The Fear

Nothing puts the fear of God in you faster than your Executive Creative Director calling up and telling you there's a copy error in your work.

These words must die - Part 1

Like John Tucker, the following words and phrases should be removed from your vocabulary because they're ugly, archaic, irrelevant or completely made up shit:

1. Soap Opera: This word came about through US pharmaceutical P&G's sponsorship of radio shows in the Thirties. Since it's now the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Six, this term is now redundant and so shows like One Tree Hill are dramas, not soaps.

2. Impactful: Sorry, Dilbert; this word doesn't actually exist. It was made up by virgins.

3. Data Capture: What the fuck is this? What do you mean? Are you talking about data collection? Are you talking about recording data? Or do you just want to speak like a cyborg? Tzzzt...zzttt...Shut the fuck up.

4. Thrice: I don't know; it just sounds a bit Obi-Wan Kenobi to me.

5. Synergy: People who use the word 'synergy' also like to read self-help books. Self-help books are rubbish. If you want to help yourself, stop using words like 'synergy'.

6. Kudos: Come on, the word sounds so Eighties.

7. Incumbent: Another way to confuse people in the courtroom.

8. Convulsions: How about 'spasms'?

9. Fucktard: I never really got this one. Does that mean I'm a fucktard?

Jom Gemuk™

I was so stressed out the other day that I decided to channel my energy towards something silly.

So I came up with a TotalWorks campaign for Nasi Lemak. The objective was to get people to feel good about consuming those cute little packets of heart attack. Armed with a napkin and a pen, I sketched out a simple above-the-line campaign that included a TVC, ambient and DM stuff that was supported by an equally no-brainer online campaign which comprised of a microsite, viral videos on Youtube and a cool side-scrolling platform Flash game, like Mario, which encouraged you to collect points, in the form of calories, while on your way to rescue the overweight princess and save the world from the evil Dr Anoreksik (a Nicole Ritchie look-alike).

Wicked.

I even drew the microsite wireframe.

Everybody just fuckin' relax, aite.

Fuck it.

I'm going Cold Turkey tomorrow. God help me.

It's entirely for health reasons, I assure you.

And that valve that traps blood in my penis.

I want it to work when I'm 40.

Hoo-ya.

10 years, and counting

It's been 10 years since high school.

Since then, I have:

- done a lot of drugs.
- gone bungee-jumping in Thailand.
- found the best place for kerabu mangga in Malaysia (it's somewhere in Kajang).
- partied at an oldschool jungle night in Manchester. Boh!
- said "I Love You" and totally meant it, to two lovely ladies.
- discovered the meaning of life (kind of).
- a receding hairline.
- been to Sipadan.
- test-driven a wide variety of luxury sedans at ridiculous speeds on the Kerinchi Link.
- hung out with Jojo Struys (even if you're from a parallel universe, that's gotta count).
- thrown a Merdeka party in a hotel. It rocked.
- tried to quit smoking (seriously) twice. The third time's the charm, as they say.
- climbed up 6, 000ft mountains because I thought it was 'cool'.
- improved my vocabulary, even though I still am a dyslexic motherfucker.
- come to terms with childhood traumas.
- had lunch with Tiesto.
- written for many publications, print and online, that have nothing to do with each other.
- accidentally chatted-up various mate's girlfriends. Sorry!
- played bass guitar for 3 years in a punk/post-grunge/pop/metal/funk band that didn't really go anywhere, but rocked our socks all the same.
- sailed on a ship off the coast of Australia, climbed up the main mast and almost fell a few times on the way down.
- back-packed across East Malaysia.
- taught English to a group of Kadazan-Dusun kindergarten kids, in a small poverty-line village in Kiau Nuluh, Sabah.
- actually had a Guinness with a proper shamrock on the head. Draft, all the way.
- repeatedly failed Statistics.
- met some really cool people in the process.
- watched the film 'Traffic' during a come down. Not advisable, folks.
- auditioned for indie movies.
- written a short story that will never be finished because I'll never get the ending that I really want.
- actually done some wicked graffiti.
- formed my own crew. Junglist for life!

and lots of other stuff I can't remember right now.

