no money, no honey

I want to be rich.

Not filthy rich, but rich rich. Like not having to worry about bills and credit cards and such. Where a thousand dollar suit is something I'd get on a whim, without the usual repercussions (read: shoestring budget for the next six months). Where I'd fly the first available flight, and not wait three months for a cheap seat on AA. Where getting a bottle is not up in the air, rather, how many and which blend.

Get it?

Which begs the question: how? Options include

(1) Striking it big in Toto (I seem to be capping it at RM4)

(2) Finding a hidden stash of loot from a bank robbery (highly unlikely)

(3) Robbing a bank (too tiring)

(4) Finding a sugar mummy (at my age?)

(5) Working hard (can I really enjoy my money at 65?)

So how how how how how (with tone)?

A bit of help would go a long way, mind you. So don't feel shy, or hold back whatever spare millions you'd like to dispose of. My bank account is but a phone call away, and I accept all forms of currency.

Okay, maybe not Zimbabwean dollars.

inspired

sick

i tore my heart open, i saw myself shine

My heart is steel; my heart is nothing but cold, hard steel (repeatedly chanted).

And what's brought upon this latest turn of events? I'm sick and tired, frankly, more so with me than anything else. I'm tired of being infatuated with people, sick of being enamoured of interests, fed up of attractions leading to deeper feelings.

Inevitably I end somewhere in between crashing and burning, and getting my fingers caught in the cookie jar. Regardless, both spell out one word: unrequited. Which is classified under 'Epic Fail', to borrow someone's oft-used phrase.

So I've had enough. I really have. How long more can one go on like this eh?

Admittedly, I tried steeling myself sometime back, endeavoured to harden my head and my heart against all feelings of affections of the loving kind. I confess, sigh, that I failed. Then. I don't know; maybe it was faith, or hope or even a lingering suspicion that I'd get another stab at the Last Chance Saloon. I don't think it'll come to be. I think I've been wasting precious time hoping for the impossible.

As it were, I had been chasing the dream. Never one to settle for anything not up to my fine tastes, that's me. Much to my detriment, in hindsight. But even with knowing the stars are beyond my reach, I still can't compromise. So, rather than lull myself into just taking anything that would come my way, I'm putting an end to this ridiculous delusional fantasy called love. Why does that sound so fucking melodramatic? Okay, let me rephrase that: this ridiculous delusional fantasy called emotions of the romantic nature. There, I'm more comfortable with that.

And I think my resolve is made stronger by, ahem, 'A Guide to Steel-Plating An Emotional Heart'. I really do see where I've been fucking up. After a while, love, lust, affections, attractions and god knows what else all merge to create one hell of a fucked up potpourri.

But yeah, I'll get by. Emotional freedom, that's what I want. Free from the tuggings of my heartstrings. Free from the contemplations in my brain. Free from all the despair, and disappointment and depression.

Just free.

i is back, i thinks

I guess somewhere along the way, I've lost the mood to write. Either that, or I've been too busy. Honestly speaking, I'm leaning towards the former.

I don't know why, though. Guess I've just had less and less to rant about. Or maybe I've grown tired of mouthing (texting?) off. Not that I'm remotely concerned, mind you.

Okay, so what's new? Nothing of great interest, I can tell you. Oh yeah, football's back, so that's always good. Of course, the Toffees had to screw things up by getting thrashed. Looks like it's going to be a dreadful season, if they continue this way. Bloody embarrassing, to say the least.

Money is tight, again. Fuckssakes! And just when I thought things would turn a corner. Keep the faith, I tell myself. But it is fucking tiring, I kid you not. Two steps forward, five steps back. Like a mambo gone awry. Just hate scrapping through (by); at the end of the day, an empty wallet and emptier bank account. Eesh.

Okie, at least there's Bali and Saigon to look forward too, and a sponsored trip to Langkawi thrown in for good measure. Just hope to have enough resources to enjoy the getaways, and not have to scrounge around again. Hate having to save the pennies when travelling; just kills off the fun.

Sometimes, I think money does make the world go round. And round. And round.

stop politicising, I tell you.

Why does the government keep barking out demands to "stop politicising [insert issue here]"?

I mean, they arrest hundreds of peaceful demonstrators, then state that the issue shouldn't be politicised. They detain politicians who oppose their despotic ways, and tell the public to stop politicising the matter.

For Chrissakes, anything remotely related to the government is fucking politics. ISA is bloody politics. The increase in oil and food prices is, you guessed it, goddamn politics.

I'm not sure about you, but when someone flies out of the window while being interrogated by corrupt anti-corruption goons, you can bet your last dollar politics is involved.

What, do they think we're fucking stoopid or something?

MMS=Malaysian Mega Sale?

So the Sales are back.

Question: did they ever leave? If I recall correctly, there seemed to be a sale every single month since September last year. In various guises: Raya Sales, Christmas Sales, New Year Sales, Chinese New Year Sales, etc. So does the prefix 'Mega' imply that things will be really, really cheap? Or just another one of those gimmicks Malaysian retailers are so fond of?

But fair enough, off with the cynicism. And in with reality. Can we really afford to be splurging when times are rocky, at best? Yes, I refer to the economy, for those slowly crawling out of their comfortable moss-covered rocks. The Great Economic Slump which has hit almost every country, except Malaysia, if the media is to be believed. I think one can always gauge how bad times are by the paranoia displayed by the average executive. When people are hesitant to even take a valid MC for swine flu (or whatever the gov calls it), you know employers are wielding the axe handily. As The Verve put it so bitterly, "we're a slave to the money, then we die."

Back to the Sales. It appears Mastercard is waxing lyrical about 'generosity without splurging' or something closely related. Yeah, right. Let's see how 'generous' the banks are when they start hounding credit card users for late payments and overdue accounts. Even more incredulous is some banks offering Personal Loans for the shopping season. WTF???

So yeah, despite all the doom and gloom about the threat of a global economic holocaust (softened by the wool that's the AH1N1 outbreak), it's good to know that retail therapy is still being prescribed heartily. Disregard the fact that it is this very therapy which led us all to a mess which even the messianic Obama can't seem to untangle.

But enough of common sense. I'm already eyeing the clothes at Marks & Sparks (wink wink).

worked to death, beaten to death and only paid after death

Okay, yet another Malaysia rant. Bear with me k? Cause I haven't done this in a long while.

I think the growing number of cases involving abused Indonesian maids is highly reflective of the current state of Malaysian society. In general, we've become so fucking absorbed in the rat race, and as a result, have become mightily arrogant. An arrogance that's befitting a collective herd of ignorant, self-centred, narcissistic hypocrites.

And before any of you start huffing and puffing and begin to experience nose-flaring, look at the myriad pictures of the poor abused souls in the local papers (who, incidentally, have stopped any mention of any further maid abuse cases). What on earth gives these fucking sadistic Malaysian sickos the right to treat people like that? And so what if it happens in Singapore, HK and the Middle East? Does it make it justifiable that it happens here too?

And in true Malaysian style, the entire ugly episode first gets distorted, then is promptly swept under the nearest tikar. From addressing the plight of the victims, Malaysians (led by the Man in the Street) started justifying these horrendous acts by highlighting how Indo maids (a) stole from them, (b) ran way, (c) spoke back, (d) fought back, or (e) all of the previous.

