different in its entirety from the one that I am living now.
Different friends, different tastes, different music, different clothes, different everything.
And then she says: "But I like how you've turned out."
That's an encouraging thought.
It makes some things that I've gone through feel a whole lot more worth the while.
If that had happened, I might've realized my then aspirations of attending the London School of Economics, and might've even graduated with a degree in Political Science, or perhaps even, International Relations.
And if that might have happened, I might've graduated much earlier, and would've started my first job when I was twenty-three (or twenty-four, give or take some sex, drugs and rock 'n'roll).
If so, I would be living a different life, different in its entirety from the one that I am living now.
Different friends, different tastes, different music, different clothes, different everything.
And then she says: "But I like how you've turned out."
That's an encouraging thought.
It makes some things that I've gone through feel a whole lot more worth the while.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
The Big Easy
It's a little early in the day for this, but I have a New Year's Resolution that I'm going to start practising from today onwards.
It's called "Chill The Fuck Out, Suffian."
Yup, I think I do need to chill out abit. I overreacted at something yesterday, and it caused me and someone else a bit of grief. Needless to say, misunderstandings can always be avoided, if you just take a second to try and see things as they really are.
So, I'm gonna chill.
About everything.
Heck, I've slowed down a hell of lot since I brushed past the Mid-Twenties mark, but hey, maybe it's not enough.
I want it over-easy, sunny side up.
It's called "Chill The Fuck Out, Suffian."
Yup, I think I do need to chill out abit. I overreacted at something yesterday, and it caused me and someone else a bit of grief. Needless to say, misunderstandings can always be avoided, if you just take a second to try and see things as they really are.
So, I'm gonna chill.
About everything.
Heck, I've slowed down a hell of lot since I brushed past the Mid-Twenties mark, but hey, maybe it's not enough.
I want it over-easy, sunny side up.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Highway Hell
To aspiring Works Ministers and national infrastructure planners alike, if you ever intend to build a highway that runs the length of Malaysia, say, from the northern state of Perlis to the southern tip of Johor, could you please consider making it at least, yes, in the very least FOUR FUCKING LANES ON EACH SIDE.
Yes?
FOUR FUCKING LANES ON EACH SIDE.
It took me 7 hours yesterday to travel from my dear grannie's in Taiping back to KL.
SEVEN FUCKING HOURS.
That's more than enough time to fly to Perth.
The story goes that when the authorities were running feasibility studies and projection models for the North-South highway, back in the Eighties, they based it on the Federal Highway.
THE FEDERAL FUCKING HIGHWAY.
Back in the Eighties, they must have thought that people would have probably had hover cars or could teleport back to their kampung by 2005.
THAT MUST BE WHY THEY BASED THEIR RESEARCH ON THE FEDERAL HIGHWAY.
What's more, the '80s recession and a lengthy court battle between the Opposition and United Engineers, the builders, held the project back for about two years after it was initially set to be built, therefore contributing to a rise in the cost of the project and forcing the authorities to skimp on the original plan.
Whatever that was.
Brilliant.
But I'm going to stop bitching now, because it was worth enduring the jam just to see the smile on my grannie's face when we arrived, and being there with her throughout the festivities. Oh and the food was brilliant, too.
Selamat Hari Raya.
Yes?
FOUR FUCKING LANES ON EACH SIDE.
It took me 7 hours yesterday to travel from my dear grannie's in Taiping back to KL.
SEVEN FUCKING HOURS.
That's more than enough time to fly to Perth.
The story goes that when the authorities were running feasibility studies and projection models for the North-South highway, back in the Eighties, they based it on the Federal Highway.
THE FEDERAL FUCKING HIGHWAY.
Back in the Eighties, they must have thought that people would have probably had hover cars or could teleport back to their kampung by 2005.
THAT MUST BE WHY THEY BASED THEIR RESEARCH ON THE FEDERAL HIGHWAY.
What's more, the '80s recession and a lengthy court battle between the Opposition and United Engineers, the builders, held the project back for about two years after it was initially set to be built, therefore contributing to a rise in the cost of the project and forcing the authorities to skimp on the original plan.
Whatever that was.
Brilliant.
But I'm going to stop bitching now, because it was worth enduring the jam just to see the smile on my grannie's face when we arrived, and being there with her throughout the festivities. Oh and the food was brilliant, too.
Selamat Hari Raya.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Fallout
Being a fan of literature (read: bookworm/geek), I get flashes, from time to time, of all the things that I've read. Sometimes whole passages, sentences, phrases and if I'm lucky, some dialogue from a Stephen King novel.
It's an amazing feeling, almost like having epiphanies. Fond ones.
Lately, I've been seeing pages from Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park, in particular, the illustrations on the title pages of each chapter. The fractals, coalescing, a freaky wire-mesh of conflict and disorientation.
And yet, some how, whole.
Why the fractals? Why now?
I'm not sure if I'm analyzing too much, but this is bothering me.
It's not unlike sighting an iceberg off the starboard bow, knowing fully that there is Something Big resting gently beneath the surface.
Oh, I don't know.
---------------------
There I was, a few hours later, sat on a wooden bench at the Ampang Speedy Car Wash, waiting for my Satria to get all nice and shiny when I suddenly realized that it was Roni Size booming from the speakers.
"Holy Two-Step, Batman, it's Roni Size!"
You'd expect them to listen to something more like Mawi, but bless them, the lads have discovered Jungle.
At nine in the morning. On Deepaavali.
Happy Holidays.
It's an amazing feeling, almost like having epiphanies. Fond ones.
Lately, I've been seeing pages from Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park, in particular, the illustrations on the title pages of each chapter. The fractals, coalescing, a freaky wire-mesh of conflict and disorientation.
And yet, some how, whole.
Why the fractals? Why now?
I'm not sure if I'm analyzing too much, but this is bothering me.
It's not unlike sighting an iceberg off the starboard bow, knowing fully that there is Something Big resting gently beneath the surface.
Oh, I don't know.
---------------------
There I was, a few hours later, sat on a wooden bench at the Ampang Speedy Car Wash, waiting for my Satria to get all nice and shiny when I suddenly realized that it was Roni Size booming from the speakers.
"Holy Two-Step, Batman, it's Roni Size!"
You'd expect them to listen to something more like Mawi, but bless them, the lads have discovered Jungle.
At nine in the morning. On Deepaavali.
Happy Holidays.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Concord Dawn Returnz
Yes, Concord Dawn is back in Singapore to murder the dancefloor yet again. If you can afford only one drum n bass holiday this year, this is it.
Concord fucking Dawn. Boh!
Big up to the SG Massive for yet another corker! Have fun, guys.
Concord fucking Dawn. Boh!
Big up to the SG Massive for yet another corker! Have fun, guys.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Eyesore
"To the left, Ali, to the left!"
"No, no, my left, Ali, MY LEFT!"
If those crazy motherfuckers from Al-Qaeda ever want some easy target practice for their pilots, could they please take out the two unfinished condos that stick out like Gi-Normous sore thumbs at the end of Jalan Dato Sulaiman, in Taman Tun?
Please?
It seems that the contractors had left the site in a bit of a hurry, as they'd left even the cranes behind, to adorn the top of the ghastly twin spires like spines of twisted metal.
"I bet if we had a secret dnb rave there, no one would know," said Led, pointing out a commercial use for the ruins.
"Yeah, and imagine if we robbed a bank, we could stash all the money there and the cops would never find it!" I added, rather excitedly.
"Some construction workers must've died there, probably in a freak accident, " blurted out Essam.
"I want to get up there and see if the cranes still work," said Led, and unanimously, we agreed.
"No, no, my left, Ali, MY LEFT!"
If those crazy motherfuckers from Al-Qaeda ever want some easy target practice for their pilots, could they please take out the two unfinished condos that stick out like Gi-Normous sore thumbs at the end of Jalan Dato Sulaiman, in Taman Tun?
Please?
It seems that the contractors had left the site in a bit of a hurry, as they'd left even the cranes behind, to adorn the top of the ghastly twin spires like spines of twisted metal.
"I bet if we had a secret dnb rave there, no one would know," said Led, pointing out a commercial use for the ruins.
"Yeah, and imagine if we robbed a bank, we could stash all the money there and the cops would never find it!" I added, rather excitedly.
"Some construction workers must've died there, probably in a freak accident, " blurted out Essam.
"I want to get up there and see if the cranes still work," said Led, and unanimously, we agreed.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Choices
I just thought I'd post this, since it would be un-gentlemanly if I did otherwise, but I had this really interesting idea for a post, something really deep and provocative, not about tiger penises or how I hate Toyota Camrys or anything like that, but something on a subject that would, undoubtedly, elicit much feedback from readers, and perhaps even contribute to being a spark for lively conversation.
(Now wasn't that the longest fucking sentence you ever read?)
However, after thinking about it, I decided that it would make an interesting article, so I'm not going to post it here, but hopefully turn it into a story that will appear within the pages of some men's magazine, instead.
That way, I can actually make some money outta this! Instead of merely rambling to you guys.
It's fun being a published writer, isn't it?
(Now wasn't that the longest fucking sentence you ever read?)
However, after thinking about it, I decided that it would make an interesting article, so I'm not going to post it here, but hopefully turn it into a story that will appear within the pages of some men's magazine, instead.
That way, I can actually make some money outta this! Instead of merely rambling to you guys.
It's fun being a published writer, isn't it?
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Stupid Human Tricks
"Tiger parts won't improve your sex life," said the headlines.
No shit, Sherlock!
Seriously, do people actually think eating Tiger Dick Soup is going to help them satisfy their women?
Fools.
No shit, Sherlock!
Seriously, do people actually think eating Tiger Dick Soup is going to help them satisfy their women?