Here's to the next ten!

smell it like it is

Mac says he doesn't like me when I'm sober, but I'm sure he's just kidding. Either that, or I must be really funny when I'm drunk.

Oh and thank you, 3M. After helping out my Art Director spray-mount some mock-ups for half an hour, I feel like a highly-evolved glue sniffer.

Sniff, sniff.

Bongo!

I guess I can add "Event Promoter" next to "Copywriter" on my resume. Heh.

Fucking Sphynx

I dropped off my cousin at her condo near Sunway Pyramid yesterday, and as I passed by the mall, I was wondering to myself how the architects managed to convince the investors to part with their money.

"So, it's going to be Egyptian. And we're going to have a car park in between the mall and the theme park, and just to add suspense, we're not going to give clear directions on just how the fuck you're supposed to get there. And it's going to be poorly maintained and people have to walk for miles before they even get to any of the attractions, so they end up buying lots of ice cream and drinks because they get real thirsty."

"But what's the Unique Selling Point, Mr Clever Architect?"

"The selling point? Why, we're gonna put a big fucking sphynx right up front, and people are gonna come because they've never seen a fucking sphynx that big, and golly, that's just fantastic, isn't it!"

Sold!

Old School

Back in the day, one of my favourite advertisements was this ad for Angie’s KENT choice essentials radio show on the now defunct RFM 104.9. It pictured the back of a guy’s head, complete with customary DJ cans and the bold statement:

Thank you pop. Thank you country. Thank you reggae. Thank you trash metal. For now I know why dance music was created.

It was cheeky and elitist, and looking back, it was a bit silly too, because dance music has grown immeasurably by incorporating elements from of all of the above - except for country music.

(But don’t knock off a tech house remix of Garth Brooks just yet. You never know.)

Anyway, it captured the feeling of what it was like to be a raver during that time. What it was like to be part of something new, raw and underground. We were euphoric, invincible and most of all, now we had our own Goddamned radio show, thank you very much.

We felt appreciated.

Rave on

If you’ve been raving long enough, you develop a Rave Radar that tells you whether or not an event is going to rock.

It's like having Spider Sense™ with glowsticks.

So, it came as no surprise that I heard alarm bells and whistles going off when someone told me about that Salem Revelation festival in Melaka. No offence to the nice people who put all that effort into the party, but it had ‘COPS’ written all over it.

Maybe we should start having more 'secret' raves like they've been having in Hong Kong. It wouldn't stop the cops, but it would sure as hell be worth a shot.

Thanks for the fish!

I just saw The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on Astro a few days ago. Everyone told me it was rubbish a year ago, so that's why I didn't watch it when it first came out.

You cunts. Thanks for the great advice.

It's not rubbish at all; it's brilliant.

It's fucking Shakespeare.

I can't remember when I had so much fun watching a comdey like that. Well, probably, the Life of Brian.

So, that's it, isn't it? I think most Malaysians just can't grasp the concept of irony. Or absudrity. Or humourous self-depreciation.

If there's no guy running around with a rocket-launcher blowing up - in between having sex with Scarlett Johansson and racing thugs in Supras - then it's boring.

Boo-hoo.

Heavy Lifting

I noticed that none of the men in my family get up and get their own drinks during the Raya lunch thing we have every year. Their wives are the ones who obediently fetch their water/syrup. They just sit there and shoot a needy look at their wives.

Is that a Malay thing? Or a Married thing?

Whatever it is, I think it's kinda lame.

I've decided that I'm going to get my own Goddamned glass of water when I grow up and get married.

Oh shit.

Movin' on

What's more painful than growing up?

Watching people you'd never think would ever grow up, grow up.

I'm not talking about feeling young or old; I'm talking about stuff like hating things you used to like and liking stuff you used to think was not cool.

Well, people change.

I still think skateboard videos are cool. So fucking sue me.

Hey, it's official!

Back in college, Mr James gave me an F for Advertising, and told me that I had to work harder before I could even think about a career in that field.

Well, I've been working really hard, Mr James and guess what, motherfucker, I just joined one of the biggest agencies in the world. It's not going to be easy, but I guess I made it through the door, now, didn't I, asshole?