So essentially what these pompous pricks are telling is that it's okay to (a) beat the shit out of the maids, (b) pour boiling hot water over them, (c) tan them with an iron, (d) smash their faces into the wall and (e) all of the previous (bonus points for a abuse combo) because they deserve it.

Notice how these abuse cases almost exclusively involve Indonesians. Yet again, since they're perceived to be poorer, some Malaysians think they can treat them like sub-humans. Yet these same scumbags do not have the balls, eggs and whatever else to do the same with Filipinas, for example. Thus it all boils down to playing bully. Pick on those who are meek, and steer away from those who will fight back.

Has the problem been solved? Have the perps been convicted? An overwhelming no. Even better, our inept jokers in power have been busy boasting how Indonesia will suffer because of its ban on sending maids over. The cretin who call themselves 'media' here have been gleefully showcasing how Malaysia is the hub of maids, and how the Indonesian population will be on the losing end for not sending over thousands to the various 'concentration camps' here.

But you know what, this is the Malaysia everyone busy brags about. On one side, you have the white elephants that litter the streets and nooks and crannies in KL, the modern infrastructure, the glitzy clubs and vibrant restaurants. But beneath that facade, a far uglier face manifests itself. Social apathy, unchecked crime, animal cruelty, human cruelty and a host of other infestations.

The article below just goes to prove my point to a tee.

What about employer abuse?

Submitted by pekwan on Friday, July 3rd, 2009

Friday, July 3rd, 2009 03:47:00

I don't mean to sound heartless, but some of these abuse cases are totally over-rated and have been brought up too many times.

Why do we, as Malaysians, care so much about Indonesians? We should be looking out for our own people.

So far, how many abuse cases of Indonesian maids are there - four or five a year?

Now, how many Indonesian maids run away from their employers who spent thousands of ringgit just to get them here? I'm sure it's more than 50 in a year.

Furthermore, the ones that do stay can't even do their jobs right. I mean, how difficult is it keeping a house clean and taking care of small children?

If you don't want to work, then why bother coming here?

Then, there are cases of maids abusing their employer's children. Why not expose those cases as well? Are the fates of Malaysian children not as important as that of migrant workers?

Aren't they "the future of our country"?

Why does the government not make a big deal of those things? Why not start an issue with the Indonesian government, as it has done with us?

The Indonesian government now wants to stop sending maids to Malaysia. I say it's proper. But is that going to work? I'm sure those people will find out a way to sneak into our country.

When a maid runs away from her employer, the employer has to pay a deportation fee. Not only has the employer lost thousands of ringgit in agency fees to get the maid, he or she now has to pay extra because of the maid's ill-behaviour. Why should we pay to send them back? Their government should be held responsible for them.

Issues like these make me so angry, especially when I read in the newspapers
of yet another abuse case reported.

If we are so sadistic and love to read about people getting abused, then report also on Malaysians who are getting abused.

I apologise for the tone of my letter, but I feel that's the only way I can get my point across.

Shazreeza AK
Shah Alam

Malaysia Boleh, no?

Switch the Channel: Desperado is on.

It's really amazing to see how desperate Malaysians are to be in the world spotlight. If it were for something of substance or meaningful, then by all means, go ahead.

But reality reads: trivial, mundane, inconsequential. The things people here conjure up to cement their 15 minutes of fame borders between hilarity and incredulity.

Take this latest attempt by to swim across the English Channel. Why, oh why? To be the first Malaysian girl to do so, it appears. So initially it was First Malaysian, now it's First Malaysian [insert gender].

I mean, not to sound discouraging, but BFD.

Think about it, why hasn't there been any Malaysian who has attempted to swim along Sg Rajang? Or across the Straits of Malacca or the South China Sea? What's so earth-movingly spectacular about paddling through the Channel?

I reckon, maybe it's a subconscious form of inferiority complex. Since the Brits colonised Malaya centuries ago, some Malaysians feel the need to flick a finger back by, get this, conquering the Channel. Oh wow! Yeah.

And just to put things in perspective, Wiki quotes, "The total number of swims conducted under and ratified by the Channel Swimming Association to 2005: 982 successful crossings by 665 people. This includes twenty-four 2-way crossings and three 3-way crossings."

That's the country for you: plenty of chest thumping, thrash talking and brash bragging, little of everything else.

feeling of loss

Not a good weekend. Losing a relative is never easy, especially someone who's always tried to help me along my career path. Vaya con dios, Uncle.

I think whenever there's a passing, I tend to feel most sorry for the ones left behind. In my naive mind, the dearly departed are headed for a place way better than this hellhole. Guess we all have to believe that is the case, or there's really nothing to live for then, is there?

On another note, got the second tatt touched up, looks awesome. Maybe I exaggerate, but I really like it. And when the first one finally heals, a bit of background and I'm done. Really.

I predict a really hectic week in the making, on a personal and emotional level.

And I'm going to quite two vices, before the year draws to a close. The stats don't look good.

desperately seeking Mr O. Self

Gasp, nearly three weeks since my last post.

Totally unacceptable. Yet, I can't say I've had an overwhelming inclination to write something. Not so much a writer's block as well. Uninspired would be a tad more accurate. Have just been unable to get myself onto Blogspot and spurt out a few words.

So-so; that's how I'd describe things currently. Things inside me, things around me, things. Go with the flow, and such inane, corny cliches. After all, what's new, pussycat? Eh?

Still unsure where I'm heading with all this, or where I want to head. I'm just strolling along, checking out the rare fancies that catch my eye. Nothing substantial in that. But it's helping me move on, so that can't be that bad.

Unfortunately, I really can't find the old me. I think it's dead and gone. Okay, I had to slip that in. But in all seriousness (if one can even be serious about such things), I've 'misplaced' my comfy old persona. More like I killed it, and I'm now regretting it. It's funny how you try so hard to suppress something, only to realise how much you actually need it, and then find that it's gone. Out of the park, far far away. Yeah, something like that.

But never one to pine for what's done and dusted (yeah, right), I'm carrying on with this new, not-so-nice me. As long as I get through the days not contemplating what ifs and permutations in my thick skull, I'm happy.

Though I get this sneaky feeling, not for long. Being happy, that is.

sobriety sucks

I'm gonna stop drinking for a while, indefinitely. Does that make bloody sense?

Back to the programme. Yeah, I know I've declared that many times over, the most recent being sometime in April or May. This time, though, it's gotta stick.

Gotta sort out some things, and I need to be fully sober to do so. Besides, there's only so much abuse my body can take, and it's time to give it a rest. Take it down a notch, and ease around. Something like that.

Can't wait to burn off the calories next week. Think perhaps I used the geisha a bit too much as an excuse not to workout. Well, no excuses next week, I promise.

Okay, gotta run now. Perhaps I'd better walk instead.

lost

"Where do we go, where do we go now..."

Good question, can't think of a good answer.

But less time spent contemplating the answer is definitely a good thing.

Drink, drink, drink and be ill tonight, remember? And tomorrow night and the night after that, and after that and after that and ...

Watched Angels & Demons over the weekend; it's definitely better than The Da Vinci Code. As is the protagonist's hairdo.