Fools.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Deductive Reasoning
Premise #1
Toyota Camrys are shit
Premise #2
Big cars encourage bad driving
Conclusion:
Toyota Camrys are shit
There you have it. Beyond doubt, Toyota Camrys are shit.
---------------
With the help of Chip, I've finally figured out who actor Rosyam Nor looks like on this huge Julie's billboard that I pass by every day, on the way home from work.
He looks Ming from Flash Gordon, sans the naff moustache and skullcap.
Fucking hilarious.
Toyota Camrys are shit
Premise #2
Big cars encourage bad driving
Conclusion:
Toyota Camrys are shit
There you have it. Beyond doubt, Toyota Camrys are shit.
---------------
With the help of Chip, I've finally figured out who actor Rosyam Nor looks like on this huge Julie's billboard that I pass by every day, on the way home from work.
He looks Ming from Flash Gordon, sans the naff moustache and skullcap.
Fucking hilarious.
Monday, October 10, 2005
The Funniest Days of My Life - Part 2
Nuclear Threat
October 1998: I was eighteen, and off on my Raleigh expedition to Borneo. I'd packed my 80-litre Low Alpine, Comrade Lenin, to the brim with enough outdoor gear to mount a solo expedition to the North Pole and back, and I was all psyched up because I'd be away from home for the next 3 months.
The world awaited...
Lenard, Christine and the rest had cleared the baggage check at KLIA, and I was the last one in line, right behind Alan, who was a little anxious that he had to part with his parang, which he'd only be able to see when we landed at Labuan International Airport.
I reached the X-ray machine and plonked my monstrous backpack on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector, my head full of worst-case scenarios, what with the ridiculous amount of kit that I had crammed into my green behemoth: Army-issue Jungle boots, a fully-stocked medical field kit, piles of clothes, climbing gear, rolls of film, wet weather gear, an Army-issue fold-away spade, mess tins and sachets of Milo, the works.
I could've lived amongst the Orang Asli and still have had a few 'presents' left to give away for Christmas.
As I cleared the metal detector, Security stopped me and quietly asked me to step over to the X-ray monitor and tell them just what the hell that long strip wedged in the middle of my backpack was.
"Apa tu, adik?" asked the grumpy fat lady sat behind the black and white monitor.
"Itu battery, Kak," I answered, rather confidently. I had bought a long strip of AA batteries at Carrefour, for my Maglite.
"Ye ke? Itu macam parang, saya rasa. Bukan parang ke tu, 'dik?" inquired Grumpy again, not entirely convinced.
"Bukan, Kak. Itu battery. Banyak battery," I answered again, a little nervous.
"Tapi kenapa dia panjang macam tu? Battery bukan macam tu. Saya ingat awak bawak parang tu, ye ke?" said the lady, more of a statement than a question, this time.
"Tak, Kak. Itu battery. Saya tak ade parang," I said, my patience wearing thin. I began to feel like a twat for making the guys wait for me.
"Awak baik cakap sekarang, itu parang, bukan?" Her Grumpiness retorted. Security raised an eyebrow, hand on revolver.
And so it went, back and forth as we tried to convince each other that we were seeing something that wasn't there. I sneered to myself; this woman was getting all hot and bothered by my budget battery pack.
Frustrated and teary-eyed, I decided to change my angle.
"Itu sebenarnya bomb nuclear, Kak. Bukan parang!" I suddenly yelled, adamant to end the rather pointless bickering.
"Apa? Apa awak cakap tadi?"
The lady motioned to the guards and they closed in on me, each grabbing a shoulder and steering me towards the detention room.
"Bomb Nuclear! Bukan parang! Faham!" I shouted. Then I closed my eyes and sort of wished I was dead.
The next half-hour flies by like a series of flashbacks, like at the end of Fight Club, only it's happening to me there and then.
I get shoved into the detention room, complete with a two-way mirror, and they force me to tip all of the contents out of Comrade Lenin. I get body searched twice, by two different guards, while they looked at my clothes and my underwear and decided whether or not I had a tactical nuclear weapon shoved up my ass.
I had to convince them that I was just kidding. I tried to do this as I went through all of my equipment; they wanted to see that my camera's flash worked, that it wasn't a micro bomb, they liked my Maglite, how powerful the beam was and how sturdy it felt in their grasp. I even emptied a random Milo sachet and scoffed it down to appease them.
Jabbering excitedly, they picked through my things with all of the grace of coccained chimps at a yard sale.
I was on the verge of crying.
Suddenly, they were happy. One of the guards pulled me aside and asked me not to ever try and kid about nuclear bombs again. I told him yes, I won't joke about this sort of thing ever again. And I'll not buy anymore budget battery packs shaped like machettes, sorry.
I then boarded the plane, and for the rest of the flight got ribbed for being such an idiot. Lenard smacked me round the head and told me that it nearly costed us our flight. Then he winked and told me that he could've done a lot worse himself.
Airport security. Such cunts.
No sense of humour whatsoever. =)
October 1998: I was eighteen, and off on my Raleigh expedition to Borneo. I'd packed my 80-litre Low Alpine, Comrade Lenin, to the brim with enough outdoor gear to mount a solo expedition to the North Pole and back, and I was all psyched up because I'd be away from home for the next 3 months.
The world awaited...
Lenard, Christine and the rest had cleared the baggage check at KLIA, and I was the last one in line, right behind Alan, who was a little anxious that he had to part with his parang, which he'd only be able to see when we landed at Labuan International Airport.
I reached the X-ray machine and plonked my monstrous backpack on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector, my head full of worst-case scenarios, what with the ridiculous amount of kit that I had crammed into my green behemoth: Army-issue Jungle boots, a fully-stocked medical field kit, piles of clothes, climbing gear, rolls of film, wet weather gear, an Army-issue fold-away spade, mess tins and sachets of Milo, the works.
I could've lived amongst the Orang Asli and still have had a few 'presents' left to give away for Christmas.
As I cleared the metal detector, Security stopped me and quietly asked me to step over to the X-ray monitor and tell them just what the hell that long strip wedged in the middle of my backpack was.
"Apa tu, adik?" asked the grumpy fat lady sat behind the black and white monitor.
"Itu battery, Kak," I answered, rather confidently. I had bought a long strip of AA batteries at Carrefour, for my Maglite.
"Ye ke? Itu macam parang, saya rasa. Bukan parang ke tu, 'dik?" inquired Grumpy again, not entirely convinced.
"Bukan, Kak. Itu battery. Banyak battery," I answered again, a little nervous.
"Tapi kenapa dia panjang macam tu? Battery bukan macam tu. Saya ingat awak bawak parang tu, ye ke?" said the lady, more of a statement than a question, this time.
"Tak, Kak. Itu battery. Saya tak ade parang," I said, my patience wearing thin. I began to feel like a twat for making the guys wait for me.
"Awak baik cakap sekarang, itu parang, bukan?" Her Grumpiness retorted. Security raised an eyebrow, hand on revolver.
And so it went, back and forth as we tried to convince each other that we were seeing something that wasn't there. I sneered to myself; this woman was getting all hot and bothered by my budget battery pack.
Frustrated and teary-eyed, I decided to change my angle.
"Itu sebenarnya bomb nuclear, Kak. Bukan parang!" I suddenly yelled, adamant to end the rather pointless bickering.
"Apa? Apa awak cakap tadi?"
The lady motioned to the guards and they closed in on me, each grabbing a shoulder and steering me towards the detention room.
"Bomb Nuclear! Bukan parang! Faham!" I shouted. Then I closed my eyes and sort of wished I was dead.
The next half-hour flies by like a series of flashbacks, like at the end of Fight Club, only it's happening to me there and then.
I get shoved into the detention room, complete with a two-way mirror, and they force me to tip all of the contents out of Comrade Lenin. I get body searched twice, by two different guards, while they looked at my clothes and my underwear and decided whether or not I had a tactical nuclear weapon shoved up my ass.
I had to convince them that I was just kidding. I tried to do this as I went through all of my equipment; they wanted to see that my camera's flash worked, that it wasn't a micro bomb, they liked my Maglite, how powerful the beam was and how sturdy it felt in their grasp. I even emptied a random Milo sachet and scoffed it down to appease them.
Jabbering excitedly, they picked through my things with all of the grace of coccained chimps at a yard sale.
I was on the verge of crying.
Suddenly, they were happy. One of the guards pulled me aside and asked me not to ever try and kid about nuclear bombs again. I told him yes, I won't joke about this sort of thing ever again. And I'll not buy anymore budget battery packs shaped like machettes, sorry.
I then boarded the plane, and for the rest of the flight got ribbed for being such an idiot. Lenard smacked me round the head and told me that it nearly costed us our flight. Then he winked and told me that he could've done a lot worse himself.
Airport security. Such cunts.
No sense of humour whatsoever. =)
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Dreaming
I want to write the Great Malaysian Novel.
It's not going to be about silk factories or harmony, but it's going to sell, somehow.
Then I'm going to buy me a big boat and fucking sail around the world.
It's not going to be about silk factories or harmony, but it's going to sell, somehow.
Then I'm going to buy me a big boat and fucking sail around the world.
Applause
At the behest of Ayu, and in the name of good sport, I give you my first ever internet survey*:
THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
*Disclaimer: Whoever takes the piss after reading this is a fat cunt and I will pretend to forget your birthday, too.
THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
Pian, Kamo, "Fucker!"
THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
Sgt. Pepper, Rainbow Six, Comrade K
THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
My eyes, my broad shoulders, my industrial-strength liver!
THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU DON’T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
I could be taller, I could be less hairy, I could have a six-pack (again)
THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
Super geeks, uptight corporate motherfuckers and ladyboys
THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
Coffee, humour and er, sunlight
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS:
Damn it, why just three? Goldie, Marcus Intalex, Klute
THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
Boxers, shorts, tee
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS:
Klute - Saviour, Calibre & High Contrast - Mr Majestic, Logistics - Together
THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
Unconditional love, trust and a girl who can openly tolerate me, but let's me know when she can't
2 TRUTHS 1 LIE (in no particular order - happy weeding that lie out):
I love working for Mediacorporation Publishing (M), I am dyslexic and I know CPR
THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
Ass, tits, pretty face
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:
Reading, gaming & taking the piss out of everything. No, wait, the last one is my job
THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
LJ. While I'm at it, let's also have me win the lottery and an Aston Martin from the Dubai lucky draw, too
THREE CAREERS YOU’RE CONSIDERING/YOU’VE CONSIDERED:
Copywriting, music production and when I was 17 I wanted to be an oceanographer so that I could swim with sharks
THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
Greece, Maldives (Kani) & Bora Bora
THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
I want to skate a proper half-pipe, surf a 30-foot wave and have a dogfight against Russell Peters in a pair of Spitfires ("Someone gonna get a-hurt reaaalll baaad")
THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A BOY:
Limited attention span, inability to ask for directions when lost, prone to recklessness
THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A GIRL:
A girl? As in pseudo-feminine traits? Well, I take ages in the shower, I get weepy during sad movies and I want to have kids one day
THREE FEMALE CELEB CRUSHES:
Scarlett Johansson, DJ Heavygrinder & Emma Griffiths
THREE PEOPLE THAT YOU WOULD LIKE TO SEE TAKE THIS QUIZ NOW:
Keith, naz & my sister
*Disclaimer: Whoever takes the piss after reading this is a fat cunt and I will pretend to forget your birthday, too.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Eulogy
"Abang Suffian, why are they going to give Pakcik Mat a bath? Can't he take a bath himself? I can!"
"Na'eem, I know you can. But Pakcik Mat is dead, so we have to give him a bath instead. Then we'll wrap him in cloth and bury him"
"But that means we're not going to see him again, are we?"
"No, Na'eem, we're not"
Pakcik Mat passed away last week, at the ripe age of 64 and despite being this expressive, creative person that everyone tells me that I am, I can't bring myself to write anything witty or poetic or whatever the fuck the emotion is that you're supposed to feel when you're trying to paint the dead beautifully, because it's still too new and I still feel just too fucking sad about it.
So, nothing.
I'm not going to say anything.
Except that I hope he reaps all the good that he's sown. Bless.
"Na'eem, I know you can. But Pakcik Mat is dead, so we have to give him a bath instead. Then we'll wrap him in cloth and bury him"
"But that means we're not going to see him again, are we?"
"No, Na'eem, we're not"
Pakcik Mat passed away last week, at the ripe age of 64 and despite being this expressive, creative person that everyone tells me that I am, I can't bring myself to write anything witty or poetic or whatever the fuck the emotion is that you're supposed to feel when you're trying to paint the dead beautifully, because it's still too new and I still feel just too fucking sad about it.
So, nothing.
I'm not going to say anything.
Except that I hope he reaps all the good that he's sown. Bless.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Strike Three
I experienced an illuminating moment of self-discovery yesterday, during the course of a short telephone conversation with an old buddy, on my possible upgrade to the status of "Non Drug-Using Friend."
Without going into the details of our conversation, I'd say that I think this is definitely good news for me; since my unceremonious exit from Wonderland earlier this year, when I officially decided to stop fucking myself up on weekends, I've been feeling a little ambiguous about my association with drugs. It's been a case of trying to practice a sort tolerance for something that you will, unwittingly, loathe afterwards. Something that has done an incalculable disservice to you, and in severe cases, irreparable harm.
Imagine feeling very pleased with yourself that you've stopped the abuse, and at the same time, trying not to come across as condescending towards people who still enjoy them. Imagine trying to not worry about what the drugs are doing to them or about what the drugs have done to you.
Not fucking easy, is it?
Well, I have only two vices left; alcohol and cigarettes. (If you consider coffee as a vice, you might as well rent a buggy and ride for the nearest Amish town. Might I recommend New Holland, Pennsylvannia?)
And I'm aiming to strike out those two, as well.
Eventually.
Without going into the details of our conversation, I'd say that I think this is definitely good news for me; since my unceremonious exit from Wonderland earlier this year, when I officially decided to stop fucking myself up on weekends, I've been feeling a little ambiguous about my association with drugs. It's been a case of trying to practice a sort tolerance for something that you will, unwittingly, loathe afterwards. Something that has done an incalculable disservice to you, and in severe cases, irreparable harm.
Imagine feeling very pleased with yourself that you've stopped the abuse, and at the same time, trying not to come across as condescending towards people who still enjoy them. Imagine trying to not worry about what the drugs are doing to them or about what the drugs have done to you.
Not fucking easy, is it?
Well, I have only two vices left; alcohol and cigarettes. (If you consider coffee as a vice, you might as well rent a buggy and ride for the nearest Amish town. Might I recommend New Holland, Pennsylvannia?)
And I'm aiming to strike out those two, as well.
Eventually.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Bugz in the Attic
I don't wanna go to work today, I'd rather stay home and play video games.
But I gotta get up.
But I gotta get up.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Positivity Redux
I stood up to my chest in the sea, closed my eyes and imagined what it would be like to get swallowed whole by a 30-foot wall of blue, while the sun was shining and the beach behind me sparkled intermittently from the reflection of light off seashells and shards of glass and bottle caps.
I felt, instead, the crest of a small wave as it knocked me back and under, my eyes still closed, reaching out and feeling nothing.
I broke the surface with a shout of joy and then of remorse. And then of gladness.
And of gratitude.
I hate it when I think too much whenever I'm travelling, but for fuck's sake, it's good to be alive.
Medan, New Orleans, Phuket around Christmas in December 2004.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry because my empathy felt displaced, it felt corollary.
I couldn't help but feel this incredible feeling of sadness as I walked out of the surf. Transient as it was. Fleeting, as it was.
But I felt it all the same.
I felt, instead, the crest of a small wave as it knocked me back and under, my eyes still closed, reaching out and feeling nothing.
I broke the surface with a shout of joy and then of remorse. And then of gladness.
And of gratitude.
I hate it when I think too much whenever I'm travelling, but for fuck's sake, it's good to be alive.
Medan, New Orleans, Phuket around Christmas in December 2004.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry because my empathy felt displaced, it felt corollary.
I couldn't help but feel this incredible feeling of sadness as I walked out of the surf. Transient as it was. Fleeting, as it was.
But I felt it all the same.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
The Funniest Days of My Life - Part 1
Alarm Bells
May 1994: My neighbour's house had been empty for about two months. When you're fifteen, on your term break and bored out of your skull, there isn't much that you won't do to keep yourself entertained. Things like conscience, responsibility and "laws" exist beyond your moral comprehension. Or awareness. If you could call it that.
Thankfully, I was in with the right crowd.
We'd been stealing stuff from the new bookshop for the past few days and now we were bored again. Hardback novels, paperback novels, music CDs, stationery sets, Rolling Stone magazines, anything that we could sell to geeks and losers at school when it opened. We were like the Krays, we were unstoppable.
(At the height of our delinquency, my good buddies stole a motorcycle, drove it around till it ran out of gas and launched it into a pool, somewhere near the Dam)
So it happened that one day we were hanging around outside my house when it occured to me that no one was probably going to move in to the neighbour's house for at least a few more months, and that we could bust into the place and 'liven' it up a little. Armed with nothing more than the invincibility of youth, we climbed over the wall, and I headed straight for a side door that was miraculously left unprotected; there was no grill to hide it, no heavy padlock to dissuade stupid teenagers from breaking into the house and pissing on the walls.
There was, however, a small blue box just above the door that had the letters "C-H-U-B-B" written on it, in bold. As I grasped the rusty doorknob, it hadn't at that point occured to me yet that people could leave the alarm system on even if they'd moved to a swanky new apartment somewhere else. Why they hell would they?
"Guys, let's go upstairs and moon people from the window!"
The moment I yanked the door open, the siren pierced my eardrums and the whole world went into slo-mo. I could see the bare insides of the house, the walls had been whitewashed and there was nothing inside - no furniture, no stacks of discarded porn magazines. I turned around, my hand still on the doorknob, and looked at the guys, whose faces also looked a little whitewashed, and said "Fuck, the alarm's still on!"
Naturally, all hell broke loose. As one, we hauled ourselves over the wall, laughing and screaming in surprise, and the guys jumped on their bicyles and rode off as fast as a pair of apeshit robbers could.
I ran into my own house (where else was there to go?) and hid in my bedroom. I pulled the blanket over my head and pretended I was asleep. With the siren going off like it was a bombing raid.
For the next 30 minutes of my life, I promised myself to never steal or try break into another house again, as I agonized over whether or not the cops would discover my fingerprints when they dusted the doorknob.
Thankfully, the cops never came.
May 1994: My neighbour's house had been empty for about two months. When you're fifteen, on your term break and bored out of your skull, there isn't much that you won't do to keep yourself entertained. Things like conscience, responsibility and "laws" exist beyond your moral comprehension. Or awareness. If you could call it that.
Thankfully, I was in with the right crowd.
We'd been stealing stuff from the new bookshop for the past few days and now we were bored again. Hardback novels, paperback novels, music CDs, stationery sets, Rolling Stone magazines, anything that we could sell to geeks and losers at school when it opened. We were like the Krays, we were unstoppable.