Fuck you, bitch. No one ever listened to you, anyway.

Geeks Love Audio Stuff

Me: Hey man, thanks for rinsing the Gold Digger remix. Love that track.

Irman: Ah, no worries. I'm looking for the High Contrast remix of that White Stripes song and...

Me: I've got it.

Mac: What bitrate?

Me: Er, dunno lah. 192?

Mac: 192 ape cerita? Tak rude bwoy langsung. I got the 320. Ha! Vinyl quality, man.

Irman: Haha. Ape la korang ni.

Fuck off and die

I love all my Singaporean mates, 'nuff respect to the massive, but I ain't ever going to work for a Singaporean company again. I guess I've learnt my lesson.

Never again!

The Heart of Darkness

I've completely sussed out all of this 'creativity' bollocks.

My brain works like a tube amp. The longer it's switched on, the better the sound.

Long hours?

Say my name, bitch.

WTF

An aunt just finalized her divorce, because her husband wanted to marry another woman.

How can a man find it in his heart to say and mean the words "Will You Marry Me?" more than once in his life?

How can you go up to some other chick and tell her that you'll love and cherish her for the rest of your life without feeling that, aw shucks, this feels kinda weird?

What the fuck is up with that?

Repeat after me, all of you horny, inconsiderate motherfuckers: "One is enough"

Think before you act.

Selamat Tinggal Dunia

I'm sure Butters knows what I'm feeling now.

It's been a little over a year now since I took up the mantle of FHM Writer and was given, quite literally, the poetic license to make fun of everything from Jedis to Sharifah Aini.

But now it's time to move on. I know I can.

But it's going to be a bit tough.

The freebies, as mot people expect, will be the easiest to walk away from. (After all, how many events can you go to, how much free alcohol can you consume and how often would you like to go to a press screening at ten in the morning?)

Letting go of the test cars, well, that's a bit rough, too. When's the next time I'll get to trash a Merc? (Don't fucking sue me; I didn't. But wasn't that was a cool sentence, anyway?)

The celebs? Well, most of them are fun to interview. (Most of them are good mates)

The models? Well, sadly, they're all di-cut from the same piece of cardboard. (And most of them are just as thin).

Writing captions? Bungee-jumping? Free raves? Island-hopping? Instant credibility? International exposure?

I just can't pinpoint it. Not right now.

To be honest, I'm also going to miss the reaction I get when I tell people I'm from FHM.

"You fucker!"

Hopes and Dreams

When I become Transport Minister, here's what I'm gonna do:

- I will outlaw school buses. They are big, yellow and fucking slow.

- MPV owners will be required to be under 35 years of age, must sit for IQ tests and must be vetted by me, personally, before they are allowed to even fucking sniff that pink slip. They must also be able to parallel park without destroying other vehicles.

- People who are caught driving in the right lane below 80km/h will be subjected to Chinese Water Torture (using only the finest premium vodka, though). They will then be made to wear their foreskins over their heads.

- I will allow private ownership of hovercrafts, because Jalan Ampang is full of potholes. As long as you do not fix surface-to-air missiles, miniguns or use it to transport terrorists.

- I will build overhead crossings at the right places, instead of some stupid location which is always about 200 metres too far off. I will allow drug addicts to shoot up and co-habit these overhead crossings, so that school kids know what it's like to get fucked up on crack.

- I will discourage ugly billboards along highways, like those lame ass ones with Rosyam Nor on them. Biscuit ambassadors my ass.

- I will let chimpanzees direct the flow of traffic during rush hour. They know sign language. It'll be funny, trust me.

- I will allow motorcyclists to SMS their buddies/girlfriends/Hotlink while riding, because at the end of the day, it's all about reaching out to that special person on the other end of the line. Remember, human communication is important.

Um. I can't think of anything else right now, but I promise to make it worth your while. Oh yeah, and I'll fucking block Toyota from selling Camrys, Naza from selling Kia Karnivals and I will ban souped-up Sagas from the Ampang Elevated Highway.

Respect

Amir Muhammad remembers me as the kid from malaysiakini.