Rome is truly a remarkable city, if you haven't already noticed already. Simply amazing. That's one place that's a given on my bucket list. And maybe watch a Roman derby. Who knows eh?

hello there

Hmm, it's been quite a while since I last posted. Not that things have been maddeningly hectic; just couldn't cough up something worth writing.

Updates, you ask? Well, finally got inked. Love the design, loved the pain, and looking forward to the next one. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't painless; but my threshold for pain seems to have increased dramatically over the past few months. Which is good. I reckon the crisscrosses were far more painful than the needling, and even then, they merely stung, thanks to copious amounts of alcohol.

Barca gave Manure a 2-0 thrashing; a humbling lesson in football and grace. Great news. Hats off to the Catalans for emulating what Milan did in 2007 - thwarting the hordes from the EPL. On saying that, it'll be even greater news if Everton were to finally win a piece of silverware after umpteen years this Saturday. Fingers crossed. Maldini will play his last match this weekend; just one word - class. Absolute class. One would never find such a player in the EPL, that's for sure.

Love life is non-existent, surprise surprise. Even worse, more and more I find myself slipping away from my love (like?) interest; really need to cling on to something and haul myself back into the reckoning. Not that I was ever in the reckoning in the first place.

But hey, this is my piece of cyber property, so I'll delude myself as much as I want, thank you very much. So yeah, dammit! I need to start rubbing the twigs together and produce anything that resembles a flame, be it a minuscule spark or a wisp of smoke. Anything.

A laborious endeavour indeed.

Prometheus, where art thou?

are we clear now?

Clarity under intoxication

I'm still trying to articulate my thoughts on that. I've been saying it quite often these past few weeks, without really explaining what I mean; all of which has left some people wondering if I've got full control of my mental faculties. More so when I'm trying to express it over a drink, or six.

Here goes. First the disclaimer; this epiphany-like condition only applies now; previous bouts (read: ten years ago) were purely an exercise in futility in trying to shove everything in my head down the drain. Needless to say, the only thing that went down the drain was the contents of my abused guts. Onwards to 2009 (hope this isn't the start of a ten-year cycle).

I seriously reckon over-thinking is a disorder. I mean, it just sends you (me) down this downhill slope right into Despair Zone. Myriad scenarios, situation, outcomes and permutations race around my brain, in some damaging Brownian motion. Then wham! bam! The collision. And the realisation that everything will end in abject failure. Which is not pleasant, in whatever manner imaginable.

But with fermented rye and barley and wheat and God knows whatever else is put in liquor, the fog parts, to reveal the dark clouds. Therein lies the clarity. No what-ifs, no questions up in the air, no will-it-work-outs helter-skeltering about in this thick-skull. And for that moment in comforting intoxication, I know everything will come to naught. No buts, no maybes, just a stake-driven Nyet.

After all, what can be more welcome than the absolute truth, boiled in whiskey and garnished with ginger ale?

And the next morning, when everything is one smorgasbord of a mess, the carousel starts again.

Clarity under intoxication - now do you get it?

the world through a frosted mug

Why do I drink?

Why do you drink?

I don't mean having a sip or two, or a shot or three. I mean good ol' intoxication-induced drinking. The type where you stare blankly at the bill, unsure if you can't believe how much you've spent, or how much you've consumed. That's what I mean by 'drink'.

So yeah, why do you and I and anyone else who staggers away from a bar drink?

Which leads to a more profound question - does it matter?

And the answer is no, it doesn't.

Cause nothing really matters, to me (fade song).

where have all the days gone...?

How swiftly the weekend vanishes.

Hit the sack at 3AM, and next thing you know, the alarm's blaring at 7 on Monday morning. I know, time and tide wait for no man, but they could at least waltz by at a slower pace, couldn't they? Very inconsiderate of them.
One thing productive from the weekend, other than the bucket loads of sweat I oozed, is that I've more or less settled on my work of art. Have to run it by one or two 'advisers' and see what they think. But I'm quite pleased with the proposed piece, I must say.

On another note, I kinda like being 'convolutedly ambivalent'; it has a rather calming effect on my inner chakras. Fair enough, there's no such thing as 'convolutedly' but the meaning is pretty clear, no? Admittedly, I do get stirred up once in a while (with 'while' being rather frequent), but a couple of bitch slap and People's Elbows sees the restless feelings held down temporarily.

Which is why booze is definitely a humongous no-no for me. Sober, things are quite manageable. Sloshed, and out come the little demons for a bit of playground time, see-sawing and swinging about.

Oh, and I've really got to cut down on the smokes, like, totally. Been receiving lots of complaint messages from Mr Lungs and Mrs Heart. And I just hope situation down South doesn't take a turn for the worse. No, really.

And hey, note, no whining here this time around.

there are four jokers in a deck, y'know

First of all, I know what 'joker in the pack' means; someone who is unpredictable yah-dee-dah.

Now that I've highlighted my literary knowledge, I can move on to what I actually what I wanted to say. Every now and then, I get sick and tired of being a joker. Not in the pack, but in everything. Or, more accurately, being taken for a joker. After a while, who takes you seriously eh? You're expected to provide the laughs, the lawak bodoh, the antidote to everyone else's gloom.

Laugh a little less, and it's an immediate "something's wrong with him/ her". Crack one joke less, "something bothering you?" It's bemusing how easily people take others at face value. Get drunk once, and you're a drunkard for life. Sounds familiar to most of us, I'm sure.

I am entitled to a bad day or two, surprise surprise. Unbelievable, but even jesters toss their hats away and slump down on the chair, depressed or dismayed or upset or just plain saddened. And that's definitely hard to fathom for some, by the look of things.

Then again, question: do I give a damn?

Answer: Vehement, expletive-filled NO!

three nights in Bangkok and I'm none the wiser

So I'm back from Bangkok.

No use in whining and moaning; all roads lead back home, whether I like it or not. Just have to get on with things and look forward to the next getaway.

I find the word 'getaway' more spot-on than 'holiday' or 'vacation'. A momentary distraction to get away from the mess that I've created. Would it make sense if I said I was running away from myself? The only thinking I had to do was decide where to go, what to eat etc. And it was liberating for an all-too brief span of time. Nothing on this convoluted mind to paint a dark picture. Shopping was great, food was delectable (as usual) while the partying (albeit slightly muted) was pleasantly distracting. Though I must say, with all honesty, I mildly regret not doing one or two things in particular. Next time, definitely.

I know, I usually post the ins-and-outs of my trip. But things change. So this time, around I'm not reviewing the hotel, and the food and all the good things about Bangkok (which far outweigh KL). I wasn't keen on coming back, at least, not that soon. Enough of that, anyways.

They keep coming back. Think it's a name of a low-budget horror flick or something. Yeah, but they do. Just when I think I'm safely beyond their grasp, they just reach out and grab me, refusing to let go. I struggle and twist and turn, and I succeed, for a while. Before the whole dance starts again. I'm sure of the outcome, which will be inevitable failure; self-fulfilling prophecy and all.

I mean, I shouldn't kid myself eh?

round and round the mulberry bush

I think hectic barely describes today. Frantic, maybe. Or even helter skelter. Tomorrow's going to be even more so, I reckon.

At this very moment, I'm itching to head downtown for a bit of wining and grinding. Which will mean a late night out, and barely enough sleep for the flight tomorrow. Any sensible person would head home early to start packing and get enough mileage in slumberland; operative phrase being 'sensible person'. Somehow sensible and me haven't been seeing eye-to-eye for several weeks now.