(At the height of our delinquency, my good buddies stole a motorcycle, drove it around till it ran out of gas and launched it into a pool, somewhere near the Dam)
So it happened that one day we were hanging around outside my house when it occured to me that no one was probably going to move in to the neighbour's house for at least a few more months, and that we could bust into the place and 'liven' it up a little. Armed with nothing more than the invincibility of youth, we climbed over the wall, and I headed straight for a side door that was miraculously left unprotected; there was no grill to hide it, no heavy padlock to dissuade stupid teenagers from breaking into the house and pissing on the walls.
There was, however, a small blue box just above the door that had the letters "C-H-U-B-B" written on it, in bold. As I grasped the rusty doorknob, it hadn't at that point occured to me yet that people could leave the alarm system on even if they'd moved to a swanky new apartment somewhere else. Why they hell would they?
"Guys, let's go upstairs and moon people from the window!"
The moment I yanked the door open, the siren pierced my eardrums and the whole world went into slo-mo. I could see the bare insides of the house, the walls had been whitewashed and there was nothing inside - no furniture, no stacks of discarded porn magazines. I turned around, my hand still on the doorknob, and looked at the guys, whose faces also looked a little whitewashed, and said "Fuck, the alarm's still on!"
Naturally, all hell broke loose. As one, we hauled ourselves over the wall, laughing and screaming in surprise, and the guys jumped on their bicyles and rode off as fast as a pair of apeshit robbers could.
I ran into my own house (where else was there to go?) and hid in my bedroom. I pulled the blanket over my head and pretended I was asleep. With the siren going off like it was a bombing raid.
For the next 30 minutes of my life, I promised myself to never steal or try break into another house again, as I agonized over whether or not the cops would discover my fingerprints when they dusted the doorknob.
Thankfully, the cops never came.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Intervening Space
She's off on her jetplane. To the Island.
I miss her already. As inconceivable as it sounds, as implausible as it may be to miss someone even before they've arrived at their destination, unpacked their bags or had a dip in the ocean.
I hope the flight's not a bumpy one.
Baby, if you're reading this, I miss you.
*flashes Juvenile Lovesick Face*
I miss her already. As inconceivable as it sounds, as implausible as it may be to miss someone even before they've arrived at their destination, unpacked their bags or had a dip in the ocean.
I hope the flight's not a bumpy one.
Baby, if you're reading this, I miss you.
*flashes Juvenile Lovesick Face*
Friday, August 26, 2005
Goodbye Six
I got really, really drunk.
It was Keith's last KL gig; the good man is jetting off to Manchester this Sunday and he'll be away for about a year.
Yeah, I got drunk.
You should have been there. Even if you don't like drum n bass. Even if you're the type who thinks hip hop's way cooler, especially on Thursdays because you think you can get lucky with Mary Jane Rottencrotch at Ghetto Heaven.
All of you opportunistic ass-grabbing bastards.
Everyone should have been there.
p.s./ The wicked flyer was done by Irman. Big up for that and for dnb in Zouk! It was a ruckus while it lasted. See you all at Cream for the next session!
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
The Devil's Workshop
Here are my favourite quotes from Stanley Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket:
"Tonight, you men will sleep with your rifles. You will give your rifle a girl's name because this is the only pussy you people are going to get. Your days of finger-banging ol' Mary J. Rottencrotch through her pertty pink panties are over! You're married to this piece. This weapon of iron and wood. And you will be faithful."
- Gunnery Sergeant Hartman.
"My thoughts drift back to erect nipple wet dreams about Mary Jane Rottencrotch and the Great Homecoming Fuck Fantasy. I am so happy that I am alive, in one piece and short. I'm in a world of shit... yes. But I am alive. And I am not afraid."
- Private Joker.
"These are great days we're living, bros. We are jolly green giants, walking the Earth with guns. These people we wasted here today are the finest human beings we will ever know. After we rotate back to the world, we're gonna miss not having anyone around that's worth shooting. "
- Crazy Earl.
"Tonight, you men will sleep with your rifles. You will give your rifle a girl's name because this is the only pussy you people are going to get. Your days of finger-banging ol' Mary J. Rottencrotch through her pertty pink panties are over! You're married to this piece. This weapon of iron and wood. And you will be faithful."
- Gunnery Sergeant Hartman.
"My thoughts drift back to erect nipple wet dreams about Mary Jane Rottencrotch and the Great Homecoming Fuck Fantasy. I am so happy that I am alive, in one piece and short. I'm in a world of shit... yes. But I am alive. And I am not afraid."
- Private Joker.
"These are great days we're living, bros. We are jolly green giants, walking the Earth with guns. These people we wasted here today are the finest human beings we will ever know. After we rotate back to the world, we're gonna miss not having anyone around that's worth shooting. "
- Crazy Earl.
Non-Disclaimer
Once you get past the free booze, pretty skirts and luxury car test drives, you'll find that the most fulfilling aspect of a job like mine is...writing captions. We nearly piss ourselves on a daily basis over the unabashed absurdity of the tags that we give generously to the foolish and the insane.
The Brand Book says that “it is worth spending a long time working captions if necessary…as most readers, wherever they are in the world, find the funny captions one of the best things about the magazine.”
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Heavy, and Glad
I've been felicitously experiencing normality, in very agreeable doses, over the past few months.
On Sunday, we had a late, lazy breakfast together, and spent the afternoon playing Scrabble and stealing kisses.
We hit the night market, she bought some roses, and I got some strawberries from Cameron Highlands.
It was amazing how much fun I had doing normal things. Being normal. Spending normal time with someone.
Apparently, there's a whole life beyond getting shitfaced every weekend and doing things just to feel stronger or braver. Or prouder.
It's a good feeling.
On Sunday, we had a late, lazy breakfast together, and spent the afternoon playing Scrabble and stealing kisses.
We hit the night market, she bought some roses, and I got some strawberries from Cameron Highlands.
It was amazing how much fun I had doing normal things. Being normal. Spending normal time with someone.
Apparently, there's a whole life beyond getting shitfaced every weekend and doing things just to feel stronger or braver. Or prouder.
It's a good feeling.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Chili or Tomato?
Neither.
I like my fries plain, extra salty.
The lady behind the counter looks at me like I've just politely refused some pussy.
("No thank you, ma'am! I'll give it a pass! I think I've had enough pussy for today...Hot damn, maybe I'll have some tomorrow!")
It must take a lot of resistance against their training for them to overcome that initial burst of confusion, whenever a customer declines their choice of sauce.
Well, I don't like it, anyway.
Kills the taste.
I sometimes find myself wondering what it would be like if I ever ask for mayo instead.
I like my fries plain, extra salty.
The lady behind the counter looks at me like I've just politely refused some pussy.
("No thank you, ma'am! I'll give it a pass! I think I've had enough pussy for today...Hot damn, maybe I'll have some tomorrow!")
It must take a lot of resistance against their training for them to overcome that initial burst of confusion, whenever a customer declines their choice of sauce.
Well, I don't like it, anyway.
Kills the taste.
I sometimes find myself wondering what it would be like if I ever ask for mayo instead.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Fucking Hell
The guy on the bike swerved in front of the Satria, which made the Saga pull the Mother of All Emergency Brakes, and its boot rushed to engulf my windshield as I haphazradly stomped down on my own brakes, and watched in horror as my bonnet crumpled like tin foil and crushed my radiator and fuck knows what else and now I don't have a car for the next 10 days.
Motherfucker.
I don't see any blessings in disguise.
If you can see any, you must be high.
If I ever find that motorcyclist, I am going to, well, let's hope I don't find him, yeah?
Motherfucker.
I don't see any blessings in disguise.
If you can see any, you must be high.
If I ever find that motorcyclist, I am going to, well, let's hope I don't find him, yeah?
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
[Epilogue]
By the time I hit 26 this year, it will mean that I've been writing for about ten years now.
Ten fucking years.
Hallelujah, Jimmy, call the press!
Wait a fuckin' minute, I am the press!
Damn straight!
----------------------
You were waiting for a long-winded essay on the joys and sorrows of being a member of the Malaysian press, now, weren't you?
Maybe you were expecting a vivid trip down memory lane with all the fascinating anecdotes on all of the weird encounters, amazing people and powerful emotions that I've experienced for the past ten years as a writer.
Well, you're not going to get it.
Wanna know why?
Coz that shit's all mine, motherfuckers, it's all mine and I ain't gonna share. =)
Ten fucking years.
Hallelujah, Jimmy, call the press!
Wait a fuckin' minute, I am the press!
Damn straight!
----------------------
You were waiting for a long-winded essay on the joys and sorrows of being a member of the Malaysian press, now, weren't you?
Maybe you were expecting a vivid trip down memory lane with all the fascinating anecdotes on all of the weird encounters, amazing people and powerful emotions that I've experienced for the past ten years as a writer.
Well, you're not going to get it.
Wanna know why?
Coz that shit's all mine, motherfuckers, it's all mine and I ain't gonna share. =)
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
More Work
Funding was critical for National Geographic.
Deadlines were uncompromising.
Lingerie was at a premium.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
[Prologue]
My interest in writing started off with fan fiction.
Believe it, baby.
Like most 8 year-olds, I was completely in love with movie monsters. Scared shitless by them, but also awed by their strength, anger and their imperviousness to harm.
But it was fan fiction with a twist.
I used to imagine that the monsters would have fantastic and interesting lives of their own, not just relegated to 2-D cannon fodder for the heroes who always got the buxom wenches nervous and the loser sidekicks cheering on in admiration.
No, these monsters were 3-D, they had personality, a sense of humour and dammit, they knew how to occupy their time.