How cool is that?

What's been on my mind lately

If Sir Isaac Newton developed his theory of gravity from falling apples, didn't the motherfucker ever play ball?

If dykes, of the spiky hair, strapped-tits and moccasins variety, have to take a leak and the Ladies is full, do they hop over to the Men's?

What are the mechanics behind finding your jodoh? How can you ever tell who you're destined to have babies with?

A hundred years from now, will anyone remember Hiroshima?

What did they call the clitoris before they called it the clitoris?

Am I going to make it?

Will prime time television ever be the same again?

Is Media Prima the next Big Brother?

What goes around really comes around? Or do people all fuck up sooner or later?

Is Grooverider going to ever stop? (Not that he should)

When black culture implodes from overt desensitization, what will happen to Ghetto Heaven?

When are we going to have a non-Malay prime minister?

If Predators stole alien technology to power their weapons and intergalactic forages into foreign worlds, why the fuck do they still braid their hair?

Why agonize over how the dinosaurs died? Shouldn't we be more worried about Aids?

How intelligent are cats?

Is Paris Hilton going to end up like Sophia Loren, or Kate Moss?

Does Kate Moss give a fuck?

Do I?

Words of Wisdom

I sort of discovered a Malay "saying" once. I was fooling around with a kitten, probably Tiddles when he was younger, and I think it was my Grannie who came up to me, shook her head and said "Jangan manjakan sangat. Nanti mabuk tangan."

Now, I'm convinced that this applies to all interpretations of the term 'pussy'.

So I think it's safe to say that you should avoid spoiling your woman. You never know when your relationship will unknowingly trangress into taken-for-granted territory.

Nanti mabuk tangan.

Oi tosser!

Hey, fuck you whoever's spamming my blog.

It's completely unnecessary.

I mean, can't I have my own little bit of the Internet without someone pissing all over it? Please?

Seriously, that's fucked up. Get a day job. Maybe you need to spend more time away from computers. I suggest having regular sex with something more than your left hand.

Works wonders, y'know?

Quittin's fer Quitters

I want to sober up.

Reality Check #695703

Malaysian are as kiasu as Singaporeans.

Sure, you can make fun of Singaporeans for drinking their own recycled piss, but the next time you're on the highway, think about why that fucker in the little white Kancil is chugging along at 50 km/h in the right lane. Think about why he won't give way, or shift into the middle lane. Think about why he stubbornly refuses to move, even though you're flashing your headlights like it's Christmas and honking on the horn like a chimp on charlie.

It's not that he doesn't care, it's not about manners; it's all about control.

It's about hogging what you can, when you can. It's about being there and staying there.

It doesn't matter if it's the Kancil or the twat in the Camry, who uses his rear-view mirror to check for dandruff.

It's all about control.

And isn't that what being kiasu is all about?

Corporate Whore

I think it was Shaggy who summed up, rather succintly, the pain of growing old: "One morning you wake up, and find out that the party's over."

Shaggy, mate, now that's where you're wrong.

This party's about to get started.

I've spent the past two weekends at offices doing work to get more money. And I'm digging every minute of it, bitches.

You see, there comes a time when you wake up, and realize that most of your mates are busy living the lives they want to, not worrying about the future or what car they'll be driving around in next year. When that happens, you can either get up and try to catch up with them (and hopefully, overtake them at some point) or you can go back to sleep.

Fuck it. I'm 26. Enough of this shit. I wanna be like Fiddy.

Time to turn this boat around and head out for that glorious, open sea.

Second Guess Me

"Melayu ke?"

There I was, about to formally introduce myself and present this person with my business card, a set of protocol-friendly greetings and pleasantries in mind, when she asked me that question. And it stops me, for a moment.

Here we are, at an event, trying to build bridges and all of that, and here she is wondering what race I am? Why? Does it even matter?

Wow.

Does that mean she was kinda checkin' me out?

How flattering.

While I would have loved to regal her with tales of how, a few hundred years ago, my Northern Indian ancestors couldn't keep it in their pants and had to, just had to end up shacking up with various ladies of various ethnicities (apparently, I even have Turkish ancestry, dating back from the 1700s), before migrating to Penang or whatever and ending up settling down in Malaya, in the late 19th Century A.D.