I may be deluding myself, but I think, I think, I've lost a respectable two kilos over the past two weeks or so. If that's indeed the case, then woo-hooh! I'm not going to say it's due to the heavy drinking; that'd really make me delusional. Probably the fact that I haven't been supping late at night. Remember all that jazz about eat right, live right? Yeah, one out of two ain't half bad, mum.

For once, I'm going to stay away from the padkapaos. I'm serious. Okay, maybe I'll have one serving. Just one, mind you. And definitely no beers to chase the food down. Fingers crossed.

On a totally random out-of-the-air note, caring less had made me less, erm, depressing. Yes, that's not a grammatical error. Whatever fucking goes.

Okay, back to the post. Think a ten-minute nap, followed by some coffee, and I'll probably head home.

are we human or are we Dancer?

I think I'm a rather good dancer.

In the club, that is.

Yeah, there used to be moments when I wasn't inclined to move my arse off the stool as I knocked back shot after shot of whiskey.

But somehow the 'old' old me has managed to emerge from the thorns and shrubs and bushes that have enveloped me over the past ten years or so.

This XO me that used to head straight to the dance floor instead of the nearest spot on the bar. And it feels good, just moving and grooving (do they still use this word?) to the sound of the music. Five minutes on the elliptical, and I'm struggling to stay on my feet. Two hours on the dance floor, and I'm hoping it's not the last call for the night.

Maybe there's still some youngish blood running through my cholesterol-clogged veins; maybe I still have the tar-covered heart of a 20-year old. Who knows eh?

What I do know is that it feels liberating just prancing about without a care in my head; every dark page just flies out the window the moment the notes starts caressing my brain.

So yeah, just dance. And dance.

damages pending

Five days, and I haven't touched a drop of alcohol. Woo-hoo!

Thursday was a real bitch, considering I was so blood tempted. Sat myself down in Starbucks and OD-ed on caffeine instead.

Which isn't really a healthy alternative, but a safer alternative nevertheless. And even in Club 9 and Zouk and Envie and Twenty One, the temptation was driving me up the wall, but somehow I got through.

So here I am, sober as a judge, with not so much of a twinge of longing for drinks. Not yet, anyways.

The last straw was the doctor gently chiding me for my rate of consumption. And a cute doctor at that. So how could I go against her wishes eh? (wink wink)

But yeah, the damage to my body has been overwhelmingly painful, and that's putting it mildly. Probably over-drank Wednesday last week; there were angry welts all over my back, and rashes littered my arms and hands. Add to that the numerous cuts and bruises and swellings and I think it's a good thing I stopped while I was ahead. And we're not even going to talk about the damage inside my head.

I dance to forget, I drink to remember, and everything else just passes by.

So yeah, it's back to ginger ale and soda water for me. In no way have I exorcised the gremlins in my head (some have returned from the dead), neither have I addressed the issue at hand. But in a way, the resignation that I'll not get what I want has made me calmer, oddly enough.

The old me's dead and gone.

Not really. But such is life, eh?

sing when you're drinking

It's been ages since I last posted; more than a week constitutes ages in blogland, I reckon. Just didn't have the mood, the drive, the mental capacity to write anything beyond the darkest shade of black. Which would have bored most of you, I'm sure. Oh no, not another morose post, I would have heard you sigh. So does that mean I'm in a better mood now? Hmm, by the merest iota of difference, yes.

Some credit has to go to the Famous Grouse. Yes, that scotch bird who looks out furtively over every bar shelf. And it's not a bad drink, by any means. One of the more under-rated drinks, if there ever was one. Whether with soda, coke or ginger ale, it goes down relatively smoothly. Then again, after five shots, everything goes down smoothly.

I wouldn't say I've fallen off the wagon, but I'd say I've missed getting sloshed and having my brain cells die in the rushing flood that is booze. And momentarily submerging all the demons in the swirling mixture of malt and barley and rye and God knows what else. The fact that sobriety is constrained to the day is even more liberating, for some convoluted reason.

So yeah, only time will tell how long the drunken debauchery will last, but while it's alive and kicking, then all I can say is "kampai".

Here's a completely random piece of text; a verse from The Smiths. Can't find the video for the song, though.

Loved and lost
And some may say
When usually it’s nothing
Surely you’re happy
It should be this way ?
I said "no"
And then I shot myself
So, drink, drink, drink
And be ill tonight

one-two combo

I am calm.

Surprisingly so.No more confusion, no more drama.

Everything's been forcibly put in perspective. Which is what should have been done in the first place. There is no one else to blame, no circumstances to bemoan. There's just me.

Time to grow up. Time to grow out of this cocoon of debility that I've allowed to wrap me in. Time to stamp out the little imps creating mischief in my brain. Time to bring the misplaced affectivities under control. Time for action.

But above all, time for a cigarette.

i like girls, they like me

I just realised, I've been listening to two songs over and over and over again for the past two hours. Yeah, they're catchy and bouncy and danceable and all that, but still...

Weirdo alert!

On top of that, I spent another two hours people-watching down at Starbucks, black, white, Puerto Rican, Chinese etc. Some sort of a pseudo-spacing out session. I hardly touched the magazines I'd greedily plucked off the rack; was too engrossed looking at people, and through them, to some far away corner where I re-examined all my schemes and plans. I lie, there was just one. Yeah, yeah, yawn yawn, blah, blah.

TGI Friday, huh? Nothing more than another round of cigarettes, loud music, sardine cans and aching muscles. But you know what, there's really nothing else to kill time with once the sun sets. A movie; yet again? Stay in; right. So we scour the night, revelling in the cover of the dark. I think clubbing on a Friday night given; the only variables are the venue, and the crowd. Make that 'company', two and three and all that.

You know what, sometimes it's difficult to see where tantrums end, and realisation begins. Like, seriously. So at this moment in time, am I throwing a tantrum, or am I wisening up? My problem is I often oscillate between the two, at the wrong moments. I'm oblivious to being taken for granted when it's blatantly happens, yet I'm petulant when there is no slight. That's more one ingredient to the boiling pot which is my confused state of mind. I inevitably get annoyed with beings who remain confused for long periods of time, so I guess I'm displaying a small degree of favouritism towards myself. Just a small degree, mind you.

And guess what, there is no such remedy as 'just chill'. Who 'just chills'? No one that I know of. Everyone says it, but come on, honestly? Unless one has a fatalistic approach to life and surrenders everything to fate or destiny or such, I reckon there's a reason for horns on the bull.

So enjoy the weekend, get laid, get drunk, dance till you drop. Yeah, whatever.

pick me up and lift me down

Not an auspicious start to Thursday. Some results go your way, some don't. Today, they didn't. Ah well, there's always the penultimate round.

The only consolation? It's Friday tomorrow. What the connection is, don't ask me. I'm just stating the obvious.

"Look baby, I'm a heartbreaker, I'm a heartbreaker".

Okay, I confess, I'm confused. Which is why some conversations don't have a point. It's not that I'm being wishy-washy about things; I just don't know what I want. Not at the moment. And honestly speaking, I'm comfortable with being confused; gives me a certain blanket of acceptability to behave unadult-like now and then. But seriously, who cares right? Just go out, have fun, chill about, socialise around, everything's easy-peasy. It should be. Trick is not to over-think things. In fact, it's better not thinking at all. Go with the flow, Joe.

