Wicked FLyer

I thought the name "Bongolia" sounds a bit dodgy but the flyer is fucking on.

On a roll

I was seraching for tunes by Desimal when I stumbled onto Khal's DNB blog Dubplate Digest.

Next thing I know, he's linked up my MySpace page! Wicked. Cheers, Khal.

Maybe Marcus Intalex will check it. Haha.

Dead as doornails

Thanks to a cheeky Iraqi executioner, the Broadband-enabled world managed to download and/or stream the demise of one of our worst 20th Century dictators.

But what does that unauthorised video really conclude?

Apart from the fact that it implies most Iraqis are completely shit with camera phones, it also tells us that, from now on, seeing really is believing.

I'm not sorry for Saddam.

I'm just thinking; shit, did I actually see that?

The Best Compliment Ever

I was messing around with a bass line on my new dnb track "Tha Fundamentalz" a few days ago, and my Dad stumbles into the room and says "Nice track. I think your music has improved".

This coming from a Sixties hippie who doesn't like any of that 'MTV devil music' or '80s synthesizer crap'.

Thank you, Dad. That really made my day.

(Yes, it's a deep, deep bass that I modeled on the one on Seba & Paradox's "Last Goodbye" with Sci-Fi pads and a simple two-step beat. Will post it on MySpace soon enough!)

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.

For Everything Else, There's Mastercard...

Twins

Hey, am I the only person who thinks that Eva Longoria looks like a spunkier version of Joan Collins?

Should I be thinking about things like this?

I think work is getting to me.

The Importance of Making Yourself Clear

When you say something like, "I want to fuck Jessica Alba in a silver lamé jumpsuit!" do you mean to say that:

a) You want to fuck Jessica Alba whilst wearing a silver lamé jumpsuit (now that's is kinda gay, frankly)
b) You want to undress Jessica Alba after seeing her in a silver lamé jumpsuit, and then fuck her
c) You want to fuck Jessica Alba while she's wearing a silver lamé jumpsuit (not impossible, but a bit tricky, I'd imagine)

It's all about grammatical precision. That's what separates the articulate from the eloquent.

In any event, 'remember Scarlett Johansson in that white tracksuit in The Island?

Way hotter.

Closing Time

We just closed December.

It was hell. In a way, I've just closed December, too. And two thousand five.

It's done.

It's over.

What a fucking crazy year.

What an endless parade.

What a ride.

I'm done. I've had enough. I want to start the New Year tomorrow.

It's mad.

I've been blogging for a year.

I've been living, seeing, hearing, feeling, thinking, breathing it all in.

I've gone from college senior to junior writer.

I've gone from lost to found.

It's been wonderful. It's gone from bad to worse to up and down, and fucking sideways.

Cheers, everyone.

Keep it massive.

Future Perfect

If I had studied a little harder before my O Levels, I could've aced a few more subjects.

If that had happened, I might've realized my then aspirations of attending the London School of Economics, and might've even graduated with a degree in Political Science, or perhaps even, International Relations.

And if that might have happened, I might've graduated much earlier, and would've started my first job when I was twenty-three (or twenty-four, give or take some sex, drugs and rock 'n'roll).

If so, I would be living a different life, different in its entirety from the one that I am living now.

Different friends, different tastes, different music, different clothes, different everything.

And then she says: "But I like how you've turned out."

That's an encouraging thought.

It makes some things that I've gone through feel a whole lot more worth the while.

The Big Easy

It's a little early in the day for this, but I have a New Year's Resolution that I'm going to start practising from today onwards.

It's called "Chill The Fuck Out, Suffian."

Yup, I think I do need to chill out abit. I overreacted at something yesterday, and it caused me and someone else a bit of grief. Needless to say, misunderstandings can always be avoided, if you just take a second to try and see things as they really are.

So, I'm gonna chill.

About everything.

Heck, I've slowed down a hell of lot since I brushed past the Mid-Twenties mark, but hey, maybe it's not enough.

I want it over-easy, sunny side up.

Highway Hell

To aspiring Works Ministers and national infrastructure planners alike, if you ever intend to build a highway that runs the length of Malaysia, say, from the northern state of Perlis to the southern tip of Johor, could you please consider making it at least, yes, in the very least FOUR FUCKING LANES ON EACH SIDE.

Yes?

FOUR FUCKING LANES ON EACH SIDE.

It took me 7 hours yesterday to travel from my dear grannie's in Taiping back to KL.

SEVEN FUCKING HOURS.

That's more than enough time to fly to Perth.

The story goes that when the authorities were running feasibility studies and projection models for the North-South highway, back in the Eighties, they based it on the Federal Highway.

THE FEDERAL FUCKING HIGHWAY.

Back in the Eighties, they must have thought that people would have probably had hover cars or could teleport back to their kampung by 2005.

THAT MUST BE WHY THEY BASED THEIR RESEARCH ON THE FEDERAL HIGHWAY.

What's more, the '80s recession and a lengthy court battle between the Opposition and United Engineers, the builders, held the project back for about two years after it was initially set to be built, therefore contributing to a rise in the cost of the project and forcing the authorities to skimp on the original plan.

Whatever that was.

Brilliant.

But I'm going to stop bitching now, because it was worth enduring the jam just to see the smile on my grannie's face when we arrived, and being there with her throughout the festivities. Oh and the food was brilliant, too.

Selamat Hari Raya.

Fallout

Being a fan of literature (read: bookworm/geek), I get flashes, from time to time, of all the things that I've read. Sometimes whole passages, sentences, phrases and if I'm lucky, some dialogue from a Stephen King novel.

It's an amazing feeling, almost like having epiphanies. Fond ones.

Lately, I've been seeing pages from Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park, in particular, the illustrations on the title pages of each chapter. The fractals, coalescing, a freaky wire-mesh of conflict and disorientation.

And yet, some how, whole.

Why the fractals? Why now?

I'm not sure if I'm analyzing too much, but this is bothering me.

It's not unlike sighting an iceberg off the starboard bow, knowing fully that there is Something Big resting gently beneath the surface.

Oh, I don't know.

---------------------

There I was, a few hours later, sat on a wooden bench at the Ampang Speedy Car Wash, waiting for my Satria to get all nice and shiny when I suddenly realized that it was Roni Size booming from the speakers.

"Holy Two-Step, Batman, it's Roni Size!"

You'd expect them to listen to something more like Mawi, but bless them, the lads have discovered Jungle.

At nine in the morning. On Deepaavali.

Happy Holidays.

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.

All's Fair in...

No, it's not.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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. =)

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.

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:

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

There you go. It is done. God have mercy on my soul.

*Disclaimer: Whoever takes the piss after reading this is a fat cunt and I will pretend to forget your birthday, too.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. =)

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.