However, it seemed frivolous and entirely pointless to say anything like that, and given the circumstances, wholly unwarranted.

Imagine, I could be on some hill in Pakistan minding sheep or in Bollywood acting in some low-budget drama, but no. No, here I am working in publishing.

Lovely, ain't it, how one hop in the sack can influence the future of the human race.

"Ye, saya Melayu. By the way, my name is Suffian and I write for FHM. Nice meeting you, but I have to go now. Bye."

Hallelujah

I'm convinced, beyond all reasonable doubt, that a certain colleague of mine is trying to turn me gay.

For example, she likes to make snide comments about my overt preference for a nice, shapely ass over big, doughy titties. I mean, come on; does my fascination with nice asses equal some latent homo-erotic tendency?

Hardly.

Most guys will go for a girl with a nice ass over one with mammaries that can double as flotation aids. Ask us. There's something primal about a fine piece; maybe it's reproductive instinct, maybe it's built into our pathetic, sex-addled brains:

"Wow, look at that ass!" = "Hmmm. Big hips. Good for babies. Ugga ugga."

Get it? How about that? Does that totally blow your theory out of the water, Angie?

Why, of course it does! Who's the man? Come on, w-h-o-i-s-t-h-e-m-a-n-?

But hey, small breasts are okay so as long as the person they're attached to comes with intelligence, a great personality and, oh, now that you mention it, a pleasant posterior. And she's gotta be able to bear with all of my stupid, immature jokes.

That's it. That's all I'm asking for, ladies.

So, sorry Angie.

The only cock I like looking at is my own; balls-deep in mutually-consenting adult females (or more accurately, female).

So yeah, for the record, I'm straight.

We like cheese, Gromit

No, we didn't get to meet Fergie, unfortunately, but I did make up for sixteen years worth of missing England by feasting merrily on a variety of artery-clogging food.

Including Walker's.

Especially Walker's.

I used to sit in front of the telly every evening tuning in to the Beeb, happily munching away; crisps in one hand, tea in the other.

Ah, how poignant.

Wasn't the world a much better place when you were a kid?

(Maybe)

Questions

Should his Lordship be referred to as merely 'Sir Alex', or the more protocol-friendly 'Sir Alex Ferguson?'

Fuck it, I'm going to Old Trafford! Fuckit! Fuckit!

On a lighter note (what?), I'm still thinking of bringing a Liverpool jersey along.

Phwoar!

Almost Famous

TONEDEF, July 2001: I remember almost getting whipped in the face by those dreads as I earnestly zoomed in for my Rolling Stone picture.

The guy was seriously loaded, headbanging away, completely oblivious to the crowd, and people with cameras. You try coaxing metal heads if you want...

Later, I ran into Emmet backstage right after Butters had brought the house down with a particularly inspiring closing performance (you ain't heard Viopipe unless you've heard it live, aite?)

Soaked to the skin, flushed and still buzzing, I remember feeling like a right twat because I really needed to get a good quote for my story, but I also didn't want to cramp his style after such a great show. Let rock stars be rock stars already, I thought to myself. Don't pester him just yet! Let the poor man bask in the afterglow.

"So, Emmet, how are you feeling?"

"Tired, man. But shit, that was good."

Sometimes, you just hope for the best.

Fuck You, Clark Kent!

As writers, we're all allowed to be at least a little bit pretentious, if not for the sake of art, then for the fact that most creative people are naturally cranky and have egos the size of football fields (football as in soccer, not the padded-up, let's-fuck-some-cheerleaders-after-this-beer-hoo-ya! kind of football).

So, here goes nuthin'.

I'd like to clear the air on why I'm not going to ever join a newspaper. daily or otherwise, so long as my heart keeps on beating.*

It's not because of the fact that newspapers here like to dumb down their content (egalitarian my ass; people should learn big words not because they should be smarter but because all of those big words are there for a reason), not because newspapers encourage lifers (who the hell would want to write for one section of a newspaper for a good ten years of their lives? Does it take that long to get noticed?) and not because newspapers suffer from an increased proclivity (there, a big fucking word!) for office politics.