I'd write about how the octopus from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea would rise out of the ocean and terrorize people on land, how the Cyclops that Sinbad fought would live again and go on more adventures in search of plunder, how the Iron Man would fight aliens from outer space that came to invade England.
(The Iron Man destroyed the aliens, but was badly hurt, so the town people let him live in the junkyard. One day, he got bored and went to back into the ocean and was never seen again)
My favourite one was my own sequel to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World; in my version, the heroes travelled to New York with their captured dinosaurs and ran a freak show, which other children would fear and enjoy.
I had a wild imagination.
Believe it, baby.
Like most 8 year-olds, I was completely in love with movie monsters. Scared shitless by them, but also awed by their strength, anger and their imperviousness to harm.
But it was fan fiction with a twist.
I used to imagine that the monsters would have fantastic and interesting lives of their own, not just relegated to 2-D cannon fodder for the heroes who always got the buxom wenches nervous and the loser sidekicks cheering on in admiration.
No, these monsters were 3-D, they had personality, a sense of humour and dammit, they knew how to occupy their time.
I'd write about how the octopus from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea would rise out of the ocean and terrorize people on land, how the Cyclops that Sinbad fought would live again and go on more adventures in search of plunder, how the Iron Man would fight aliens from outer space that came to invade England.
(The Iron Man destroyed the aliens, but was badly hurt, so the town people let him live in the junkyard. One day, he got bored and went to back into the ocean and was never seen again)
My favourite one was my own sequel to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World; in my version, the heroes travelled to New York with their captured dinosaurs and ran a freak show, which other children would fear and enjoy.
I had a wild imagination.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Geezer
I felt 25 today.
I felt it for the first time in over 7 months, since my birthday in December last year.
It hits you when you least expect it.
I feel like I've just lost something. I don't know what it is. I just hope it isn't anything I can't live without.
The trigger: Listening to Radiohead in the car. It made me feel nostalgic.
And you're only supposed to feel nostalgic when you're older.
Like when you're 25.
Bulletproof...I Wish I Was
Limb by limb and tooth by tooth
Tearing up inside of me
Every day every hour
I wish that I was bullet proof
Wax me
Mould me
Heat the pins and stab them in
You have turned me into this
Just wish that it was bullet proof
So pay the money and take a shot
Leadfill the hole in me
I could burst a million bubbles
All surrogate and bullet proof
And bullet proof
And bullet proof
And bullet proof.
I felt it for the first time in over 7 months, since my birthday in December last year.
It hits you when you least expect it.
I feel like I've just lost something. I don't know what it is. I just hope it isn't anything I can't live without.
The trigger: Listening to Radiohead in the car. It made me feel nostalgic.
And you're only supposed to feel nostalgic when you're older.
Like when you're 25.
Bulletproof...I Wish I Was
Limb by limb and tooth by tooth
Tearing up inside of me
Every day every hour
I wish that I was bullet proof
Wax me
Mould me
Heat the pins and stab them in
You have turned me into this
Just wish that it was bullet proof
So pay the money and take a shot
Leadfill the hole in me
I could burst a million bubbles
All surrogate and bullet proof
And bullet proof
And bullet proof
And bullet proof.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Clean
"So, do you have to airbrush all of the models?"
"Yes"
"But that's going to make them look really fake!"
"Yes"
I watched on with child-like curiosity as the graphic artist completed his task of obliterating all of the model's natural imperfections. The sort of imperfections that make us normal people look human. The face had become something else now; the construct was ready to meet the rest of the world free of defects, free of prejudice, designer everything.
You don't want that face. You may find it appealing, you may go out and buy things to try to look that way (Photoshop is a good start), but believe me, you don't want that sort of perfection.
It looked too clean.
"Yes"
"But that's going to make them look really fake!"
"Yes"
I watched on with child-like curiosity as the graphic artist completed his task of obliterating all of the model's natural imperfections. The sort of imperfections that make us normal people look human. The face had become something else now; the construct was ready to meet the rest of the world free of defects, free of prejudice, designer everything.
You don't want that face. You may find it appealing, you may go out and buy things to try to look that way (Photoshop is a good start), but believe me, you don't want that sort of perfection.
It looked too clean.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
RIP Motherfucker
The problem with Estonia, my friends, is that it is situated in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere.
With no natural wonders to speak of and measuring only "slightly smaller than New Hampshire and Vermont combined", this ex-Communist state exists in a reality that is defined by organized crime, corrupt politics and quite possibly, a little indifference, too.
No one really knows how to get there. Or knows why it actually exists.
The same sort of problem applies to Teasers, in Sri Hartamas. Relegated to corner shoplot status by the likes of Coffee Bean and Breakers, the small club, formerly known as Chinamax, has been the traditional cherry-popping venue of most drum n bass/breaks DJs from KL: Acid, Mac, Six, FSKL, Irman and Johan have played there, in addition to international turntablist-types the likes of Vortex and SIV. We've had Loops nights, Funk is Free! nights and lots more.
But junglist christening ceremonies are intimate and spartan, in contrast to other forms of electronica, like techno or House music. In fact, it's an old joke that if you ever wanted to make it as a famous non-mainstream DJ you had to play your first gig at Chinamax/Teasers. Boh!
But Teasers is just the wrong sort of place to have gigs. Like Estonia, it's too small, and is haphazrdly populated by stragglers. The DJ console is way too high up and the speaker positioning would better suit a Hi-Fi dealership. And the decor, well that's just plain rotten.
But for all of its shortcomings, we never passed up an opportunity to get loaded, hit the dancefloor and rinse out the better part of our Saturday evenings. Even when the crowd turnout was like, 5 people, we'd still find a way to ditch everything else and leg it to Desa Sri Hartamas. And big up the DJ.
I guess that's why Teasers will always have a special, if not peculiar place in our hearts.
It might still be one of the dodgier clubs in KL, but for a while, it was home.
P.S./ The whole point of this post is that you can now go to The Loft at Zouk KL, every last Thursday of the month, to get your regular dose of dnb.
Goodbye Teasers. It was fun.
With no natural wonders to speak of and measuring only "slightly smaller than New Hampshire and Vermont combined", this ex-Communist state exists in a reality that is defined by organized crime, corrupt politics and quite possibly, a little indifference, too.
No one really knows how to get there. Or knows why it actually exists.
The same sort of problem applies to Teasers, in Sri Hartamas. Relegated to corner shoplot status by the likes of Coffee Bean and Breakers, the small club, formerly known as Chinamax, has been the traditional cherry-popping venue of most drum n bass/breaks DJs from KL: Acid, Mac, Six, FSKL, Irman and Johan have played there, in addition to international turntablist-types the likes of Vortex and SIV. We've had Loops nights, Funk is Free! nights and lots more.
But junglist christening ceremonies are intimate and spartan, in contrast to other forms of electronica, like techno or House music. In fact, it's an old joke that if you ever wanted to make it as a famous non-mainstream DJ you had to play your first gig at Chinamax/Teasers. Boh!
But Teasers is just the wrong sort of place to have gigs. Like Estonia, it's too small, and is haphazrdly populated by stragglers. The DJ console is way too high up and the speaker positioning would better suit a Hi-Fi dealership. And the decor, well that's just plain rotten.
But for all of its shortcomings, we never passed up an opportunity to get loaded, hit the dancefloor and rinse out the better part of our Saturday evenings. Even when the crowd turnout was like, 5 people, we'd still find a way to ditch everything else and leg it to Desa Sri Hartamas. And big up the DJ.
I guess that's why Teasers will always have a special, if not peculiar place in our hearts.
It might still be one of the dodgier clubs in KL, but for a while, it was home.
P.S./ The whole point of this post is that you can now go to The Loft at Zouk KL, every last Thursday of the month, to get your regular dose of dnb.
Goodbye Teasers. It was fun.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Fix Me
It's too late, now.
The way the entertainment press works, I don't think I'll get my exclusive Coldplay interview at all. At least, not within the forseeable future.
I am still absolutely gutted.
I really thought I was going to get it. Really. Could have almost been there on the phone with my favourite contemporary rock band.
Well, there's always a bright side.
I thought I'd post my original review of the album, X & Y, for the magazine. In it's entirety. Here. Because blogs are self-indulgent. Because I can.
And I gave them 5 stars:
Coldplay
X & Y*****
New daddy Chris Martin and the band don't lose any of their earlier lyrical grit or tendency for lush musical arrangements. The lads move forward, not in mysterious ways, but in predictably vivid strokes of brilliance. From the ephemeral spark of Square One to the hinted optimism of X & Y, the band dives into the deep end and surface with a cache of tunes that not only prove the extent of their creative abilities, but also serves as a reminder that some bands just can't ever go wrong.
Listen to when: You're not afriad to smile in spite of it all.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Parachutes
I have three really close friends who I would unflinchingly:
a) Pass the last parachute to.
b) Shield against an incoming hail of bullets.
c) Clean up their sick for them, if they vomit from too much drinking.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Ceteris Paribus
I don't want to try to understand life, anymore.
Or why people always buy Large Fries and never finish them.
It's such a waste of time.
I'm just going to have good intentions in everything that I do, smile more often and try not to piss off the rest of humanity too much, while I'm at it.
Now, get the fuck outta here, you've probably got better things to do.
*smile!*
Or why people always buy Large Fries and never finish them.
It's such a waste of time.
I'm just going to have good intentions in everything that I do, smile more often and try not to piss off the rest of humanity too much, while I'm at it.
Now, get the fuck outta here, you've probably got better things to do.
*smile!*
Saturday, June 11, 2005
The E12
The Ampang Elevated Highway is a marvel of modern engineering. Spanning 7.9km and built at a cost of RM754 million, the highway utilizes "pre-cast segmental technology that crosses six major roads without any disruption to the smooth flow of live traffic."