Good thing is, I'm looking forward to another round of clubbing. It's mind-numbingly pleasurable, I tell you. I doubt I'm going to be able to practise corny pick-up lines. Question: do guys still use pick-up lines these days? Do dodgy men go up to women and wax lyrical about stolen stars and fallen angels? Or is it more a case of familiarity breeds conversation? You sit down next to a person long enough in the night, and channels open up. There's something about pick-up protocol in The Game, but my memory fails me. Or it could be that I never read that particular chapter; the chapter on 'scoring' in the club.

You know what, I've got to get myself a cookie jar. And fill it up with delicious cookies of all shapes, sizes and ingredients. Hmm, that would be something constructive which takes up my time.

Yeah.

bangkok dangerous

I just had to. The irony was too tempting to be ignored.

On saying that, I'm feeling a tad bit antsy over the situation in Bangkok, just a tad. Hopefully, there'll be no need to postpone, or even cancel, my trip. I'm hoping the spirit of Buddha will prevail upon the good senses of the Thais, and they'll resolve their political mess before Wesak. Otherwise, I'll have to sort out the refund mess with Air Asia.

Some sort of a deja vu, this whole incident. The 2006 army coup occurred just a couple of months before my most recent visit there; luckily, it was more of a cordial and festival-like atmosphere.

This time around, things look pretty nasty, what with the Redshirts bent on provoking the powerful military. Still no sign from the Palace as to where their support lay. It doesn't help that the former owner of Man City is openly calling for a revolution; based on the revolution in Man City, I don't think it'll be create that much of an impact.

I think the one overriding lesson to be learnt here is that mob rule begets mob rule. Yellowshirts, Redshirts, Blueshirts, it doesn't matter. All it takes is precedence, and everyone starts getting delusions that wearing a certain coloured T-shirt and demonstrating around town will topple a government and bring about a new one.

Democracy, and the ballot box, may not be the solution to every political, economic and social woe, but it's the best system as yet. It's just the implementation of the system that's creating room for discord and dissatisfaction. All that this turmoil will only achieve is the total loss of income from tourists, like moi; estimated to stand at around THB 2 billion (correct me on the figure). Ultimately, it's a lose-lose situation for everybody involved, from the roadside hawker all the way up to the aristocrats.

And the many loyal tourists who make their annual visit to the Land of the Buddhas.

So yeah, fingers crossed, spirits appeased, coconuts shattered.

the gods must be crazy, to send such gifts

God is benevolent. God is giving.

You don't believe me? Take a walk around town; admire the blue skies, treasure the green trees. Give thanks for His Gifts to Mankind, for they are in abundance. In the sky, around us, in the clubs. Eh, what's that, you ask quizzically. In the club? Yah yah, you heard right.

Even in the clubs, divine treasures are aplenty. Spend one weeknight clubbing away, and you'll nod in agreement the next time we discuss this matter. And if you're a woman, you've more reason to get down on your knees. For among the mere mortals, between the throngs of the common males, walk God's Gifts. Solely for women. Yes, capital 'G's.

They are not just flesh and bone, no siree. They are Adonis personified, the Achilles' of the modern age, immortal Casanovas. Looking at them leaves you in awe. Their black greasy hair, combed slickly to the back. Some sport ponytails, some have sworn off hair. Others parade a straightened mane, strands of silky threads that do not ruffle easily. The fairer they are, the more majestic the walk, the higher the tilt of the chin.

A number wear sunglasses, even in the dark, for such is the intensity of their stare that you might swoon from ecstasy. They don't walk, they swagger, perhaps stagger.

And if you happen to be brushed aside or knocked against, give thanks, you've been Touched. If they deign you worthy, then they will grace you with their eloquent repartee. For they are men of few words, known. Since they're GGWs, they know your heart's desire, even if you have no inkling of it. You may shirk away from banter, but they feel your attraction towards them. Which woman will spurn the chance to be grabbed by a heavenly being, only God knows.

And after the revelry, the GGWs depart the club alone. But do not even think for a second that they have met with failure. Nay, au contraire, it is the women who have failed to convince the GGWs of their worthiness of being allowed to walk by the side of these magnificent creatures. Believe not the fishwife tales that speak ill of them; nothing but wagging tongues of lesser men. The GGWs bear their burden with great angst, for every woman that slips through their greasy palms is a woman deprived of delectation.

But fear not, daughters of Eve. These noble beings will return the following weekend. And the following weekend, and the following weekend, and the fol...I think you understand.

So ladies, the next time you hit the floor, seek after these Gifts. Watch them walking towards you, and step aside.

Step aside all the way to the other side of the club.

gimme the night

I was sitting down with a homie yesterday, doing the usual PJ Tea Party circuit. We went through the all the compulsory topics - politics, crime, football, relationships; before we climbed aboard the time capsule and headed back to the hedonistic days of the 90s.

This time around, it wasn't about who-did-what at school, or who-said-what. It was more a 'review' of the many nights spent gallivanting about, painting the town red and brown and any other colour that defines puke. And despite all the holes in the memory and the depleted brain cells that hold the grey matter together, two things stuck out, like a not-so-sore thumb.

One was the fact that we had patronised almost every pub/ club that existed back in those days. Some serious nights out they were. Our tours had taken us from the streets of Telawi, to Sultan Ismail, up and around Tun Razak and almost everything in Bandar Utama/ Damansara Utama. PJ was a given, considering there were only two places of note, DV8 and Waikiki. Just roll-calling the places reads like a where's where. Hard Rock, Jump, Boom Boom, Renaissance, Baze (and all its manisfestations), Spoon's, Spike's, Uno's, Rio's, Twelve SI, Emporium and its predecessor, Modesto's (every outlet around town), good old Brannigan's - the list just goes on and on. I mean, at one point or another, we had popped in every watering hole along Telawi, left, right and centre.

Okay, I know you're going "big fucking deal, so what?" Well, the fact that we weren't working is one; the other is when oh when did we sleep? Maybe that explains the constant eyebags that haunt me to this day.

The second recall was darker; we were running through the list of synthetic organics that we'd ingested during that era. Yes, it was an era. A time when roadblocks were next-to-none; when the crowd almost everywhere was heterogeneous; when one could smoke essentially anywhere under the Sun. But yeah, it's a small wonder my body has been able to expel all the toxins accumulated over the past 15 years or so; I've ingested more than my share of rubbish. Blame it on the times, the age or the crowd. Whichever way, it's a good thing I outgrew it rapidly. No, I don't mean size-wise.

I guess all's well that ends well. Personally, the itch to knock back a couple of shots has subsided. After all, I use to knock a bottle of cheap ass Balailayka every night for months. And if that doesn't kill you, then rejoice, nothing else will.

And as for The Others, well, all I can say is Puff! Vanished the Magic Dragon.

i really should rate this post 18+

Wow, we are already two days into the new week, and I'm still recovering from the weekend that was. The super long nights (I don't recall crawling into bed anytime before 5AM) have really made it very, very difficult to wake up for work. Really felt it this morning especially; what's in your head, zombie. I hope the power nap (felt like 15 minutes) helps later in the day; do need to do a spot of cross-skiing (that's elliptical trainer to those not in the know).