No.

It's because newspapers are not cool. They're not cool.

That's the only reason. They're not cool.

So, forget about the Daily Planet. Forget about Clark Kent and Lois Lane. Forget about saving the world.

They're not cool.

And you should know something else, too: Peter Parker gets peantus for his photos in the Daily Bugle. Brenda Starr wouldn't be able to get the story if she didn't fuck all of her leads. And Nancy Drew, fucking hell, don't get me started on that shit.

So, yeah, that's a negative, Sarge.

No go, amigo.

Freelancing for newspapers is still okay, once in a while, but signing a legal and binding contract with them to do with me as they please is definitely not going to happen.

Never happen.

(fingers crossed)

*I mean no disrespect to my fellow writers. But fuck me, I'm happy I don't have to do your job!

What Women Want

"So, if you interview models all of the time, you must know a lot about women?"

"Er, what do you mean by that?"

Okay, so I do interview models. It's part of my job. I get them into a comfort zone, and ask them all sorts of weird questions about their lives. They get defensive about their intelligence and try to appear knowledgeable and up-to-speed on everything (don't get me started about my theory on models and their obsession with horoscopes). They tell me things they think I want to hear, things they think people actually want to read about. In turn, I reassure them and tell them, of course, people want to!

But if you think that helps me to understand women any better, you're wrong. I fuck up just as much as the next guy.

I'm only human.

Music

As a rule, I never explicitly trust people who like to listen to just one type of music, or music from just one era in time. That sort of behaviour belies a narrow-mindedness that is compounded by an obsession with the past, together with an inability to accept the present, and possibly, a certain amount of distress about facing the future.

Personally, I think that people who are stuck in an Eighties musical time-warp are particularly lame because, despite growing up in that decade, the Eighties sucked ass.

So get with the program, motherfucker.

Thank you.

Shades of Grey

Make of it what you
wish, but please remember, don't
ignore black and white.

Drawing Lines

"Remember, your infulence is more bigger!" said the Suit, in reference to the pervasiveness of the print medium, in comparison to television.

Yeah, man. I agree.

Fuckin-A!

King of the Jungle

I'm now officially one of those people who've posted a cutesy picture of their pet online.

Fuck it.

But ain't he king?



Mr Tiddles is going to be three soon. Happy Birthday, mate! And please don't crap in my room, yeah?

Unconventional Wisdom #387

When you're flying blind into an interview, there are usually two outcomes: Very Funny, or Very Stupid.

I've done a lot of interviews where I've been completely fucking ignorant of my subject; in most of those situations, I'd either done next to nothing in terms of research, or was just too plain lazy to do so.

So, what do you do when you don't know what to ask?

You improvise.

You read the body language.

You look for common ground.

And you do it all with a smile. And crack a few dumb jokes, in between.

In short, you wing it. Like your life depends on it. You've blown your two port engines. So you coast along, easy does it, at your own pace. On your own time. And you try to glide that motherfucker in, as gently as you can.

There.

That's how you do it.

That's how you survive.

Ain't Necessary For No Goddamn Caption

It rained for the first two days, I went bungee jumping on the third day, missed the Full Moon party at Ko Phangan on a technicality (freak weather) and was regrettably AWOL for Valentine's Day (sorry, baby).

And then, on my last day in Thailand, I saw this:



Beautiful, huh?

Launch Alert Fighters!

I am officially a fanboy. And I have Mac to thank for that. Because he's a fanboy, too.

We both discovered that we were unashamedly obsessed with the Battlestar Galactica series on the Sci Fi channel, during a recent MSN conversation. I think it has something to do with listening to a lot of futuristic sounds. After all, most dnb fans are Sci-Fi geeks, anyway. So, what the hell.

I don't care.

I want to be a Viper pilot.

Livin' Large

It's funny how acutely a person loses their sense of purpose after retirement. Quite literally funny, in fact.

Think about it; you've been absolved of everything that accompanies Working Life - tight deadlines, Monday morning depression and although you can't periodically Xerox your butt crack any more, well, you don't have to.