It helps me to get home on time, too.
What's amazing, however, is that I always seem to get the same toll operator girl on Friday nights when I'm utterly lashed from alcohol. She peers down at me, hand outstretched, and always gives me that contemptible, dirty look.
Lady, I like to get drunk on weekends, Ok?
It helps me to loosen up.
Besides, I don't do drugs anymore.
So, gimme a break, will ya?
It helps me to get home on time, too.
What's amazing, however, is that I always seem to get the same toll operator girl on Friday nights when I'm utterly lashed from alcohol. She peers down at me, hand outstretched, and always gives me that contemptible, dirty look.
Lady, I like to get drunk on weekends, Ok?
It helps me to loosen up.
Besides, I don't do drugs anymore.
So, gimme a break, will ya?
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
If You Can't Beat 'Em
Being the intrepid traveller-type, I took a stroll around my office block this morning, during my cigarette break.
(I smoke less nowadays, because I have to leave the office to smoke cigarettes, which means I have to abandon my post for the duration. Which means it's bad for me, if people around me look and see that I'm not there, because I'm the New Guy. So, I smoke less.)
It's structured like a cattle pen: four sides of a square with offices facing the inside and there's this huge parking lot in the middle, and on the ground floor, there are stationary shops, restaurants and cafes. The parking lot doesn't have a roof, so if you leave your dog or cat locked in the car all day, it will probably get really dehydrated.
5 storeys of gray, framed by palm trees, the sun streaking shiny windows.
It is within this confine that I work.
People are meant to mingle during lunch but I don't talk to anyone. You're supposed to greet your neighbours, bitch about your employers while they bitch about theirs. I alwasy make it a point to share a smoke with the security guard and smile at the cleaners, though.
All things considered, I think I've been pretty self-involved lately to even say hello to strangers.
Swing! Swing! Swing!
----------
A few doors down from our FHM office is the office of The Malaysian Association of Fire Protection.
I repeat: The Malaysian Association of Fire Protection.
Holy Redundant Organisations, Batman , but what the fuck is that!
Now, why would anyone need something like that? Aren't our firemen any good? Is it some pseudo-government agency that works to protect fine, upstanding citizens from getting accidently immolated? Do they test building materials under intense temparatures to determine their resistance to fire? Do they insulate commercial aircraft for a living?
I wonder, what other organisations do we have in this country?
There must be a Malaysian Association of Lightning Protection. It's impossible to not have one.
What can I say?
I'm a curious bastard.
(I smoke less nowadays, because I have to leave the office to smoke cigarettes, which means I have to abandon my post for the duration. Which means it's bad for me, if people around me look and see that I'm not there, because I'm the New Guy. So, I smoke less.)
It's structured like a cattle pen: four sides of a square with offices facing the inside and there's this huge parking lot in the middle, and on the ground floor, there are stationary shops, restaurants and cafes. The parking lot doesn't have a roof, so if you leave your dog or cat locked in the car all day, it will probably get really dehydrated.
5 storeys of gray, framed by palm trees, the sun streaking shiny windows.
It is within this confine that I work.
People are meant to mingle during lunch but I don't talk to anyone. You're supposed to greet your neighbours, bitch about your employers while they bitch about theirs. I alwasy make it a point to share a smoke with the security guard and smile at the cleaners, though.
All things considered, I think I've been pretty self-involved lately to even say hello to strangers.
Swing! Swing! Swing!
----------
A few doors down from our FHM office is the office of The Malaysian Association of Fire Protection.
I repeat: The Malaysian Association of Fire Protection.
Holy Redundant Organisations, Batman , but what the fuck is that!
Now, why would anyone need something like that? Aren't our firemen any good? Is it some pseudo-government agency that works to protect fine, upstanding citizens from getting accidently immolated? Do they test building materials under intense temparatures to determine their resistance to fire? Do they insulate commercial aircraft for a living?
I wonder, what other organisations do we have in this country?
There must be a Malaysian Association of Lightning Protection. It's impossible to not have one.
What can I say?
I'm a curious bastard.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Young, Early June
Some things never leave you.
Growing up in England, and consequently developing an appreciation for Fish & Chips and dry humour, I've come to welcome June as a month of possibilities.
Sounds cliched, and stupid even, but come the month of June, I inevitably find myself looking forward to better things, as if driven by some inexplicably stubborn internal device that convinces me that people and the weather are now at their most acceptable state, that flowers are blooming unchecked and unaided.
And for the next few months, I'll be at my happiest, best behaviour.
Summer madness?
Meanwhile, I've survived the first week of work.
And I met this adorable girl.
And we've been talking, every day.
How long might this last?
I have absolutely no idea.
Meanwhile, it's June.
Growing up in England, and consequently developing an appreciation for Fish & Chips and dry humour, I've come to welcome June as a month of possibilities.
Sounds cliched, and stupid even, but come the month of June, I inevitably find myself looking forward to better things, as if driven by some inexplicably stubborn internal device that convinces me that people and the weather are now at their most acceptable state, that flowers are blooming unchecked and unaided.
And for the next few months, I'll be at my happiest, best behaviour.
Summer madness?
Meanwhile, I've survived the first week of work.
And I met this adorable girl.
And we've been talking, every day.
How long might this last?
I have absolutely no idea.
Meanwhile, it's June.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Servant of the Empire
When life throws you a curveball, swing!
Life. Work. Death.
Swing. Swing. Swing.
I've all but given up on my hope of joining the ranks of advertising creatives, or as Eevon eloquently puts it, becoming another advertising whore. Maybe it's because the agency that I freelanced with before didn't want to hire me for full-time work. Maybe it's because of the current advertising slump, the mid-year employment deadlock.
Or maybe I just didn't try hard enough.
Whatever it is, I'm putting off copywriting and golf until next year.
Because I'm going to be an FHM writer instead.
Yes, ladies and gents, this clone trooper ships off to work on June 1, 2005.
Hoo-ya.
Life. Work. Death.
Swing. Swing. Swing.
I've all but given up on my hope of joining the ranks of advertising creatives, or as Eevon eloquently puts it, becoming another advertising whore. Maybe it's because the agency that I freelanced with before didn't want to hire me for full-time work. Maybe it's because of the current advertising slump, the mid-year employment deadlock.
Or maybe I just didn't try hard enough.
Whatever it is, I'm putting off copywriting and golf until next year.
Because I'm going to be an FHM writer instead.
Yes, ladies and gents, this clone trooper ships off to work on June 1, 2005.
Hoo-ya.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Enter the Menace...
Big up Audiotrixx!
It's finally out and for RM20, it can be yours too: The first dark drum n bass album from Malaysian dnb producer, Audiotrixx, featuring the fiercest Amens and the baddest basslines plus vocal cuts from the furious Flexidite and upcoming crooner Yati.
"Steady crew, this how we do..."
Drop a message, or hit me up on MSN (hokkaiden@hotmail.com) for a copy. Peace, out.
It's finally out and for RM20, it can be yours too: The first dark drum n bass album from Malaysian dnb producer, Audiotrixx, featuring the fiercest Amens and the baddest basslines plus vocal cuts from the furious Flexidite and upcoming crooner Yati.
"Steady crew, this how we do..."
Drop a message, or hit me up on MSN (hokkaiden@hotmail.com) for a copy. Peace, out.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
In Tha Ghetto
Is your neighbourhood turning into a ghetto? Mine is. Here are 10 signs that your 'hood is on the way down:
1. There are more drug dealers per square foot now in my 'hood than there were, say, ten years ago. What's your vice? Marijuana, codeine, crack, heroine, morphine, glue, speed, ecstasy, it's all there, baby.
2. The playgrounds are empty: Little kids don't come out and play any more, and it's not because the merry-go-round needs fixing.
3. Frenzied property development in the midst of festering urban decay: It's cool when new buildings come up, but not cool when there are a whole shitload of old ones still around that look like background scenery for films like Resident Evil 2.
4. A marked increase in police presence: It's OK when you see a cop car cruising down the street at four o'clock in the morning, on your way to a pre-hangover burger pick-up. It's shit when you see the fucker circling the block four times just to make sure he saw what he saw.
5. High school kids chugging beers in brown paper bags in front of the 7-11.
6. Roads that are forever in a state of ill-repair, then get magically re-paved just before the elections. Abra-Cadabra! Who's Your Daddy!
7. Sound-proofed neighbours: Intermittent screams? Check. Marital spats on mega-phone? Check. Cheesy pop songs broadcasted 24-hours a day at 150 decibels into the threshold of pain? Check.
8. Gestapo-sponsored kindergartens? Check. (see previous post)
9. Irregular garbage disposal. Need I elaborate?
AND DRUM-ROLL PLEASE, HERE'S THE BEST ONE SO FAR:
10. Nobody looks like they give a shit.
There you go.
I could go on, but this shit isn't funny anymore.
Haha.
1. There are more drug dealers per square foot now in my 'hood than there were, say, ten years ago. What's your vice? Marijuana, codeine, crack, heroine, morphine, glue, speed, ecstasy, it's all there, baby.
2. The playgrounds are empty: Little kids don't come out and play any more, and it's not because the merry-go-round needs fixing.
3. Frenzied property development in the midst of festering urban decay: It's cool when new buildings come up, but not cool when there are a whole shitload of old ones still around that look like background scenery for films like Resident Evil 2.
4. A marked increase in police presence: It's OK when you see a cop car cruising down the street at four o'clock in the morning, on your way to a pre-hangover burger pick-up. It's shit when you see the fucker circling the block four times just to make sure he saw what he saw.
