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.

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*

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!

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.

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.”

Well, they better find it funny.

Because we’d get fucking anxiety attacks if they weren’t.

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.

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.

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?

[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. =)