Just a quick note: Mist is definitely the new Bangsar. No, it's just one building. But the crowd, well, it was just one flashback after another. Faces last seen at Modesto's or Big Willy's or Gasworks. Which puts the club in perspective, a homing beacon for the Bangsar diaspora long dispersed for the past decade, a homecoming of the prodigal children. And now that you know, doI need not mention the demographics of the patrons? The music oscillates between great and grating. Drinks are expensive, but I guess that's the only way to keep out the pariahs. And finally, las chicas there will leave you misty eyed. Hot Peri-peri all the way.

I was sitting down with some fellow wise men (pardon the presumption) for nasi lemak last night; oddly enough, our conversation steered towards the subject of sex. Philosophically, of course. Or, we'd like to think it was philosophical, and not downright perverty (copyrighted word alert).

Anyways, where was I, yeah, sex. Specifically, the hardware needed to perform the action. Too technical? How about sticks and pits? Better? Good. So basically, over the years, I've read some literature on the 'erotic arts'; mainly Chinese and Indian (in English, of course). And it's very apparent that Eastern eroticism (henceforth Ee) emphasises more on technique and spirituality for orgasmic satisfaction, rather than the specs of the tools involved.

Think about it, I doubt it's mentioned anywhere in the Kama Sutra that for best enjoyment, the two key figures are 36 D and 12 inches. Neither does Ee stress again and again on methods of elongating appendages and ballooning up mammaries. All they espouse, in a nutshell, is learn how to blow (breathe that is, breathe) and you'll be a bedroom Eros or Nymph.

Admittedly, some societies who practise Ee take things to the extreme; tiger penises and rhino balls and antler horns are not going to make things jiggy in the bedroom. Many wannabe Romeos in the Orient have contributed to the drastic reduction in a number of fauna species. Stop fucking kidding yourself. Cheaper alternative, fool, Viagra.

For all the sexual liberation brought on by Western erotica, it's obvious that a second, more discrete phenomenon has followed. The need to supersize. Now seriously, does anyone really want to be the next Dolly? The singer, not the sheep. Or perhaps, the modern Long Dong Silver? And if these names sound Greek to you, then obviously you missed out on the greatest of decades, mate.

But like I was saying, what's so erotic about plasticky (c.w.a) sandbags or a vericose garden hose? I mean, really.

wii-ing around in the universe

I'm going to sound like I've just stepped out of the Stone Age, but Nintendo Wii is really cool.

There. Raise your eyebrows as much as you want.

I had an all-too-brief go at Star Wars yesterday, and it was quite exhilarating swinging the remote around, and watching the lightsabre slice through the enemy on-screen. The fact that my arm was aching after some 5 minutes of slashing, and thrusting and parrying added to the realism of the experience. The interface wasn't that great, but the graphics were impressive. Pity there wasn't any blood splashing around ala Kill Bill; that would have been uber cool.

And for a brief moment, I was entertaining the thought of actually getting a Wii console; the price tag did more than enough to stop me dead in my tracks. A thousand seven hundred bloody ringgit. Woah! Easy, Darth Vader. Then, once the euphoria of having executed a jumping-slash-like manoeuvre was totally flushed from my system, I got to thinking, am I really going to stay at home and play every night? Or even every weeknight? I think not. All honesty, I reckon I'm more inclined to get a N96 with that amount of money, with plenty of change to spare. But if the price were more in the region of RM 1000, then perhaps.

On a related matter, I remember many years ago (we're talking in the mid-80s here), almost anyone who had watched the Star Wars trilogy harboured secret aspirations to be a Jedi. I mean, what's there not to like (in the mind of an eight or nine-year old): cool weapon, black ninja-like outfit, potent hand movement and agility beyond human capability.

Fast forward a quarter of a century, and all I can say is Jedis are wusses. Really. Come on, think about it. They have this constant constipated look on their faces (the precursor to the Clive Owen look), they can't display emotions (even in bed), they can't procreate (which probably explains the previous point), and they always have to clasp their hands together and nod sagely in front of a green gremlin-like creature. And their fashion options are pretty damn limited; one can easily place them on a camel, if you get my drift.

And frankly speaking, does anyone really give a damn about the balance between good and evil and all that jazz? After watching countless good vs evil flicks (home and away), I've come to the conclusion that good means drinking orange juice in a cafe, and evil is drinking whiskey in a pub.

So yeah, watching Star Wars these days (all six of them), you just hope Vader had just finished off whining Luke. I know I enjoyed watching Vindoo get vindalooed by Anakin 'I'm-so-torn-apart' Skywalker. Given, some Jedis were quite bearable - Qui-Go Jin and Obi-Wan (their idiocy in buying son but not mother still defies logic); but in terms of the bigger picture, I didn't shed a tear when the Republic/ Empire went on their backstabbing (literally) Jedi pogrom.

I must reiterate, I don't dislike the Jedis, I just find them a tad bit overbearing and pretentious. Which obviously made it easier for the dark side (the perennial villain) to pull the wool over their heads. I mean, for how long did they expect to go on blaming everything that was wrong with the galaxy on the darker cousin of the qi-cosmic energy ray-like-midi-chlorian thingy that's the force? Somebody attacked Endor, blame the dark side. Somebody kidnapped the princess, blame the dark side. Somebody stole my sandwich, blame the dark side. I'm suffering from constipation, let's hear it now, altogether now - Blame the Dark Side.

But I reckon the Jedis forgot the cardinal rule of all lifeforms - once you go black, you'll never go back.

peering over the fence

Thus far it's all quiet on the western front. No outward signs of warmth or affection. Which is good, of course. I think. Makes life a whole lot easier, this weaning off process. I think, no, I feel I'm doing a decent enough job of not stumbling into the pit again. I must say though, ambivalence and apathy can be very, very difficult to project, and maintain. Very difficult indeed.

Why have I got a sudden increase in spots on my face? Dammit! Now I'm beginning to display symptoms of a 16-year old. As if the whining and pouting weren't juvenile enough.

I was told gay people get it on more times than straight ones. I wonder how true that is. Does sexual orientation strongly influence frequency of copulation? Then again, comparing gay and straight joints, the patrons in the former tend to be less inhibited with their actions and appear to be more 'warm' than their more conventional counterparts. One really feels the 'love' spreading around Frangi's on Friday nights, that's for sure. Which would correlate directly with bedroom activity; almost every gay couple heads off for a menage a tois, most straight swingers tend to congregate in the mamaks after that, cursing their misfortune at not being able to pick up girls, and vice versa.

And why am I writing about this topic? I don't know; guess my mind was distracted by an article I was reading minutes ago, on Rock Hudson. Yep, the epitome of machismo, the man's man, the icon of manhood. Until he stumbled out of the closet.

"We don't judge." Coined some time back in Langkawi, after a couple of several drinks; I reckon it's a mantra for a more peaceful life. After the piper has played, does it really matter who swings which way, or who likes what, or who wears what? Everyone has to pay the piper in due time, so why the need to look over one's shoulder, peep through the hole, peek under the table to see and judge what others are doing? One of Man's greatest failings is pointing out the speck in another's eye, without realising the plank in his or her own.

Okay, that came out rather preachy I felt.