5. High school kids chugging beers in brown paper bags in front of the 7-11.
6. Roads that are forever in a state of ill-repair, then get magically re-paved just before the elections. Abra-Cadabra! Who's Your Daddy!
7. Sound-proofed neighbours: Intermittent screams? Check. Marital spats on mega-phone? Check. Cheesy pop songs broadcasted 24-hours a day at 150 decibels into the threshold of pain? Check.
8. Gestapo-sponsored kindergartens? Check. (see previous post)
9. Irregular garbage disposal. Need I elaborate?
AND DRUM-ROLL PLEASE, HERE'S THE BEST ONE SO FAR:
10. Nobody looks like they give a shit.
There you go.
I could go on, but this shit isn't funny anymore.
Haha.
Friday, April 01, 2005
I Don't Care Where, Just Far...
If I ever have kids, I'm not going to raise them in this country.
At least, not during their formative years. No Sir-ee.
There's a kindergarten a few doors down from where I live. It's a bright, colourful little house at the neck of our cul-de-sac, a spasmodic proliferation of purple, yellow, green and blue, an approximation of diarrhoea in full Nickalodean glory.
The kids sit out front, in neat little rows, in their beige shirts and little red shorts, unwittingly joining the ranks of collectivistic consciousness. A pudgy Drill Sergeant (Oh and she looks pretty butch to me) barks out orders at her cowering co-dependents:
"Why y'all never put all your bags properly?"
"No talking! You never pay 'tention, ah?"
"Stop crying, your mother gone already!"
(HEY TURKEY, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TEACHING AT A KINDERGARTEN IF YOU CAN'T FUCKING TALK RIGHT?)
Those poor little kids.
The yelling goes on all morning. Stray out of your invisible Dilbert cubicle and the bitch starts honking. Take too long to respond and the bitch starts honking. Stupid bitch.
Being kids, they don't seem to mind. They get used to it. Of course, it won't stop little Jennifer from growing up into a child-beating crackwhore later on in her life, but they get used to it.
The bell rings with military precision. Out into the yard, back inside after 10 minutes. Don't eat the crayons, don't smudge your shorts. Oh there's Mommy, let's all put on a big smile and wave.
"Now, all sing Negaraku!"
It's quite depressing, really.
Those poor parents.
They send their kids to pre-school Auschwitz everyday and pick them up in time for lunch.
At least, not during their formative years. No Sir-ee.
There's a kindergarten a few doors down from where I live. It's a bright, colourful little house at the neck of our cul-de-sac, a spasmodic proliferation of purple, yellow, green and blue, an approximation of diarrhoea in full Nickalodean glory.
The kids sit out front, in neat little rows, in their beige shirts and little red shorts, unwittingly joining the ranks of collectivistic consciousness. A pudgy Drill Sergeant (Oh and she looks pretty butch to me) barks out orders at her cowering co-dependents:
"Why y'all never put all your bags properly?"
"No talking! You never pay 'tention, ah?"
"Stop crying, your mother gone already!"
(HEY TURKEY, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TEACHING AT A KINDERGARTEN IF YOU CAN'T FUCKING TALK RIGHT?)
Those poor little kids.
The yelling goes on all morning. Stray out of your invisible Dilbert cubicle and the bitch starts honking. Take too long to respond and the bitch starts honking. Stupid bitch.
Being kids, they don't seem to mind. They get used to it. Of course, it won't stop little Jennifer from growing up into a child-beating crackwhore later on in her life, but they get used to it.
The bell rings with military precision. Out into the yard, back inside after 10 minutes. Don't eat the crayons, don't smudge your shorts. Oh there's Mommy, let's all put on a big smile and wave.
"Now, all sing Negaraku!"
It's quite depressing, really.
Those poor parents.
They send their kids to pre-school Auschwitz everyday and pick them up in time for lunch.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Nice Quote!
"Men may now sail West, if they will, as far as they may, and come no nearer to Valinor or the Blessed Realm, but return only into the east and so back again; for the world is round, and finite, and a circle inescapable - save by death."
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion.
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion.
Monday, February 28, 2005
28 Months Later...
Zombie flicks never looked this good...Here's a still photo from Audiotrixx's upcoming album, Menace in Motion. Dig it.
Oh and thank you, Photobucket, your moron-proof approach to image-hosting has added a Zen-like dimension to my otherwise disordered lifestyle.
Oh and thank you, Photobucket, your moron-proof approach to image-hosting has added a Zen-like dimension to my otherwise disordered lifestyle.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Looking Good
Mac's hit and run tactics had us all brockin out like bitches. It was a while since I saw such enthusiasm on the dancefloor at Nouvo.
Drum n bass at its finest.
Straight up.
Drum n bass at its finest.
Straight up.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
The Return of Forever
You gotta love the Japs for being economical when it comes to the art of expression. I wrote these haikus during James Kuake's classes at Help:
He stands at the front
Time is a lost memory
But I am still here.
Alcohol evaporates
My throat dry, the taste of sandpaper
This is what Monday is like.
I am an automaton
Try to see, without your eyes blinking
This day, has been done before.
Cute freshies
I should graduate
But not yet.
He stands at the front
Time is a lost memory
But I am still here.
Alcohol evaporates
My throat dry, the taste of sandpaper
This is what Monday is like.
I am an automaton
Try to see, without your eyes blinking
This day, has been done before.
Cute freshies
I should graduate
But not yet.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Candy Ass
In our rush to embrace the essence of bling, we have grievously estranged reality.
Conjecture perhaps, but how else do you explain having club nights in town with names like Ghetto Heaven?
What an oxymoron.
Human error. Such convenience.
-----
On a completely unrelated note, I was severely compromised, just the other day.
I was the unwitting victim of the Jedi Mind Trick of the female species, my powers of reasoning reduced to a near-catatonic state:
"Do I look fat in this?"
"Er...Um...Well..."
"Do I?"
"It depends on the lighting, I guess..."
Stupid.
Conjecture perhaps, but how else do you explain having club nights in town with names like Ghetto Heaven?
What an oxymoron.
Human error. Such convenience.
-----
On a completely unrelated note, I was severely compromised, just the other day.
I was the unwitting victim of the Jedi Mind Trick of the female species, my powers of reasoning reduced to a near-catatonic state:
"Do I look fat in this?"
"Er...Um...Well..."
"Do I?"
"It depends on the lighting, I guess..."
Stupid.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Lost and Found
Here's something I found on an old backup disc: a vivid reminder of past afflictions, a temperamental outburst of intense colour :
Self-Immolation
by Suffian Abdul Rahman
“Pardon me while I burst…”
-Brandon Boyd.
So, what’s it like being twenty-two, and waking up everyday feeling like you’ve done this before?
Everyday is a déjà vu death in Technicolor, a dark Kinescope of silent pain. How do you explain being suddenly walloped on the back of your head with the kind of cynicism that seems to feed on even the most insignificant of joys, and grows meaner and stronger every day?
Haha, it kind of feels like trying out your first cigarette after walking out of a room full of iron lungs and dead Marlboro Men.
Yes, smoking your first cigarette and immediately realising that every cigarette you smoke afterwards is probably going to taste exactly the same, filling up your lungs with the same tar and nicotine, the same sickening bad breath afterwards, and knowing that you should’ve just given up smoking before you even tried. And what the fuck for, man?
This ugly episode of cynicism that I’m broadcasting (in UHF, no less) to the entire fucking planet right now seems to have been the result of a heady mixture of self-denial, over-reaching idealism and the accumulated naivety of recent years of subconscious turmoil.
The thing is, I can’t really pinpoint when this crushing wave of cynicism started off. Maybe it first hit me after that gut-wrencher of a break-up a few years ago, when I said goodbye forever to a girl who was the closest thing I ever had to a childhood sweetheart. Sad.
Or maybe it first hit me after my brief spell as a news reporter, after seeing with my own eyes the desolation and hypocrisy that suffuses my nation’s political landscape. My baptism of fire into the world of journalism fuelled whatever nerve I had left to leave political issues to the tired old men who threw bricks at each other’s glass houses. Have fun messing around with party politics for all I care, motherfuckers; after all, it’s your funeral.
Or maybe it came to me one day after realising that I couldn’t really change much of the world all by myself, that I’d never amount to anything more than an anal probe up the backsides of evil empires of greed, lust and power. So much for Che Guevara, and all his bravura tales of guerrilla warfare in the countryside. These days, Man gets more excitement out of changing channels on cabel rather than changing anything else, really.
(and wakefulness is not without its nightmares )
Or maybe this is just a bad dream, and I’m going to get up and crawl out of Alice’s Wonderland after I say my peace.
Whatever the cause, this cynicism is actually so bad that I’ve just resigned myself to the possibility that a mid-life crisis isn’t even halfway as scary as the notion that reaching mid-life is not much to look forward to, anymore. No more surprises from here, Doc. We all know how it ends, a silver bullet for each one of us, right?
Oh, so now you think I’m just another bad case of depression, in the long, sad history of ultimately depressed writers. I often wish it were so. Things might have been easier for me to explain, every day would be a happy cloud of Valiums and I would not end up having to write something like this to feel better about myself. Or worse.
A pretty girl not-so-recently told me to smile more often; she said I shouldn’t be so stressed about everything. I wish I could tell her all about it. But then she would probably run miles away like she just met Elvis or something.
-----
On one level, I feel like the worst case of burnout since Thomas Edison pissed himself trying to invent the light bulb. On another level, this overwhelming sense of cynicism has taken me deeper into my own sub-conscience than any amount of drugs would ever do. (Jimi Hendrix can stick his flaming guitar where the sun don’t shine; I’ve been on badder trips, damn you).
Maybe I should write a memoir; A Very Short History of Cynicism By Suffian Abdul Rahman.