I've never seen my Dad like this before. He watches more television than my 13 year-old sister (" Abang, MTV sucks but you know what Damien from TRL is so cute"), hangs out more than I do and has the ability to mysteriously vanish and re-appear two hours later with tasty cakes and pies.

Anyway, when I retire, I'm still going to be producing. Hell, I'll probably even be able to beat-match properly by then.

I Heart Dee and Bee

To my dear friends down south, especially Kuza, Andy, Ajay, Aresha, Suffian and Zaihan (and even homeboys like Mac and A&B), I am known as the Pangsai King.* This is because I've stood them up many times when I promised them I'd make it, especially right here on my own turf.

Hell, Andy even told me he'd ban me from Exitmusik, possibly for life, if I'm ever guilty of a no-show again.

Bad Kamo.

So, I promised the guys I'd turn up for this gig. And I will. In fact, maybe you should, too.

I'll need some witnesses.

Boh!

*What does Pangsai mean? Google, motherfucker.

Look Here!

Outdoor advertising. Can't switch it off, can't turn it down.



Doesn't she look like she's about to grab your balls, though?

Remember Where You Lost It

Like a lot of kids his age, my brother can't tell the difference between atmospheric and liquid funk. Or even deep house and tech, for that matter.

Because, like a lot of kids his age, he missed out the rave scene of the Nineties. They don't know about Apollo 440, Danny Rampling and never experienced the primal, ear-splitting thrill of listening to Prodigy's Firestarter and not being able to associate it with anything else they were listening to during the death-knell of Grunge.

See, they totally missed the bus!

They never felt the rush of listening to the Chemical Brothers Block Rockin' Beats, for the first time, and wondering just what the fuck they were listening to, or why it sounded so strange and beautiful.

They didn't do the Backroom-Clubhouse-Movement circuit (in that order), didn't go to Zero, didn't get rat-arsed drunk or trip at Digweed. And don't get me started on Bukem.

The thing is, you can't really blame them; their earlist memory of Oakie was probably the Swordfish soundtrack, whereas ours was Dragonfly.

You can't call them posers just because they think Tiesto is God (before the Southern Sun remix, there was Destination Sunshine, all right?) or think that Zouk is the ultimate club, just because it's the biggest club in KL right now.

Kids, you don't know shit. But you know what, it's all good.

Because you weren't there from the start.

A Shot in the Dark?

They're like tracers.

Each month, I send out emails to celebrities in which I, very politely, ask for exclusive interviews. Some of them are super-famous like HR Giger, Stan Lee and Stephen King, and some of them are just plain weird.

Like real tracers, they light up the dark and arc through the air with a sense purpose. But like real tracers, they do not guarantee a kill.

I just like to try my luck.

I just sent tracers out to Amir Muhammad, a man who I consider to be my generation's Great Malaysian Writer.

For once, I'm nervous.

If he does say Yes, it will at least console the fanboy in me that I did something right along the way to land an interview with one of my own literary heroes.

Rock 'n' roll, motherfuckers.

Stolen

I'm cruisin, the wind in my hair.

For a moment, I remember what it was like to throttle up highways in my 69 Beetle; the steady hum of the engine, the silence of the night and the way it was just me and the machine. It got me a little choked up.

Last night, however, I found that I was driving like that because some fucking crackwhore jacked my stereo. Yes, he smashed my window with a crow bar (probably) and gutted my centre console like a fish to get to the player.

Goddamned amature.

(If he had been a bit more patient, he might have chanced upon my CD case and found my entire Knowledge Mix CD collection that dates from mid-2003. If he'd had nicked that, I might've been compelled to do a Jihad on his ass. But then again, maybe he wasn't into drum n bass).

It's gonna to cost me some, so if I ever catch junkies anywhere near my car, someone's gonna get a hurt real bad.

Cool Runnings

"Richard, a Black Russian is vodka and coffee-flavoured brandy, yeah?"

"Yeah"

"Hey, so what do you call a Hennessy and some coffee?"

"Right now? A very good idea"

My editor is quite possibly the Coolest Dude in the Known Universe. And yeah, you can quote me on that.