Concord fucking Dawn. Boh!
Big up to the SG Massive for yet another corker! Have fun, guys.
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.
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