This memoir would be the logical conclusion of my fascination and love of writing, a sort of presumptuous way of telling my side of the story: the story that I keep hidden away in the deeper recesses of my mind. That insulated, dampened area in my brain that feels like Tool’s Schism video.
Ah, but it would have to be dark, dark, fucking morbid shit that would involuntarily turn any eight year-old who read it into a Type-A schizophrenic. Just like in the Schism video. Otherwise it probably wouldn’t make any sense to you or me. Yes, dark enough to stale the air in your room, to fade out lights and to make you wonder what it feels like when you think you've got nothing to lose anymore. Let go, Luke, let go.
Conversely, it would need to embody the stylistic elements of inflated and flamboyant memoirs that celebrities churn out to dull the masses into believing that they’re buying into Something Big. It would have to sell, I guess.
I’d have to fib, here or there, and suffocate the reader with boring anecdotes of childhood traumas. I’d have to create an Alpha Male identity wrapped around unattainable notions of sexual bravado, intellectualism and charisma. Yeah, right.
But then again, attempting to write an autobiography when you're a twenty-something nobody is probably one of the most irresponsible and egoistical things that any writer could be capable of. It’s like ending sentences with prepositions, like a case of premature ejaculation.
How could I even consider writing something of those proportions when I’ve barely lived life? When I’m not even old enough to afford buying my own house, my own car or even my own fucking petrol?
But this is life, not a freaking Panadol advert. I have no answers right now, and I don’t even want to think about it anymore…
But what am I supposed to do here? Could I ever write a memoir? Would I ever be in the right frame of mind to do so?
-----
Interestingly, I kept a travel journal once, when I was on an expedition in the jungles of
I’d industriously fill in my journal with the high points and low points of the day, oblivious to the mad humming of mosquitoes and the pitter-patter of the rain. An overwhelming sense of peace would transcend over me, dampening the fatigue of a day’s hard work. And that made everything feel just right.
I tend to think that I got more honesty, emotion and wisdom out of that weather-beaten journal than all of the news articles, special assignment pieces and bullshit feature stories that I ever wrote. Because it was about me, and it was from inside of me, and no one can ever take that away.
But that was a while ago; I was relatively younger, naïve and tragically idealistic. Now I’m older, deeply cynical and idealistically tragic.
But why do people write their memoirs, anyway? Do they think anybody else gives a shit?
Do they hope to inspire others with their high achievements and their profound sense of self-worth? Or do they just want attention from strangers because their own friends are too busy leading happy, normal lives to even fucking care about them? (Insecurity Feeding Hours are from
I don’t think I want to write a memoir anymore. I think I’ve said too much already.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Given to Fly
Goodbye Ayu!
Have a safe flight.
Best of luck in New Zealand, and remember, sleeping next to 3 American girls is a non-issue, OK?
Have a safe flight.
Best of luck in New Zealand, and remember, sleeping next to 3 American girls is a non-issue, OK?
Monday, February 07, 2005
Hello Bandwagon
According to the Department of Internet Statistics, approximately 1 out of 5.678 blogs have posts that consist entirely of song lyrics, for the purpose of communicating both the writer's current state of mind and projecting their musical preference to the audience of readers.
There is no Department of Internet Statistics.
But I love this song:
Phantom Planet - Turn Smile Shift Repeat
Here they come the business men like a herd of cattle rumbling in,
the exchange has officially begun.
Now all the offices are buzzing the executives are busy bees,
they watch the gears turn in the employees.
They just Turn, Smile, Shift, Repeat.
There's a crowd forming on Wall Street near the tallest building on the block,
a suit has lost his fortune to the stocks.
There was no time to see his fatal flaw, the madness set in with the loss,
now he cuts at throats to watch the heads fall off.
They just Turn, Smile, Shift, Repeat.
Decimal points and dollar signs, taxes, penalties and fines,
he's come to cut you down.
Numbers, passwords, protocol; it's not enough to save your soul,
he's come to cut you down.
Bring you right back to zero.
They just Turn, Smile, Shift, Repeat.
There is no Department of Internet Statistics.
But I love this song:
Phantom Planet - Turn Smile Shift Repeat
Here they come the business men like a herd of cattle rumbling in,
the exchange has officially begun.
Now all the offices are buzzing the executives are busy bees,
they watch the gears turn in the employees.
They just Turn, Smile, Shift, Repeat.
There's a crowd forming on Wall Street near the tallest building on the block,
a suit has lost his fortune to the stocks.
There was no time to see his fatal flaw, the madness set in with the loss,
now he cuts at throats to watch the heads fall off.
They just Turn, Smile, Shift, Repeat.
Decimal points and dollar signs, taxes, penalties and fines,
he's come to cut you down.
Numbers, passwords, protocol; it's not enough to save your soul,
he's come to cut you down.
Bring you right back to zero.
They just Turn, Smile, Shift, Repeat.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Fresh Tendrils
Some lessons re-learnt in 2004:
1. Music is everything.
2. Objectivity is relative.
3. You can fall in love with a girl within 3 seconds of meeting her.
4. Never-fucking-ever take your friends for granted.
5. The plot always thickens.
6. Honesty is the best policy, except when it comes to Foreign Policy.
7. The difference between a bottle of wine that costs 30 bucks and a bottle of wine that costs 70 bucks is the company in which you share it with.
8. Club culture isn't dead; it's just very fickle, that's all.
9. Grudges can be meaningful.
10. The past always catches up with you.
1. Music is everything.
2. Objectivity is relative.
3. You can fall in love with a girl within 3 seconds of meeting her.
4. Never-fucking-ever take your friends for granted.
5. The plot always thickens.
6. Honesty is the best policy, except when it comes to Foreign Policy.
7. The difference between a bottle of wine that costs 30 bucks and a bottle of wine that costs 70 bucks is the company in which you share it with.
8. Club culture isn't dead; it's just very fickle, that's all.
9. Grudges can be meaningful.
10. The past always catches up with you.
Monday, January 24, 2005
The Sound of Inevitability
The difference between an incoming shell and an outgoing one, says Dad, a veteran of the Emergency and numerous live-fire exercises, is that unmistakable whistling sound it makes as the warhead (with your name on it?) is about to impact on your position.
Not to be confused with the deliberate whoosh of an outgoing shell, which makes a sound like ripping linen as it arcs across its flight path, or the concussive whump, whump, whump of the consequent explosion. No, says Dad, you'll know yours when you hear it.
Today, my sound of inevitability was the whir-click-whir of a dentist's drill as it made contact with the yellow wall of plaque on my molars. That tumultuous second before it bores into your teeth and starts to screech and whine like a kid with a particularly bad tantrum. That eerie buzzing sound, so itemized with finality of intense pain.
(They're made of diamonds, did you know that? Fucking diamonds!)
So, I sit there with my back slightly arched from the expectantcy of pain, my mouth an obscene gaping maw, my tongue hugging the roof, all in a day's work, the drilling goes on and on.
It's purgatory, it's every dentist in the world winking at you and saying I told you so. It's every single nerve in your mouth on fire. It's way overdue.
That was actually the first time in many months that I went to the dentist. So what!
It's not that I don't believe in the miracles of modern medicine, but I brush my teeth at least twice a day and do my 30-seconds with the mouthwash like everybody else.
Isn't that enough? Jeez, do you really have to go every six months?
Evidently, you do.
Well, OK.
And so:
"This might hurt a little..."
They always lie, don't they?
Not to be confused with the deliberate whoosh of an outgoing shell, which makes a sound like ripping linen as it arcs across its flight path, or the concussive whump, whump, whump of the consequent explosion. No, says Dad, you'll know yours when you hear it.
Today, my sound of inevitability was the whir-click-whir of a dentist's drill as it made contact with the yellow wall of plaque on my molars. That tumultuous second before it bores into your teeth and starts to screech and whine like a kid with a particularly bad tantrum. That eerie buzzing sound, so itemized with finality of intense pain.
(They're made of diamonds, did you know that? Fucking diamonds!)
So, I sit there with my back slightly arched from the expectantcy of pain, my mouth an obscene gaping maw, my tongue hugging the roof, all in a day's work, the drilling goes on and on.
It's purgatory, it's every dentist in the world winking at you and saying I told you so. It's every single nerve in your mouth on fire. It's way overdue.
That was actually the first time in many months that I went to the dentist. So what!
It's not that I don't believe in the miracles of modern medicine, but I brush my teeth at least twice a day and do my 30-seconds with the mouthwash like everybody else.
Isn't that enough? Jeez, do you really have to go every six months?
Evidently, you do.
Well, OK.
And so:
"This might hurt a little..."
They always lie, don't they?
Monday, January 10, 2005
The Birth of an Entropy
In being born, I was commissioned to occupy this space.
To develop this personality, to commit to a future that I cannot yet comprehend or describe.
Twenty-five years of living and I have yet begun to live.
What happens now?
To develop this personality, to commit to a future that I cannot yet comprehend or describe.
Twenty-five years of living and I have yet begun to live.
What happens now?
Thursday, January 06, 2005
A Formal Absence of Precious Things
This is how the New Year starts.
Or at least, this is how it feels. Some things are missing. Even on the sixth day.
I experience both a continuing fear of abstracts, and an intense longing for them: Peace of mind, closure, release etc.
People and things.
I wonder what waits for me this time around. And I shudder to think at how it will change me even more.
But here's to a new beginning, anyway.
Or at least, this is how it feels. Some things are missing. Even on the sixth day.
I experience both a continuing fear of abstracts, and an intense longing for them: Peace of mind, closure, release etc.
People and things.
I wonder what waits for me this time around. And I shudder to think at how it will change me even more.
But here's to a new beginning, anyway.
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