For the next couple of days, I'm going to do a spot of people-watching. Something to kill time, like those old, old people in nursing homes or in one of those rustic small towns in England; Midsommer comes to mind instantly. I'll just watch the world go by, and the people with it. I'm sure that should provide enough ammunition for one decent post, at the very least.

And maybe I might just copy down my thoughts into a notebook. Heard of it? It's ye big, and can be written upon. I know, it's 2009, laptops, baby, laptops. When I do have excess cash to spend, then yes. For now, the two ringgit notebook will have to suffice. Or maybe a three dollar one, for a touch of elegance.

i wonder how, i wonder why

I'm chilling.

I really am. Just easing back and letting the current gently carry me along. I guess I shouldn't be swimming against the flow all the time. Neither should I hope to dig in and stand my ground against the incessant stream. So, I'm chilling now. Que sera sera.

Then there's the question, for how long? Should I be forever chilling? Is there a statute of limitation of chilling? Or have I stopped chilling my asking myself these questions? I really shouldn't be so serious about everything; I should stop being so anal about things when they don't go my way.

Why can't some people cover their fucking mouths when they sneeze, I wonder. Is it so hard to have a bit of consideration for others who may not be enthusiastic about breathing in droplets of your contaminated breath?

A most unwelcome distraction. Back to the matter at hand. I shall take the advice given and chill. Probably till the end of the year. Then we'll see how.

On a related note, I've finally found the word that describes me currently: jaded. A lot of things have lost their colour, I see mainly grey these days. Sort of "yeah, whatever". I haven't really found anything new that interests me, and I reckon it's showing. I don't think I've reached a stage where I can say "been there, done that" to almost anything in front of me. It's more like "nah, not interested". Which is making me come across as some boring old sod.

But yeah, where is the excitement, where is the adventure. Where are the unforgettable weekends, I ponder aloud. Okay, perhaps the last line came out rather pretentiously dramatic. Let's just say the weekends are getting more and more predictable. I know, I should diversify, expand my interests yah-dee-dah, but words occasionally flow easier than actions. Only occasionally, mind you.

I guess the lack of a welcome distraction is also a contributing element to this jadedness; something to occupy the mind, and heart. I thought I had it for a brief moment, before I came to my senses and realised there'd be almost zero ROI if I were to pursue things further.

Back to the drawing board; there's the starting line again; three steps back to 'Go'. Admittedly, I do have a tendency to bark up the wrong tree, and I'll hazard that there'll be at least a couple more wrong trees in the near future. How barking has changed over the years (smile).

But you know what, I'm chilling.

rainy days, and 60 minutes to save the Earth

For reasons unknown, this week has seemed rather long-drawn and arduous. A lack of a solid 8-hour sleep session hasn't helped either. It now appears that Sunday will be the only day where I sleep-in late.

Until CSI starts, that is. Which is at 2pm.

Saturday's going to be a long day, I anticipate, one which will start early in the morning. The good thing is I have an Earth Hour event scheduled for the evening, and probably an excursion to Savanh Kiara later in the night.

And still the rains falls. Dark clouds in the evening tend to sap my enthusiasm and energy for the night, without fail. It's a given, the raindrops herald traffic jams, drowsiness, lengthy delays and cancelled outdoor activities. I always say, the best place to be during the rain is on the bed. The pouring shower and whistling wind provide a certain soothing lullaby which more often than not sends me to Dreamland within minutes. The occasional thunder serves nothing more than a bearable interruption to the howling orchestra as sleep slowly embraces the mind.

Back to earth, Private Tom.

Yet another week has approached its nadir, and I've not made any headway in the Battle of the Bulge. Ran into a landmine in the guise of a plate of chicken rice this afternoon, and compounded my consternation with an extra bowl of rice. That was really unnecessary, the extra bowl. And with the weekend just mere hours away, I don't foresee strict abstinence from fattening food. In fact, I predict liberties will be taken with what drops down my oesophagus. All which are making me rather irritated with my lack of discipline. I really should stop the occasional indulgences; the occasions seems to occur every once in two days. Eesshh.

Maybe I'll make a change tomorrow, and restrict gastronomic intake to spartan fare. That's my resolution, for now. My resolve has been known to be quite flexible, to say the least.

And by the way, don't forget to turn off your lights tomorrow. No cheating now.

the gift of rain

So I've finally finished The Gift of Rain.

No, not that it was an arduous task to finish the book, it's just that I haven't really been spending much time reading. For a myriad excuses, none really substantial. I left My Name is Red halfway through; I really should finish that as well.

So yeah, The Gift of Rain. Great book on Penang in the 40s. There are lots of landmarks and streets on this little island that have stood the test of time (and Japanese and Allied bombs) and the author goes through great lengths to make a mention of them. From the E&O (recently refurbished) to Chulia Street, I assume he was either born in Penang, or stayed in Penang for umpteen years. Better still, check out his site for more info on him, yeah?

The book presents the various communities in Penang at the time in contrasting light; the Brits are fixated with social status and tea parties, while the Chinese are obsessed with tradition, culture and business. There's only one mention of an Indian dude throughout the book, and he's a communist. When it comes to the invading Japs, one word: contradiction. Cultured yet barbaric, gentle yet warlike, wise yet murderous. Which pretty much sums up Japan of the 40s. I mean, who would have imagined a race capable of creating zen-inspired gardens would be inclined to kill for pleasure and cause great destruction.

Above all, the author takes the reader on a time machine, back to a time of jukeboxes and dhobi wallas and street peddlers. A time when houses had names like Le Bleu Maison and not the modern crap Wisma Biru, for example. Good thing about Penang is that it had more or less retained it's colonial past and accepted it, instead of denying all references to British rule, as is the norm in all other parts of Malaysia.

I mean seriously, Light Street sounds more aesthetically-pleasing than, say, Jalan Datuk Panglima Besar Abu Bakar or, get this, Jalan Pengaturcara.

Yes, I'm serious. Programmer Road.

Jeez!

Rotten Rambutans: Race to Witch Mountain

So where were the witches, somebody asked. Rhetorically, I presume.

All in all, I'd say the Race makes good family viewing, a flick parents would bring their 2.5 children to. The RM12 price tag was exorbitant, for me at least. Yeah yeah, it overtook Watchmen as the number one box office flick of March, but it still is, essentially, a kiddie show. The Rock is the Rock, though it's quite apparent the movie tries to stay as far away as possible from Dwayne Johnson's wrestling persona. So no trademark raised eyebrow, no mention of the kitchen, and definitely no People's Elbow.

All things considered, one can't have too many issues with this Disney fare. It's clean, kid-oriented and funny in a cheesy way. Compared to The Game Plan, however, it comes up rather short. I'm not sure why; perhaps The Rock tried less to not be The Rock in the earlier movie. In the Race, the restrain appears noticeably contrived.

I reckon my main peeve isn't so much with the movie than some of the people watching the movie. I mean, for fuckssakes, there's a reason for the term 'showtime'; it means the show starts then. Having bloody morons waddling in ten minutes into the movie is oh-so blood boiling. More so when their seats are right in the middle of the row. And you know they're not late due to some urgent matters cause they'll be well supplied with popcorn, drinks and 'outside' food explicitly prohibited by the cinema management. And the temerity to look indignant when given the 'death stare' or told off politely. Such martyrs they become.

Inconsiderate idiots, and that's being restrained.

et tu, amicus?

