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. =)

More Work

Funding was critical for National Geographic.


Deadlines were uncompromising.


Lingerie was at a premium.

Work

Captain Mifune loved cigarette breaks.

[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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This morning, one of them left for Sydney, Australia. He will be duly back next year.

I feel a little lost today.

The 7-11 at Taman Tun was our final stop, last night. We were going to buy some long island teas for a nightcap. Sadly, there were none left. And since we don’t drink beer anymore (the vain bastards that we are), we just bought some coffee and sat down outside and mucked about till two o’clock in the morning.

We talked about work, music and women.

I wanted to tell him that I was a little depressed that one of my best buddies was leaving for a whole year. I wanted to wish him the best for his studies and well done, good luck with the new girlfriend, mate.

And don’t worry; we’ll swap our tunes on MSN.

Instead, I mumbled something about turntables, gave him a quick hug, and drove off, Noisia’s remix of Konflict’s "Messiah" sounding off my retreat.

Oh well.

There’s still the possibility that the four of us might end up in the same old folk’s home, racing wheelchairs and refusing cough medicine.

Reprazent, bro.

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!*

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.