Sometimes I wonder, why is having feelings for a friend such taboo?

I mean, thinking about it, shouldn't one get to know a person first before establishing a relationship that is more than platonic? I doubt anyone in the right frame of mind would say "oh, I've developed feelings for an acquaintance." Yet there always seems to be this burden of guilt that accompanies any confession of feelings towards a friend, more so if these feelings are first expressed to a third party. No doubt, falling for one's friend is always tricky, cause it stirs up the whole issue of "I want so-and-so as a boy/girl friend but I don't want to lose our friendship." Which makes one deduce that entering a relationship means the inevitable demise of a sound friendship.

Given, it's not easy, and revealing your feelings can be akin to tip-toeing around egg shells. The most horrifying reaction would be one of shock, where the object of your affections cries bloody treason and crucifies you for 'betraying' the friendship. That would mean, suppressing one's emotions is fine and dandy, but expressing them is a sin. Ask yourself, do you really want to spend a considerable amount of time with such an immature and ignorant person? I reckon, anyone who chastises a person for 'letting it all out' isn't worth the effort, trust me. Ahh, but then again, you wouldn't know if you don't ask, you retort. Fair enough; but if you do get such a response, then you know. Move on, move up.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying a proposal should always be met with acceptance. However, rejection should always be administered considerately, and as honestly as possible. After all, one should feel happy that there's someone else out there who fancies him/her. Happy, not egotistical. And it shouldn't be made into some sort of laughing matter when relaying the episode to your locker mates, drinking buddies or gossip mongers. If you can't respect another's endeavour, then it speaks volume of your character.

Here, I must state that 'you' doesn't refer to anyone or any scenario in particular; it just makes using an object of focus in this post easier. Yes, I'm trying to pre-empt any possible remonstrations and outcry that may arise. Or will arise.

Besides, I reckon it's more fun to write about stuff like this than Malaysian politics (shudder).

theatre of delusions

Watching MU getting their asses whipped in their own backyard was incredibly satisfying. Not because I support the Kopites (gasp!). It's been a long time coming, this shattering of the arrogance emanated by the Mancunians and their fans. Never hurts to get a dose of reality before one becomes too inflated with delusions of grandeur. Of course, excuses are flying thick and fast, most bordering on the ludicrous. Who cares, to be honest, when the end result is still the same.

Speaking of same results, I caught Valkyrie last week, and it was good. Yeah, I know there are plenty of people who dislike Tom Cruise for a myriad reasons, but if one can transcend past the dislike, then the movie is worth a viewing. There's a fine balance between dialogue, suspense, drama and action. It's not as gripping and dark as Downfall, but it's nowhere near being a flop, despite most people's damning verdict. I mean, do we actually take reviewers seriously, especially Malaysian ones? Failed film students they are, as someone once pointed out, and I tend to agree.

And to sign off today's post, here's a joke. Where imbeciles rule, idiots will follow. Taken from one of the gov's favourite lackeys, The Star.

Kuala Lumpur, National Union of Journalists president Norila Mohd Daud said the media had the right to publish what they felt about leaders, especially in their columns.

“That is what we call press freedom. The Chief Minister is a leader and naturally people would want to watch and follow his policies and moves.

“Even the Opposition has been asking for press freedom. Newspapers do not report on negative issues only,” she said.

Question: Is the woman

A. oblivious? or

B. delusional?

C. both of the above?

Where do these moronic, crap-talking fuckwits come from?

not what i had in mind

Looks like this 'withdrawal' is more than I bargained for. Made horribly tormenting by the fact that for some strange reason, I'm being given the cool shoulder. Not cold, just cool. Ironic, considering I'm trying to be cold and aloof. WTF???

Or is it just my imagination? I doubt it.

To hell with it! I don't care, not really. But I do know I've got to withdraw completely, or it'll be one of those never-ending puppy-love things. Which are incredibly damaging in the long run.

Still, many unanswered questions plague my mind. I've just gotta know; what's the fuck is the scoop on all this? In or out? Yes or no? For fuckssake, I'm never one to leave stones unturned when it comes to finding out something. Not when I really want to. So now another puzzle, why the sudden distance?

Do I really care enough to want to know? I don't. And that's a lie.

But I'll stick to the plan. More or less.

same ol' brand new me

Looks like the days where I could drink merrily all night long and awaken feeling none-the-worse for wear are long gone. Christ, what a massive headache; spanning a little over a day. I've really got to stop making exceptions for taking the odd drink or three; and this even applies to Bailey's, woman's drink or not.

Cameron's was one big laze fest; the massive crawls notwithstanding. The frequent 'winter' showers just further reduced the average metabolic rate to 'Barely Active'. Plenty of food, coupled with an overdose of CTT. Oh yeah, and copious amounts of whiskey on the side. I'm not going to venture into idiocy that is the Malaysian driver. Instead, I rather delve on the crisp weather that still prevails in Cameron's; the sinful strawberry-based desserts at Rajuu's, and the friendly services provided by the Country Lodge. It always helps to be in the company of like-minded travel mates, and this round was no exception, the Anfield-Old Trafford verbose spats included.

My drinking resolution having taken a severe beating, the relationship version fared slightly better. Didn't whine, pine, whinge or cringe. Not outwardly, at least. A random message caught me by surprise, and threatened to turn my scheme on its head, but Glenfiddich provided a very welcome respite. Why I'm letting this crawl under my skin, god only knows. Or maybe I do, as well.

So yeah, the weekend getaway was an opportune interruption from my schoolgirl-esque lamentations and tantrums. I'm back, feeling wonky, drowsy and a tad bit silly. Above all, the cold, bone-chilling weather seems to have done my head a world of good.

When I find out what that 'good' is all about, you'll be the second to know.

all quiet on the cold front

Okay, I'm at a chilled state of mind now.

I'm chilling, mentally. I'm mentally chilled.

Or should it be 'chill' without the -ed?

Hmm, I digress.

Okay, yeah so after consulting Guruji, I decided to sweep everything off the table. No, not for a menage. Figuratively speaking.

I'll be apathetic to any gestures, whatever-like to any signals. I'll be cooler than ice, I'll be ice-cold.

So I'm going to stick my heads in the clouds over the weekends, warm my lard-protected innards with whiskey, and blow some flavouring to the clean, crisp air around me. And when I return, you can call me Mr Freeze. Iceman sounds better though. Hmm, I need to think about that one. Mr Freeze sounds frigid.

Back to the matter at hand. Regardless of the moniker, I won't give a flying fuck. Cause I'm chilled (chill?).

Disclaimer: Author reserves the right to change persona, outlook and approach due to sms-es, calls or personal contact over the next few days. He is, after all, infatuated. Totally.

poly-ticks

You know what, to hell with Malaysian politics.

It's a brimful of hypocrisy, lies, racism and injustice.

The power-hungry parasites will not only do their best to regain what was lost, but also cling desperately to what they still have. Their lackeys, be they the blue-clothes, the media, the black robes or even the blue bloods, will continue to serve them in this life and the next. Hooligans are feted about, while commoners are showered with acid-water and tear gas.

So, it's not really worth it. A complete waste of time, considering one in two knows where the country is heading under the rule of these kleptomaniacs.

Democracy, if not already dead, is definitely heading for an early grave.